The sixth day felt unreal to Chris, as if someone had unplugged the world and plugged it back in, but slightly crooked. The royal wing no longer vibrated with pheromones strong enough to melt paint. The air was no longer thick and heavy. Staff voices drifted from the hall again. The palace was acting like everything was normal.
Chris was absolutely not normal.
He sat on the bed wearing Dax's hoodie, one he didn't remember stealing, let alone putting on. It hung all the way to mid-thigh, soft, warm, and smelling stupidly good. Underneath, he had boxers, and under that, he was still leaking. Every shift made the slick roll down his thigh, and every time it happened, he reevaluated his entire life.
His body ached so sharply he wondered if he'd been used as a training dummy for a military unit instead of… whatever had actually happened. Bites speckled his skin like a constellation drawn by a drunk god. His hips throbbed, his back protested, and his thighs were in open revolt.
