Dax didn't remember leaving the suite. One moment he was standing in front of Christopher, his omega, his mate, his everything, and the next, he was walking through the palace corridors, the world bleeding around the edges.
The marble echoed under his boots, the movement so loud that it hurt. He didn't bother restraining his scent. It poured out of him in waves, sharp and volatile, filling the air with the unmistakable weight of an alpha who'd lost control.
Guards froze as he passed. Courtiers pressed themselves against the walls. Somewhere, a servant dropped a tray, the crash of porcelain scattering like panic itself. No one spoke. No one dared.
The air grew thicker with every step he took. His pheromones were spice and smoke, still threaded with the priest's blood, the promise of violence barely contained. The palace, so accustomed to his measured calm from the last month, remembered how Dax really was in the absence of his omega.
