Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 111: Where is he?

Chapter 109

Jack

I always knew this day was coming.

I just didn’t think it’d show up in my living room uninvited and wearing expensive shoes on my floors. On Nolan’s floors.

The first one I see is the military bastard. Tan skin, hard jaw, uniform pressed so crisp it could cut glass. Objectively handsome, sure.

But once you know what someone is capable of doing to the person you love, their face becomes the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen.

Then, footsteps.

My eye twitches.

The other three descend my stairs like they’re walking onto a stage. Polished shoes, unsettling poise, the kind of beauty that feels... engineered. Too symmetrical. Too precise. Mannequins pretending to be men.

Ciel is beautiful, yes but he breathes.

Feels. Lives in color.

These things?

They look like someone sculpted men without understanding humanity. Knowing their personalities too, they are very much not human.

They fan out, surrounding me ,four apex predators in a room that used to smell like coffee and baby powder.

Why am I still by the door?

Right.

Because shock makes you polite for two seconds longer than necessary.

I walk past them, slow and bored, like this is just an annoying Tuesday guest situation.

Drop onto the couch. Sprawl. Arms across the backrest. Own the space.

This is my house.

"I wonder," I say casually, "what I could’ve possibly done to deserve a visit from the four dukes of the kingdom."

Silence stretches.

Their gazes rake over me clinical, cold, curious. The way someone might study a rodent who learned to use tools.

None of them answer.

Because in their heads, they don’t owe me the decency of words.

I smirk.

"Tea? Coffee? Trespassing charges?"

Finally, the military one speaks. Voice low, controlled, chilling in its calm:

"Where is he?"

What was he called again? I know it, right — Duke Richard Roderick.

I think about Rose.

Why did she make the Black man the scary military one again?

I really should’ve paid more attention instead of delivering sarcasm like it was my full-time job and you know fighting cancer. Why didn’t she make the black guy the artsy one or something?

"Where is he?"

This time it’s the blond one with the gold colored eyes.Marius Florence.

His eyes are so bizarrely bright it feels like staring at a golden laser pointer. I hate it.

Don’t look at me like that.

Ciel has golden eyes too but his are soft, warm, alive.

These are... tax-collector eyes.

Then—

"Answer."

Ah. Him.

From the one I hate the most.

Sebastian Doraemont.

I would never forget him — ghost-colored, corpse looking, victorian ghost ass bastard looking with white hair, gray eyes, pale enough to haunt a hospital ward at night.

The nastiest of the four.And that’s saying something.

My mood, already swinging downwards, nosedives into the ocean.

I don’t move from the couch.

My arms stretch across the back lazily.

"You all ask where is he? Who is he? Why do you think I know where he is? Why would I even tell you if I knew where and who he is?"

"Don’t play games with us, lowborn. Where is Ciel Rosengarde?"

The last one — Laurent Duvall — speaks like he’s narrating a perfume ad. The creepy painter, I remember at some point when Rose narrating he used Ciel’s blood as pigment. Fucking creepy.

With his weird purple hair, that looks like something photoshopped which is weird because he’s standing right in front of me.

My jaw ticks.

I tilt my head slowly, meeting each of their eyes one by one.

Then I say very clearly:

"What business do the dukes have with my omega?"

Their auras drop like anvils, the air in the room literally chills.Suddenly it’s a testosterone convention in here — and not the fun kind, the "who has the biggest dick" kind.

I’m not usually one to play macho games. I find them dumb and stupid, maybe it’s because I have this alpha designation, I feel so pissed off right now.

Ever since I walked in and saw Captain National Security Trauma standing in my living room.

Since everyone is releasing, their pheromones as some intimidation tactic, I do too, I don’t know how, my body just seems to know.

Yeah, you can’t intimidate me, I’m a dominant alpha too.

"Your omega?" Sebastian asks, stepping forward.

I don’t budge. Not even a fraction.

"Yes. You must’ve snooped around — you broke into my house, rummaged through every corner of my life, and now you dare demand my omega? The bearer of my son?"

My tone drops, deadly calm.

I stand.

A slow, deliberate rise.

And take one step toward them.

"I was only giving you courtesy because you’re nobility," I grit out, voice low and sharp,

"but this is fucking ridiculous."

