The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 75: The Duke, The Baby, and the Temple Rat

[Rynthall Estate—Very Early Morning]

It was way too early in the morning. The kind of early where even the sun was still hungover and refusing to rise properly.

Lucien stirred under the weight of a thousand pillows and one overly clingy husband. His nose twitched.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

"—BLEGH."

He slapped a hand over his mouth and groaned, eyes scrunching shut. "What the hell is that smell?!" he gagged, voice muffled in disgust. "Did a rotting corpse sneak into our room and sleep between us?!"

Still half-asleep, he turned his head slowly—like a cursed Victorian heroine possessed by demonic curiosity—and sniffed.

His gaze landed on the culprit.

Silas. Sleeping peacefully like a saint. Arm slung protectively over Lucien’s belly. Hair tousled. Lips slightly parted. Dreaming, no doubt, of dramatic murder.

Lucien squinted.

Sniffed again.

Leaned in—

And sniffed him.

Like a bloodhound with a grudge.

Sniff. Sniff sniff.

"...You smell like a funeral," he muttered, nose wrinkling.

Then—

KICK.

A perfectly executed, no-regrets, full-leg extension kick to the stomach.

"WHOA—AGHH—!" Silas rolled dramatically off the bed like a sack of potatoes hitting a marble floor.

THUD.

"MY SPINE! MY SACRED SPOUSE-RIBS!" Silas wheezed, sprawled on the floor like an injured poet in a battlefield. "Lucien! Darling! Why—why would you betray me in such a barbaric fashion?!"

Lucien sat up slowly, hair a royal mess, belly protruding like the most divine of grudges. He glared down at him like a wrathful deity judging a soggy dishcloth.

"Did you kill someone?" he asked flatly.

Silas froze mid-wince.

"...Define ’someone,’" he said carefully.

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "You reek of blood and cheap aftershave. Did you seriously sneak into bed unwashed after playing Mortal Combat with temple rats?!"

Silas looked appropriately guilty.

"I didn’t mean to wake you up," he mumbled, dragging himself up slowly like a war hero who stubbed his toe. "It was late! And I was tired! And slightly blood-splattered but in a romantic way—"

"ROMANTIC?!" Lucien screeched. "You cuddled me smelling like a crime scene! I thought I was snuggling with a dying boar!"

"I am dying," Silas whined. "You kicked me with the force of a thousand ancestors."

Lucien pointed toward the bathroom with dramatic flair. "Go. Bathe. Now. Don’t speak. Don’t touch me. Don’t even BREATHE in my direction until you’re doused in soap, regret, and three types of lavender oils."

Silas stood with all the flair of a dethroned villain. "Fine. But just so you know..." he sniffed himself once, winced, and added, "Yeah, okay, you have a point. I smell like tragedy."

Lucien flopped back on the bed, fanning his face. "Ugh. Pregnant people deserve better."

Silas shuffled toward the bathroom, grumbling dramatically. "I kill a dozen spies for our safety, and this is the thanks I get. Betrayal. Boot to the gut. Emotional damage."

"Wash your emotional damage too while you’re at it!" Lucien called out.

"Washing my trauma in rose water!" Silas hollered back from the bathroom. "Hope it comes with exfoliation!"

Lucien groaned into his pillow.

Wobblebean kicked softly, almost like a giggle.

"Don’t laugh," Lucien muttered, rubbing his belly. "Your father’s a disaster."

The shower turned on with a hiss. Silas could be heard muttering about betrayal, heroism, and lavender body scrub.

And then—

After what felt like an eternity (or at least twenty minutes of Silas probably staging a one-man opera in the shower), the bathroom door creaked open.

Enter: Duke Silas, Grand Swordmaster of the Realm, Royal Spouse, Murderer of Spies, Defender of Wombs—

—wearing nothing but a very fluffy robe that wasn’t even tied properly.

It hung open like a scandal waiting to happen. Chest glistening. Hair wet and wild. Eyes sleepy and too pleased with himself.

He strolled over like a model on a tragic runway and flopped onto the bed beside Lucien like a man who hadn’t just been emotionally assaulted with a kick to the ribs an hour ago.

Then—arms outstretched—he pulled Lucien gently into his chest.

Lucien blinked up at him, suspicious.

Sniffed once.

Sniffed again.

"...Okay," he muttered, slightly pacified. "You smell like a meadow after therapy. Acceptable."

Silas grinned. "I poured the entire bottle of lavender oil on myself. I may have achieved enlightenment."

Lucien snorted and buried his face into his chest. "Good. You’re no longer a biological weapon."

They lay in silence for a moment. Sweet. Quiet. Almost romantic.

Until—

Lucien pulled back slightly, looked down at the open robe, and squinted.

"...Wait. Why are you naked under there?"

