The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 20: Triple the Knights, Triple the Drama

[Ryntall Estate]

The carriage door creaked open as Lucien stepped out, dramatically flipping back his tousled black hair—just long enough to brush his neck—as if he were a prince emerging from exile.

"Ack—my spine," he groaned, arching his back with a stretch so exaggerated it could’ve won an award. "It feels like I’ve just taken my first breath in centuries! I think I died back there and came back as a ghost."

A warm hand slipped around his waist from behind, steadying him with casual possessiveness.

"You shouldn’t jump out of carriages like that," Silas murmured close to his ear, his voice low and maddeningly gentle. "You’ll jostle the baby."

Lucien froze.

He turned to look at Silas, lips parted in disbelief—and promptly made the mistake of locking eyes with his lips.

Those lips.

The lips.

From the kiss.

In the carriage.

Ten minutes ago.

(Not that he was counting.)

He could still taste it. Stupid lips. Stupid kiss. Stupid feelings that made his knees slightly wobbly like a newborn deer in love.

Heat shot up his neck like a wildfire. He looked away, fanned himself furiously with both hands, and muttered, "Damn it. Why is it suddenly so hot out here? Who turned up the sun?!"

Silas glanced up at the sky, calm as ever. "It’s literally the same sun, Lucien."

"Well, it needs to tone it down," Lucien snapped, still fanning his face like a flustered Victorian maiden. "Go tell it I’m overheating!"

Silas chuckled under his breath, and Lucien caught it. That smug little laugh. Like he knew exactly why Lucien was combusting on the spot.

Then...

"Let’s go inside," Silas said smoothly, offering his arm like the gentleman he pretended to be.

Lucien blinked up at him, squinted, then yawned wide enough to summon birds from trees. He lazily looped their arms. "I feel like sleeping."

"You literally woke up ten minutes ago," Silas deadpanned, guiding him up the marble steps.

Lucien turned his head with the deadest expression known to man. "And I’ll sleep again. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No," Silas said quickly. "I’m just... concerned."

"I need an extra nap," Lucien huffed dramatically. "Then I have to return to my estate. I’m very busy, you know."

Silas stopped mid-step, eyes wide. "What?! Why?! Why would you go there?! This is your home now!"

Lucien gave him the look. "Says who? I never agreed to that arrangement. And might I remind you—I’m a Baron, not your decorative houseplant. I have actual baron-y things to do. Paperwork. Peasants. Taxes. You know... noble suffering."

Silas frowned, flustered. "But the murderer hasn’t been caught yet!"

Lucien clicked his tongue. "That’s why I’m borrowing some of your knights. Relax, I’ll return them once I’m done—like very expensive, sword-wielding library books."

Silas looked like he’d swallowed a whole lemon. "Lucien..."

Lucien turned with a smirk, eyes sparkling. "Besides, it’s not like the murderer knows I’m pregnant."

Silas opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.

Because... well, he had a point. No one outside of a very small, very sworn-to-silence circle from both Rynthall and Armoire Estates even knew Lucien was expecting a baby.

Silas then sighed and muttered, "You know, if I didn’t already have silver hair, you’d be the reason I got it."

Lucien grinned. "That’s why you’re so hot."

Silas paused. "...Wait, what?"

Lucien blinked, realized what he said, and fanned himself rapidly with one hand. "Damn it! It’s so hot out here!"

Silas glanced at the clear, breezy sky. "It’s seventeen degrees."

"I’m pregnant; I can say whatever I want," Lucien declared as he dramatically dashed inside the estate like he owned the place.

***

[Silas’s Office, Later...]

Silas sat behind his massive oak desk like a villain brooding over the fall of nations — spine straight, fingers steepled, eyes staring into the void as if plotting someone’s demise. The rich curtains were drawn halfway, casting dramatic shadows across the room, because apparently, Silas liked to sulk in cinematic lighting.

Across the room, Callen shuffled through papers like his life depended on it. Frankly, it might have.

