Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 233: Presence

"She’s finally asleep," a familiar voice says from the doorway, wrapping me in the warmth of its presence. Thorne.

"Your eyes are swollen," he murmurs as he steps inside and sits beside me on the bed. His thumb gently brushes beneath my left eye, the warmth of his touch soothing the raw, tender skin.

"I’ll apply some ointment later to bring down the swelling," I reply, my voice soft and exhausted.

"Eventful day, huh?" he says, cupping my cheek with his hand. I lean into the warmth of his palm, finding comfort in the simple gesture.

"Yeah," I exhale. "You owe Leona a raise. Apparently, finding her was nearly impossible. She never expected anyone to track her down."

He chuckles softly, the sound deep and familiar. "Well, she is the best at what she does. Even I don’t know how she manages it."

The conversation drifts into an easy, familiar silence. The fire crackles gently in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles along my jawline, grounding me as the weight of the day settles more deeply into my bones.

The warmth and comfort should help me relax, but instead, an old bitterness rises to the surface.

"I hate them," I say abruptly, the words sharp and cold against the softness of the moment.

Thorne’s thumb stills. His eyes flick toward mine, filled with quiet patience. He doesn’t press for more; he never does. He simply waits.

"I hate them," I say suddenly, the words sharp and unfiltered as they cut through the quiet of the room. "The king. Duke Veyron."

The confession lingers in the air, heavy and bitter. The weight of it sits in my chest like a cold stone.

Thorne doesn’t speak. His thumb, which had been gently stroking the underside of my eye, stills. I feel his gaze shift to me, though I don’t meet it.

I should hate my grandmother too.

The thought rises unbidden, twisting like smoke through my chest. I do feel a dull, detached sort of disdain when I think of her. From what little I know and have heard today, she was a cruel woman who cared more about appearances than family. A woman who used beauty as currency, who demanded perfection from my mother and punished her for the slightest misstep.

She died not long after my mother escaped—disfigured in the fire that night. Her face, the very thing she prized most, melted and unrecognizable. She’d locked herself in her chambers for weeks afterward, unable to face the world or the mirror. And then, when the weight of her shattered vanity became unbearable, she took her own life.

A fitting end, really.

A narcissist who saw her daughter as a pawn, and who likely would’ve seen me as little more than an unfortunate reminder of a scandal. I shudder at what my life might have been like.

I’m sure my mother was satisfied when she heard, of her ending.The thought is so absurd, so darkly ironic, that laughter slips past my lips before I can stop it.

Thorne stiffens beside me. I feel his confusion before I see it.

He tilts his head slightly, his thumb resuming its gentle circles on my jawline. "You’re laughing?" he asks softly, his tone more curious than judgmental.

I let out another breathy chuckle and swipe a stray tear from the corner of my eye. "I just thought of something," I say, my voice lighter now. "The fact that my mother set fire to the palace the night she left."

Thorne’s brows lift slightly. "Really? I thought no one ever figured out who started that fire. The official story was that one of the servants—someone Concubine Danielle mistreated—just snapped."

"Nope." I smile faintly, shaking my head.

Thorne’s lips twitch with amusement. He leans back slightly, eyes glinting in the firelight as he studies me. "The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree," he says after a moment, his tone light. "Burning down palaces and all."

I narrow my eyes. "What? That’s preposterous."

His mouth curves into a knowing grin.

"Is it?" he asks, shifting closer. His thumb traces the line of my jaw again. "So you didn’t orchestrate the arson in Aspen?"

I blink innocently, gaze darting away. "Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell."

He hums thoughtfully. "Funny, because from what I heard, you didn’t just set it on fire. You also drugged the entire estate with a potent aphrodisiac."

I straighten, feigning ignorance. "My memory is a bit fuzzy on that particular detail."

"Apparently," he continues, his voice teasing, "it led to a widespread orgy. And my former master and the king—"

"Okay, that’s enough," I cut in, covering his mouth with my hand, trying (and failing) to smother my (and his) laughter.

His shoulders shake with suppressed amusement, and I let out an exasperated sigh, resting my head against his shoulder.

After a moment, my voice softens. "I’m sorry about your master."

Thorne stiffens slightly, then exhales, his tone shifting. "He lost my respect the moment he plotted that mess with the king." There’s no sadness in his voice—just cold, quiet disappointment.

I reach for his hand, intertwining our fingers. He squeezes gently, and for a while, we just sit there, hands clasped in the dim glow of the candlelight.

Then, a thought drifts into my mind. "Speaking of your master," I say, tilting my head up to look at him. "I wonder how Oliver and Victor are doing."

Thorne hums thoughtfully. "I had a falling out with Victor during our separation. We had... differences in opinion. He left with Oliver, and they had a son together."

I blink. "Really? I thought you two would have some lifelong bond after everything. Seeing as Victor was the reason we left our house on the hill and all."

Thorne lets out a low chuckle. "I suppose we do, in some way. If I saw him in trouble, I’d help. But I wouldn’t go out of my way for him like I used to."

"Life sure is funny," I murmur, my voice drowsy.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Go to bed, my beloved star."

I want to protest, to stay in this moment a little longer, but his hand comes up, covering my eyes. His warmth, his scent, his presence—all of it lulls me into a sense of safety I can only feel in my husband’s presence.