The west wing conference suite should have been quiet at this hour.
Instead, Chris walked into what felt like a chemical weapons demonstration.
The moment the door opened, the air punched into him thick, sweet-dark, and scorching with the scent of spiced rum, threaded with electric dominance that crackled across his skin. Dax's pheromones clung to the walls like steam from boiling tar. Even the lights felt affected, dimmed under the weight of it.
Killian slipped inside behind him, took one step in… and immediately backed out again.
"No," Killian said crisply. "Absolutely not. Consort delivered. Goodnight."
"Killian…"
"I cherish my continued existence," he said, pulling the door shut like the room was full of radiation. "Have fun."
Then he was gone. Killian never ran away from his responsibilities or danger, which meant Dax was in a dangerous mood.
