The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 18: The Look in His Eyes

"I’m telling you—I don’t know anything!" the bakery owner said, wringing his flour-dusted hands as he stood behind the counter. "She just bought a few loaves of bread and left. That’s all. I swear on my oven."

Elize narrowed her eyes slightly. Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "What time did she come in?"

The man scratched the back of his neck, leaving a smear of flour on his skin. "Uh... around 7:30, I think. She browsed for a bit, maybe ten minutes. Chose a few rye loaves and left."

Elize jotted something down in her notebook. "Did you see which direction she went?"

He shook his head apologetically. "It was early morning—rush hour for us. People come in waves, you know? I didn’t catch where she went. Sorry."

"I see..." Elize sighed, glancing around the cozy bakery. The warm scent of fresh bread and cinnamon did little to ease her frustration. "No witnesses. No trace. Not a single damn clue."

As she closed her notebook, her eyes drifted across the room—and paused.

Across the bakery, Lucien was slumped against her lord, Silas, fast asleep. His black hair spilled over Silas’s shoulder like night sky, and his lips were parted just slightly in soft, even breaths. Silas, on the other hand, sat unnaturally still—eyes fixed on Lucien’s face with an expression far too intense for a King’s blade.

Elize blinked.

A voice murmured beside her, low and amused. "Do you think our lord has fallen in love?"

She turned to see Damon, another knight in plain clothes, casually munching on a buttered croissant. He raised an eyebrow at the scene with the air of a man watching a drama unfold.

"Should we call it treason?" he added dryly, "Or just romantic suicide?"

Elize gave him a sideways glance. "You’re eating evidence."

"It’s not evidence," Damon said, taking another bite. "It’s pastry. A very, very good one."

She shook her head, but her lips twitched. Then she looked back at the two on the table. Silas still hadn’t moved, as if even breathing too loud might wake Lucien.

Elize approached quietly, the wooden floor creaking beneath her boots. She stopped in front of Silas and bowed her head slightly.

"My lord," she said softly.

Silas’s gaze broke away from Lucien, his amber eyes sharpening as they met hers. "Did you find something?"

She shook her head, her expression grim. "No, my lord. Nothing so far. No witnesses, no clues. It’s like she vanished into thin air."

Silas exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. He looked past Elize, out the bakery window, where the morning light was beginning to fade beneath gathering clouds. "Has there been any report... of a woman’s body found nearby?"

Damon, who had now abandoned his croissant and leaned against a pillar, answered, "No, my lord. No bodies. No signs of a struggle. Nothing that fits."

Silas let out another long breath, as if the weight of uncertainty pressed against his chest. Then, quieter—almost to himself—he murmured, "That means she’s still alive..."

He turned his gaze back to Lucien, whose head still rested peacefully against his shoulder, completely unaware of the storm circling around them. Silas’s voice was gentle now, laced with concern. "I hope... she and her child are safe."

There was a beat of silence. Elize and Damon exchanged a glance—brief, but meaningful.

Then Silas straightened, his calm mask slipping slightly to reveal the tension beneath. "Send more men," he said sharply. "Double the search team. Triple it if you have to."

Elize nodded instantly. Damon pushed off the pillar, now fully alert.

"Tell them to check every alley," Silas continued, rising slowly so as not to disturb Lucien. "Every crumbling building, every rundown inn, every damn wine shop with a creaky door and a shady owner. I don’t care how small or filthy it is. If it looks the slightest bit suspicious—I want it searched."

"Yes, my lord," Elize and Damon said in unison.

Silas looked down at Lucien, brushing a lock of silver hair behind his ear with a tenderness that didn’t go unnoticed.

"I won’t let another innocent life be lost," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Not again."

Without a word, Damon turned on his heel and disappeared out the door, already pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he moved to mobilize the search teams.

Elize remained behind, standing quietly beside her lord. Her gaze shifted from Silas to Lucien, who was still resting soundly against him, his breathing soft and even, a peaceful contrast to the storm raging in Silas’s eyes.

"He said he wanted to join the investigation," Elize said, her voice lighter now as she looked at the sleeping man. "Insisted, actually. But he fell asleep just minutes after stepping inside."

Silas adjusted his hold on Lucien, slipping an arm around his waist to steady him, gently guiding his head to rest more securely on his shoulder. The motion was instinctive—protective.

"...Fredrick said it’s common," he murmured, not quite looking at her. "During pregnancy. Sudden fatigue."

Elize raised an eyebrow. She had served under Silas long enough to recognize when something had changed, and this... this wasn’t the man she used to know.

"You’re different around him, my lord," she said quietly.

"Am I?"

Elize nodded.

Then she stepped closer, her voice hesitant. "My lord... this might offend you, but may I ask something?"

Silas gave a single nod, eyes still on the sleeping man in his arms. "Go on."

Elize hesitated. Then she asked, "Are you being gentle with the baron because he’s pregnant with your child... Or is there another reason?"

The silence that followed was heavy—more than silence, it was the sound of a man unsure of his own heart. Silas’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at Elize. He looked at Lucien.

A rare male omega, pregnant. Black hair. Walking Chaos.

"I don’t know..." Silas finally said, his voice barely audible. "And maybe I don’t want to know."

He paused, then added in a firmer tone, "All I know is—I want to protect him. No matter what."

Elize didn’t press further. She didn’t need to. She had seen enough in his eyes to understand the truth he hadn’t spoken aloud.

Silas let out a breath and straightened. "Alright. Let’s move."

Elize nodded, her boots echoing softly against the wooden floor as she stepped aside to let him pass.

Just as Silas turned to leave, he caught sight of the bakery owner again—nervously glancing at them from behind the counter, his hands wiping the same spot on the surface over and over again, eyes darting toward Lucien and then quickly away.

Silas’s gaze narrowed.

He gently lifted Lucien into his arms. Lucien stirred, murmuring something incoherent, then instinctively curled closer, resting his cheek against Silas’s chest, right over his heart.

Silas paused at the threshold of the bakery.

"Keep an eye on the owner," he said without looking back. "Discreetly. Track his movements. Every hour, every person he speaks to—I want it all."

Elize’s eyes sharpened. "Understood, my lord."

With that, Silas stepped out into the sunlight, the cold breeze brushing against them as if trying to wake the sleeping man in his arms. But Lucien only sighed and nuzzled closer.

Silas walked to the carriage, his footsteps steady despite the weight he carried. Carefully, he climbed inside and laid Lucien on the seat, adjusting the cushion beneath his head.

He stared at him for a moment longer—at the black hair, the delicate features, and the faint worry line between his brows even in sleep.

Then Silas climbed in beside him and closed the carriage door.

"Drive," he ordered.

The wheels creaked into motion, rolling down the quiet cobbled street as the carriage disappeared into the golden light of morning.

Inside the bakery, silence lingered—thick and heavy. The scent of freshly baked bread no longer felt warm or comforting. It hung in the air like a mask, sweet and deceiving—like something rotten had just been hidden under fresh linen.

Behind the counter, the bakery owner moved with a different energy now—slow, deliberate. He stood in front of the glass window, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his apron, and watched the carriage fade into the distance.

A smirk twisted his lips.

"So..." he murmured to himself, his voice low, laced with something vile. "He’s pregnant?"

He chuckled. Once. Then again.

The laughter grew louder—warped, unhinged.

"Hahaha... HAHAHA—"

He pressed his hand to the glass, watching where the carriage had vanished from view.

"I guess... I just found myself a new, very big target."

His reflection in the window twisted, eyes gleaming with something far too cruel for the daylight to soften.