Chris was in an absurdly soft bathrobe that swallowed him whole and smelled faintly of bergamot and spice, favored by Dax because it made the suite feel like theirs rather than borrowed territory. His hair was still damp, curls clinging to his temples, and he was leaning against the arm of a chair with the casual sprawl of someone who knew an entire security detail stood between him and the rest of the city.
Rowan stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching him with open, poorly concealed amusement.
A year ago, the consort had been polite. Reserved. Carefully measured in every word and movement, as if afraid to take up too much space beside a king.
Now he was lounging in a bathrobe, sending unhinged messages over a secure channel while organized crime was being dismantled in real time.
