The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 66: This Letter Smells Like Regret

[Duclair Estate—The Duchess Opens the Letter of Doom]

Lucien peeled the envelope open like it was a venomous snake—suspicious, vaguely dangerous, and far too dramatic to ignore on a Thursday morning.

The parchment was thick.

The ink? Bold and emotionally constipated.

But the first thing that hit him wasn’t the words.

It was the smell.

Lucien reeled back a little. "Did he... send this with his own pheromones?!"

He sniffed again, cautiously, like a suspicious cat. "This smells like ocean breeze, wet pine, battlefield tears, and... regret."

He blinked once. Then again.

A long sigh escaped him as he clutched the letter and muttered under his breath, "What am I even doing...? I’m angry. Angry, Lucien. Focus. Be furious. Clench your jaw. Furrow that brow. Yes. Like that."

He glared at the letter with forced rage, lips pursed, brow dramatically furrowed, giving the parchment the look of a betrayed lover who also happened to be six months pregnant and fabulous.

And then... he opened it.

***

"My Beloved Fireball—"

(Wait—no. That sounds insane. Do not read this part. Skip.)

Lucien,

I’m sorry.

...

(Was that too short? Should I explain more? Wait—don’t read that line either.)

I’m writing this with my own hand. No, not a servant. Me. My hands. The ones that once defeated three knights in a single duel... and accidentally dropped your limited-edition jam jar. That was an accident. But this letter isn’t.

This is real.

(Pause for dramatic effect.)

***

Lucien paused.

Then squinted.

"...Is he... narrating his own letter?"

He shook his head and kept reading—against his better judgment.

***

You are... majestic. Powerful. Pregnant. And furious.

All things I both fear and respect.

I now understand that I made a mistake. A huge mistake. Bigger than that time I insulted your soup and you nearly hurled a fork at me.

I have hurt you.

I am nothing.

My heart flirts with hurt for you.

And I... am trash.

Not even gold-plated trash. Just regular trash. The kind that rolls down a hill and knocks over a cabbage cart.

I’ve thought deeply. Reflected. Cried a little. I made Callen stand in the corner and pretend to be you while I apologized for three hours.

He was deeply uncomfortable.

I now understand... that hiding secrets from a hormonal, beautiful, omega spouse is very bad. Especially if that spouse can throw a pineapple across the room and hit a target.

Your eyes—they are like twin galaxies, full of stars and anger. Your mouth is a flower. A poisonous flower. One that bites.

Your walk is a storm on velvet. Your rage is my compass.

You are the song in my battle playlist.

I understand I hurt you. I bruised your feelings. I smacked the joy out of our marital bliss like a bad bard with no rhythm.

I am sorry.

I know "sorry" won’t fix this. But it is my starter spell. My next step will be gifts. And letters. And an apology baked into bread.

I will kneel outside your estate in the rain. I will hire a choir of regretful pigeons. I will—

(a blot of ink)

—Find the most expensive fried chicken in the empire and send it to your door with a note that says, "Cluck if you forgive me."

Also, I miss you. Not just romantically. Physically. Your scent is in my lungs. Your face is in my soup. I tried to talk to the fireplace and call it "Luce" but it didn’t glare back at me with judgment, and I cried.

Wobblebean probably hates me already. Tell him I’m sorry.

Please accept this apology, even though it is written in my awful handwriting.

But it’s from me.

The idiot.

You’re idiot.

Possibly ex-idiot if you’re mad.

But still your idiot.

Forever.

With deep regret and even deeper stupidity,

Your one and only husband, Silas

***

. . .

. . .

. . .

Lucien paused in disbelief.

Then slammed the letter shut like it bit him and trembled. "My what flirts with what—?!"

He stood up, eyes wide with disbelief, and stormed toward the window.

"I almost lost my eyes today," he growled like a betrayed Victorian widow. "This... this poetic blasphemy shall not stay in my chamber!"

And with a dramatic fwip of his silk robe, he hurled the letter out the open window like cursed laundry.

"Be gone, war crime of literature! PARCHMENT OF PAIN."

He turned on his heel, marched back to the bed, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress with the grace of a fainting diva.

Muffled against the pillow, he mumbled, "He’s never written a letter before. I can see that. But that doesn’t give him the right... to damage my corneas. My brain. My unborn child just hiccupped out of secondhand embarrassment."

He kicked the covers over his head like a moody burrito, buried his face in a pillow, and screamed:

"HE RHYMED SOUP WITH ME. WHO TAUGHT HIM LANGUAGE?!"

***

Meanwhile...

Outside the estate...

Seraphina Duclair, glitter still stuck in her hair from the "No Grand Dukes Allowed" banner session, was strolling back toward the front doors when—fwump—something soft, perfumed, and poorly written slapped her in the face.

She paused.

Peeling the letter off her forehead like it was a soggy leaf.

