Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 268: Siege

Chapter 268 – Noelle POV

The bathroom is warm, scented with rose oil and something sharper—amber, maybe. The tiles beneath my bare feet are still damp from steam, and I leave faint prints as I walk out into the bedroom, wrapped loosely in a robe.

The light from the tall standing lamp catches on the polished glass of the mirror. I sit before it, hair damp against my shoulders, and begin the slow process of oiling and untangling it.

My fingers move through the strands with practiced ease, letting the scent of lavender oil rise with every stroke.

That’s when I catch it.

A flicker of light across the collar at my throat.

I glance down.

The jewel at the center of it—a large, clear gem with a soft violet glow—sparkles in the lamplight. I run a finger gently along the metal band, more reflex than thought. I’ve worn it for so long now I often forget it’s there. The weight of it is familiar, comforting even, a visible symbol of something so much deeper than possession or bond.

I smile, lips curving without command. My beloved brute of a husband—who can conquer nations and level cities—once spent weeks designing this collar in secret.

I finish smoothing my hair just as the massive doors to our bedroom swing open.

I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I feel him before I see him.

That thick wall of pheromones rolls in like the tide—warm and intoxicating, soaked in dominance and desire, curling around my senses until my fingers go still.

Of course. So this is why he wanted the twins gone tonight.

Not that I’m against it.

I lift my gaze slowly to the mirror, and there he is.

Thorne.

His blonde hair is still slightly tousled, and his white shirt—rolled at the sleeves and half-unbuttoned—is clinging to him like it’s trying to hold on for dear life. His eyes lock with mine through the mirror, piercing and steady.

He doesn’t smile.

But his expression tells me everything.

He walks forward without a word. Slow. Purposeful. Like a predator stalking its prey.

I stay seated, one brow arched, watching his approach in the mirror.

"Your pheromones are heavy," I murmur, tilting my head and pretending to adjust a stray curl.

"Is this a seduction or a siege?"

His lips quirk, but he doesn’t speak.

Instead, he comes to a stop behind me and rests his hands on the vanity on either side of my body, caging me in. The heat from him seeps into my back through the thin silk of my robe, and I shiver—not from cold, but from anticipation.

His hands don’t touch me—yet—but I feel them like a phantom weight. One on either side of my shoulders, braced against the vanity. I could lean back and feel his chest press against mine. I could tilt my head, and his lips would be right there.

But I don’t move.

Neither does he.

His pheromones wrap around me like a cloak, thick and heavy and almost too much.

I should say something sharp. Something clever.

Instead, I just breathe.

He leans down—slowly—until his lips graze the shell of my ear.

"Seduction," he murmurs, voice like velvet, low and warm.

"But I’m not above siege if you need a reminder."

"I think I need reminding," I say, voice soft, a little breathless. Anxious. Expectant.

That’s when I feel it—something brushing against the sash of my robe. Not a hand. No fingers.

Just pressure.

A pull.

The fabric loosens.

And then falls open, parting over my skin like it’s been waiting for permission.

I tense for a moment. My eyes flicker up—but Thorne isn’t behind me anymore.

He’s moved.

I watch him through the mirror as he drags one of the upholstered armchairs closer, turning it so it faces me directly. He lowers himself into it with the sort of deliberate grace that makes it clear who’s in control here.

I try to stand, but I can’t. My body doesn’t respond, I’m being held in place by some immovable force.

His power.

Invisible, steady, firm. Holding me still like I’m no more than a leaf suspended in water.

My breath hitches.

My chair rotates slowly, until I’m no longer facing the mirror—but him.

Thorne.

"I thought this is the part where we can’t keep our hands off each other," I say with amused teasing, my voice soft yet full of longing.

Legs spread, shirt open to the waist, golden hair tousled like he just rolled out of a fantasy.

He rests one hand on his thigh, the other draped lazily along the arm of the chair. There’s a smirk on his lips now, small and dangerous, and my pulse stutters at the sight of it.

"I thought this was the part where we couldn’t keep our hands off each other," I murmur, eyeing the distance between us.

He lifts a brow.

"It is," he says smoothly. "But coming up the stairs, I had these big plans. I was going to have you on your knees—back arched and everything."

I grin. "Don’t threaten me with a good time."

"But..." He leans back in his seat, spreading his thighs a little wider. The movement is so confident and attractive for some reason it feels unfair.

"I changed my mind."

I look at him, glaring, still unable to move on the chair, but the robe falls open even more.

"You see, my beloved star. I’m just taking a page from your book," he says.

Tapping on his thigh with a few fingers and looking at me as if I’m some prized collection. It’s attractive—being at his mercy like this, watching him so calm while I’m being slowly unraveled.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I say, when my legs are forced open, and he’s still just sitting there, watching like it’s his favorite show.

"Do you remember that time, when you were pregnant with the twins and you dragged me into the woods by my leg, tied me up with plant vines, and decided to use me for your own pleasure?" he says sadly.

I, in fact, do remember that.

"I don’t recall you complaining," I say with a smirk.

"Of course not. That was one of the best days of my life. In fact, it was the most attractive thing ever," he says quickly, and I look at him amused as he gives a dry cough.

"But that’s beside the point, I remember tugging on those vines and I couldn’t breakthrough them, and when I did another vine would tie me up, I remember vowing to get my revenge." He says.

My smirk widens slightly. "You’re still mad about that?"

He leans back in the chair, casual, but I can see the spark in his eyes—hot, possessive, focused entirely on me.

"I’m just a man of my word," he says, almost mockingly sweet.

My breath catches as invisible threads of pressure curl under the robe—faint, teasing strokes gliding up my thighs, warm and maddening. He’s not touching me. But I feel him. Everywhere.

"I figured..." He tilts his head lazily, one finger still tapping his thigh.

"If my star can tie me down, then surely I can return the favor."