Silas peeked at him through one half-lidded eye and tugged Lucien closer with all the grace of a sleepy panther. "Because," he whispered dramatically, "it’s morning... the sun is up... and I am up."

Lucien stared.

Slapped a hand over Silas’s mouth like a disapproving nun. "WOBBLEBEAN IS LISTENING."

"Mhhphffmm!!"

Silas pulled back, lips now gloriously red and offended. "You assaulted me! Again! I kill spies for you, and this is how you treat me?!"

Lucien snuggled deeper into his chest with a satisfied huff. "You smell nice, and your voice is annoying. This is balance."

Silas sighed dramatically, stroking Lucien’s back. "I think this is what karma feels like. I kill people... and my spouse kills me."

Lucien smiled sleepily into his skin. "Exactly. Now shut up and sleep, naked warrior."

And wrapped in silk, lavender, blood-soaked love, and terrible decisions—they both drifted off.

Peace returned...—for now.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Next Morning]

Lucien stood in front of the tall gilded mirror, draped only in a half-buttoned silk robe, his black hair tousled from sleep, one hand pressed thoughtfully under the swell of his stomach.

He frowned.

Tilted slightly to the side.

Then to the other.

"...I look like a hot air balloon," he announced with all the dry solemnity of a man who’d accepted his fate.

Behind him, Silas—currently buckling the last strap of his ceremonial uniform—paused and blinked. "A what balloon?"

Lucien didn’t answer. He was too busy poking his belly with an expression of mild betrayal.

"Honestly," he muttered. "I used to have abs. A waist. Dignity."

Silas smirked, walking closer. "You still have dignity. It’s just... wrapped in adorable fluff and hormones now."

Lucien squinted at his reflection. "I swear I saw my navel blink at me."

Silas laughed under his breath, wrapping his arms around Lucien’s waist from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. "You look beautiful," he murmured. "Like a divine moon goddess preparing to give birth to chaos incarnate."

Lucien rolled his eyes but softened at the words. He placed his hand over Silas’s and whispered, "I can’t believe... I’ll be delivering him soon."

Silas pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his voice turning gentle. "Are you excited, my love?"

Lucien nodded slowly, eyes shining with something deep and soft. "Yeah... very much. I want to see his little face. Hold his tiny hands." He paused. "Make sure he has your pout and not your temper."

Silas gasped. "My pout?! Have you seen how you sulk when your cookies aren’t warmed properly?"

Lucien shoved him lightly with a snort. "That’s survival instinct. A cold cookie is a crime."

Then—suddenly—Lucien blinked like he just remembered something urgent. His eyes widened.

"Oh gods. The nursery."

Silas blinked. "The what now?"

Lucien peeled out of Silas’s arms like a man with a mission from the heavens. "I have to check the baby’s room! I haven’t even organized the toys Seraphina sent yesterday—what if Wobblebean arrives and the giraffe is still decapitated?!"

"...There’s a decapitated giraffe in our baby’s room?"

"It’s stuffed, but that’s not the point!" Lucien shouted as he vanished into the hallway in a flurry of silk and panic. "I need to sort the blankets, too! And the crib! And the glow stars! Why didn’t I start this a week ago?!"

The door slammed behind him with the force of righteous nesting.

Silas stood there in silence.

Stared at the empty hallway.

Listened to the distant sounds of Lucien yelling about pastel harmony and cloud aesthetics.

Then, flatly, he muttered:

"...Why do I feel like I’m going to be emotionally replaced by a six-pound newborn with no teeth and a squishy nose?"

He slumped into a nearby armchair and tugged his uniform collar loose with a sigh.

"My reign as the household favorite is over. Wobblebean hasn’t even arrived, and I’m already a side character in my own home."

A long pause. Then a sigh—deep, grim, full of impending doom.

"...First things first."

His voice dropped an octave, the humor melting away like wax under flame.

"Let’s deal with the high priest. I need to drag that bastard out of his temple before Wobblebean even thinks about coming out."

The mood shifted like the snap of a blade being unsheathed.

Silas stepped out of the dressing chamber, shoulders squared, cloak flaring slightly with every stride. Waiting in the hallway was Callen—sharp, alert, and already two steps ahead.

"Did you summon Frederick and Faylen?" Silas asked, without slowing.

Callen nodded crisply. "Yes. They arrived last night. They’re in the guest wing, fully briefed. The moment Lord Lucien so much as breathes loudly—"

"—they’ll rush to him," Silas finished, satisfied.

"No need for summoning. They’re on standby."

Silas gave a sharp nod. "Good."

Then, eyes narrowing, he continued, voice like steel beneath velvet.

"Let’s go. It’s time to drag that robed bastard out of his golden cage."

And with that, the Duke of Blades turned away from the comfort of silk sheets and snuggles toward war.