The tension was so thick, Callen was half-convinced the air had declared war on oxygen.

"...Did someone die?" Callen finally whispered, eyes not leaving the parchment in front of him. "Because this atmosphere says three bodies minimum."

Silas didn’t respond. He simply exhaled—slowly. Like a man deeply betrayed by the universe and also personally offended by the laws of joy.

Then, with a voice as low and grim as a funeral bell, he murmured, "He said he’s leaving."

Callen paused. "Baron Lucien?"

Silas didn’t answer, which meant yes.

Callen cleared his throat cautiously. "Well... maybe because he has work to do?"

"He said this isn’t his home."

"Well...technically, he’s not wrong," Callen tried cautiously.

Silas’s head turned sharply.

Callen threw his hands up. "I’m just saying! Legally speaking!"

"He’s pregnant," Silas growled. "He shouldn’t even be walking, let alone going back to that cursed place and drowning himself behind those ridiculous stacks of paper."

Callen blinked. Then blinked again.

"He’s one month pregnant," Callen deadpanned. "He’s not an eggplant. He can walk. He can work. He’s not going to combust the moment he signs a document."

Silas narrowed his eyes, the kind of glare that could melt metal and definitely made junior knights cry.

Callen cleared his throat again. "I’ll...uh...go make sure the knights assigned to Lucien are up to standard."

"Triple their number," Silas commanded like a war general ordering a siege.

Callen opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "Triple? What is he, a pregnant diplomat traveling through a war zone?"

Silas gave him a chilling stare that said, Try me.

"Right," Callen muttered, shoulders slumping. "Triple. Got it. Ten to carry his bags, ten to glare at anyone who breathes near him, and ten more just in case the wind offends him."

Silas finally leaned back, satisfied in the most dramatic, dictator-ish way possible.

Callen turned to leave, muttering under his breath, "How is this man a tyrant to the empire but a babysitter when it comes to one pregnant baron..."

Just as Callen reached the door, it slammed open with the force of a panicked hurricane.

Elize stormed in, nearly tripping over her own feet, eyes wide and blazing. "—She’s been found!"

Callen jumped so hard he nearly flung the documents in his hands into another dimension. "Saints above, Elize—warn a man!"

Silas looked at her, sharp and alert. "Who?"

"The missing omega, my lord," Elize said, breathless. "Found near the old bridge by the river. Half-conscious but alive. She’s at the infirmary now."

Silas pushed back his chair so hard it screeched across the floor. "Did she say anything?"

Elize shook her head. "Not yet, my lord. She’s still unconscious."

Callen, ever the voice of dread-laced practicality, asked, "What about the child she’s carrying?"

"The doctors are examining her," Elize replied. Her voice dipped lower, more grim. "But... she has the same mark. Just like the others."

Silas stilled.

Elize’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Looks like the killer thought he succeeded in killing her. But—"

"He made a mistake," Silas muttered darkly.

Then Callen exhaled sharply. "It’s both good news and bad news, my lord."

Silas and Elize turned toward him.

"The good news," Callen said, eyes flicking between them, "is that she’s alive."

"And the bad?" Elize asked, though her tone said she already knew.

Callen continued. "The killer is already set on hunting the next one. He has found his new target."

A heavy silence dropped like a blade in the room.

Silas’s jaw locked, his expression unreadable—but something stormed behind his eyes.

"Elize," he said, his voice low and lethal, "look into the estate records. Check every registered omega—especially anyone who’s pregnant and has black hair." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Elize nodded immediately, already turning toward the door.

Then Silas turned to Callen, his expression darkening further. "Call the butler of Armoire Estate. Inform him that all documents and necessities for Lucien’s work are to be sent here."

Callen blinked. "Here, my lord?"

"He’s not going back to Armoire," Silas said flatly. "Not when he might be next."

Callen gave a solemn nod. "Understood."

And with that, the room fell into a tense, foreboding silence—like the hush before a coming storm.