Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 461: One Year Old and Gems

Nero’s birthday arrived as both a national celebration and a private problem.

Outside the palace, it was a state event. Public congratulations, official broadcasts, gifts from foreign delegations, a charity initiative launched in his name, and enough coordinated joy to make the kingdom look softer than it was.

Inside the private suite, it was a fourteen-month-old with opinions.

Which was worse.

The sitting room had been rearranged around him weeks ago and still somehow failed daily. Rugs layered over the floor, corners padded, decorative objects exiled upward, and low shelves emptied of anything sharp, breakable, sacred, or politically embarrassing. None of it truly solved the problem. It only slowed him down.

Nero was walking now.

Fast, badly, and with criminal confidence.

He was in the middle of the floor in soft birthday clothes, one sock half-twisted, curls a little wild, and a wooden lion clutched in one hand like a weapon. He had already attempted to bite a silk cushion, drag a toy basket into a side table, and declare ’mine’ at least six times in the span of ten minutes.

Chris sat on the sofa nearby in casual dark clothes, barefoot, one leg tucked beneath him, the other planted for quick intervention. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and the patient alertness of a man who knew peace was a trap.

Dax stood near the far table, dressed for the meeting he had to attend before the private luncheon. Traditional Sahan black layered cleanly over his frame, a gold mantle draped over one shoulder, rings glinting when he checked the time. He looked regal, expensive, and entirely unsuited to the fact that a small child was currently trying to hit a footstool with a wooden lion while muttering to himself.

"Roar," Nero informed the room.

Then he looked up, spotted Dax, and brightened instantly. "Papa."

Chris didn’t look away from his coffee. "Do not encourage him. He’s already unstable."

Nero pointed at Dax’s mantle. "Gold."

"Yes," Chris said. "And no."

Nero frowned.

Then, with the absolute nerve of a much older criminal, he started toward Dax with a determined wobble that suggested theft, admiration, or both.

Chris moved before he made it three steps. He caught him neatly around the waist and lifted him with the ease of long practice.

Nero protested at once. "No."

"Yes."

"Down."

"No."

"Mine."

Chris looked at him. "I know you believe that. You’re still wrong."

Dax’s mouth shifted faintly.

"Don’t," Chris said. "You find this charming because he doesn’t target your jewelry first."

Nero, hearing jewelry in spirit if not in language, immediately reached for Chris’s collar instead.

Chris intercepted that hand too. "You’re very grabby for someone who can barely form more than four words."

A knock came at the inner suite door.

Dax turned his head. "Enter."

Rowan stepped inside with a long black box in his hands and the expression of a man who had fully settled into his role as steward and resented every moment of how good he was at it.

The shift in him was obvious now. He wore the authority of the steward’s office correctly these days, the purple mantle of the inner royal house matching him. His ability to make an entire household function under pressure had gone from reluctant competence to something far more dangerous.

He crossed the room and held the box out to Dax.

"From your personal jeweler, Your Majesty. Cleared through private chain, logged separately, and kept away from anyone in procurement likely to ask questions I’d rather not answer."

Chris lifted a brow. "How considerate."

"That is not consideration," Rowan said. "That is self-defense."

Nero had already noticed the box.

His whole body changed with interest. He leaned dangerously far out of Chris’s arms, pointed at it, and announced with sudden delight, "Present."

Chris tightened his hold immediately. "No."

Dax’s thumb rested once along the edge of the black case.

Then he opened it.

The black stone sat in the ring like a piece of night cut clean and taught obedience. The gold was aged, not bright, and worked with restraint so the gem could hold all the drama by itself.

Dax lifted it from the box with the care of a man handling something precious and already decided.

Nero leaned dangerously far out of Chris’s arms and breathed, with perfect reverence, "Pretty."

Chris tightened his hold at once. "No."

"Mine," Nero said, clearly having the same taste as his fathers.

"No," Chris said again.

Dax turned the ring once between his fingers, letting the light catch in the black. It swallowed the light and shared it in a restrained pattern exactly like Killian.

Then, with the calm ceremony of a man who knew exactly how to wear grief without ever cheapening it, he slid it onto his smallest finger.

Chris watched the movement, then the stillness that followed it. "Well," he said softly, "that’s painfully appropriate."

Dax lifted his hand slightly, studying the ring against the rest of his jewelry. "Killian always had excellent timing. Even now, he arrives dressed correctly."

That made Chris’s mouth twitch.

Rowan, standing nearby with the tact of a man who knew when not to look too closely, lowered his eyes for a second.

Nero, meanwhile, had no tact at all.

He pointed at Dax’s hand. "Papa ring."

"Yes," Dax said, not raising his eyes from the ring.

"Pretty rock."

"Yes."

"Mine."

Dax looked at him with a raised brow. "Absolutely not."

Nero blinked at the direct betrayal.

Chris laughed. "You can’t inherit mourning jewelry by force."

"Can," Nero said.

"That confidence," Rowan muttered, "is clearly inherited."

Dax held his hand out a little farther, admiring the ring with shameless approval. "Black was the only reasonable choice."

Chris leaned back. "Because subtle grief isn’t really your style."

"No," Dax said. "If one is going to mourn, one should at least do it beautifully."

That made Chris laugh outright.

Nero, delighted by the noise without understanding any of it, twisted to get down. Chris let him slide to the floor, where he immediately toddled toward Dax’s mantle with criminal intent.

"Gold," Nero declared.

"Yes," Chris said, "and still no."

Dax bent, caught his son one-handed before he could commit textile theft, and lifted him easily. Nero settled against him at once, then patted the black ring with one cautious finger.

"Pretty," he said again, quieter this time.

Dax looked at him for a second, then at the ring.

"Yes," he said. "He is."

Chris glanced at him.

Dax wore the ring as he wore everything else that mattered: openly, elegantly, and with no intention of pretending it weighed less than it did.

Rowan stepped back toward the door. "Your meeting begins in ten minutes."

Dax looked offended by the existence of time. "A vulgar interruption."

Chris smiled. "You could cancel."

"I could," Dax said, adjusting Nero higher on his arm, the gold mantle falling perfectly back into place. "But then I’d have no audience later when I return home wearing grief and excellent tailoring."

"That," Chris said, "is the most you sentence spoken in this palace all week."

Nero looked between them and announced, "Papa pretty."

Dax’s mouth curved, small but real.

"Yes," he said gravely. "At last, someone here has standards."