She read one line.

Just one.

"My heart flirts with hurt for you."

A vein in her temple twitched. With slow, terrifying precision, Seraphina looked at the paper.

Then—without ceremony—ripped it into a thousand jagged shreds with her bare hands like a Greek tragedy reenacted by a very annoyed sorceress.

Each piece fluttered around her like angry snowflakes.

"That cursed tyrant just committed emotional arson via letter," she muttered under her breath, staring at the glittery sky. "This isn’t ink. It’s dark magic. This is how wars start."

She stormed inside, muttering, "That bast—ahem—that Grand Duke. He’s lucky I don’t feed him to my pet swans."

Meanwhile, one lonely piece of the shredded letter blew against the estate’s fountain, the words "Pregnant and furious" still intact.

The statue of a marble lion seemed to sigh in agreement.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Letters, Poetry, and the Grand Rutening]

Silas Rynthall—General of Ten Wars, Slayer of Rebellions—was now sitting cross-legged on the floor of his study like a kindergarten student sentenced to emotional detention by the gods themselves.

Before him: a parchment. Crisp. Empty. Unforgiving.

Beside him: ink-stained fingers, three broken quills, two spilled inkwells, and a violently thumbed-through thesaurus opened to the page for "beautiful."

Behind him, hunched like a dying ghost of sarcasm: Callen, emotional support victim and long-suffering witness to the worst romantic meltdown in noble history.

"Okay," Silas muttered, voice hoarse with tragic purpose. "This time... I’ll write poetry."

Callen lifted his head slowly, eyes bloodshot with despair. "Why," he croaked. "Why poetry?"

"Because," Silas declared, brushing his inky hand across his chest, "Lucien is poetry. He deserves rhythm. He deserves... soul."

Callen’s chair screeched back violently. He bolted toward him in panic. "Please. Please don’t do this. Not again. The last poem made me want to punch a tree."

Silas held up a finger like a prophet receiving divine inspiration. "Behold. A haiku."

"No—"

Haiku Attempt #27:

Lucien is my storm.He is also my rainbow.I think I smell you.

Callen face-planted into a velvet cushion.

"I’m calling the imperial medics," he groaned. "Or the priests. Or both."

Silas dramatically flung his quill like a spear across the room. "Why—why doesn’t he understand my soul?"

Callen raised his face just enough to hiss, "Because your soul is writing floral rage haikus while reeking of impending hormonal doom!"

And then—

A pause.

Silas froze mid-pose. Eyes narrowed. Nostrils flared. He sniffed the air once.

Twice.

"...Oh," he whispered.

Callen blinked. "What now?"

Silas slowly uncurled from the floor. "Is it just me, or is it... really warm in here?"

Callen’s spine went rigid. "No."

"I feel... itchy," Silas murmured, voice suddenly deep and tragic. "Like I want to punch a wall and then—hug it."

"NO," Callen snapped, already backing away. "Oh no. Oh nononono—YOU IDIOT."

Silas blinked in confusion.

"YOU’RE IN RUT!" Callen shouted, flailing his arms. "YOU ABSOLUTE FERMENTED TURNIP. GET TO YOUR CHAMBER BEFORE YOU JUMP ON SOME RANDOM OMEGA AND TRAUMATIZE A WHOLE VILLAGE!"

Silas tilted his head, blinking slowly, as beads of sweat began forming at his temple. "...I cannot jump on someone."

"GOOD."

"I need... Lucien," Silas whispered, voice cracking.

"OH MY STARS," Callen screamed, spinning to yell into the corridor, "GUARDS—SOMEONE GET THE MEDICS! AND A FREAKING SEDATIVE! AND—AND—AND GO TO DUCLAIR! SEND A MESSENGER ON A BLOODY DRAGON IF YOU HAVE TO!"

Silas staggered to his feet, pupils dilated, pheromones practically leaking out of his pores. His coat was already half-open. His shirt collar was torn from where he’d been clawing at it like a rabid werewolf of love.

"Lucien," he mumbled again, stumbling toward the forbidden Rut Chamber at the end of the hall.

Callen pointed dramatically. "CHAMBER. NOW."

"I shall write another poem—"

"IF YOU WRITE ONE MORE POEM, I WILL PERSONALLY SET FIRE TO THE ENTIRE EAST WING."

Silas stumbled forward.

The double doors of the Rut Chamber swung open with a groan. The staff collectively took five steps back.

And with one final, longing glance at the sky, Silas Rynthall—war hero, disaster husband, and newly declared walking hormone storm—disappeared into his chamber.

SLAM.

Callen, panting, turned to the nearest knight. "Send a message to the Duclair Estate. Urgent. Life-threatening. Tell them—"

He sucked in air.

"THE GRAND DUKE IS IN RUT."

The knight paled. "Understood."

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freewe(b)nov𝒆l