And then corpse-colored fuckass actually tries to hit me. Hit me?

In a monarchy.Where hitting nobility is basically a political suicide note with glitter on it. What I should do, is dodge like the logical person I am....sometimes I’m unfortunately not logical.Before I can even fully process the stupidity, my body just— reacts.

One second pale Dracula-adjacent bastard swings at me,

the next second he’s flying across my goddamn living room like a ragdoll, slamming into a table, and the table breaks.

I blink.

They blink.

Honestly? I’m the most confused person here.

Sure, I go to the gym.

I’m fit.

I can deadlift an adult, sure. But toss a 6ft something grown ass adult man across the room? What the fuck? Super strength?

Not the time to explore that existential crisis though, because I don’t even get one second before the other three lunge at me.

I’m sure they’ve had formal martial arts training — you can see it in the posture, the clean footwork, the calculated movements.

Plus it’s three on one.

They’re good.

But you see...

I had to learn how to fight.

Not in dojo sparring rings with pristine mats and polite bows. With a referree.

In alleys. At thirteen.Against men twice my size who didn’t pull punches.

Against people who fought to kill, not to sport.

Then later, when the gang took me in, I got the formal lessons too,but it was layered over something raw, something feral that doesn’t give a damn about technique when survival’s on the line.

So these pretty boys?These polished greenhouse orchids pretending to be predators?

Honestly... adorable.

Marius swings first, textbook precision crisp knuckles, tight core, trying to break my jaw.

I slip the punch like he telegraphed it in slow motion.

Richard aims low, going for grapple control, probably to pin my arms.

Cute attempt. I twist, elbow slam into his ribs feels like hitting Kevlar, fine but he staggers anyway. Rich-boy military training didn’t prep him for dirty elbow in the kidney territory.

Laurent tries to slice in from the side, fingers hooked like claws , fucking artistic freak probably thinks he’s painting violence.

I palm his face and shove him back by the cheekbone.Gentle, really. He stumbles anyway.

Three seconds in and they already look offended.

Like I broke the rules of their gentleman fencing club.

Too bad.

I stop playing around.

I feel like the main lead in an action movie right now — slow-mo, soundtrack swelling, dramatic lighting and all that bullshit — but there’s no director shouting "cut." There’s only fists, elbows, and the delightful sound of aristocracy hitting hardwood.

My hands are bloody, and I toss the last aristocratic piss of shit to the ground, with one final kick.

"Stop!" I turn and find, on the ground pointing a gun at me, is Duke Richard, while holding his aching jaw.

Maybe I should have held back my temper.

I pause and raise my arms.

For a breath the room holds — a stupid, stupid silence. My wet knuckles drip on the parquet and the blood looks obscene against his polished shoes.

Richard’s hand doesn’t shake.

His eyes are flat as slate. The gun is too small to be comforting, but it’s very real and very close.

"Now, now , why are you bringing a gun to a fist fight? Unfair, no?"

I quip, lifting my hands a little higher, with a tiny smirk my mind is racing though.

Ah yes. Second life speedrun: birth → trauma → love → found family → death by royal dickheads. Great job, Jack. Amazing work.

"Shut up!" Richard snaps.

I mime zipping my mouth.

I might be stupid, but I’m not stupid-stupid.

You don’t piss off a guy who has a gun pointed at your chest.

He gets to his feet, movements controlled, disciplined , his military background showing.

The other three straighten too, brushing dust off silk like they didn’t just get their asses handed to them by a "lowborn."

They all glare at me.

"You guys started it," I mutter, backing toward the center of the room.

"It was self-defense, you know."

"Shut the fuck up."

Sebastian — ghost-colored bastard — hisses at me, wiping blood from the corner of his lip.

He’s more bruised than the others.

Yes. That was intentional.

I don’t regret it.

At all.

I want to fight more.

I want to rip them apart for what they did to him.

But there’s a baby somewhere out there who calls me dada.

And an omega who presses his head to my chest when he sleeps because the world always tried to rip him away from peace.

And a charming beta I love to tease, who pretends to hate it but I know he loves it.

So I raise my hands fully, take a slow breath, and speak evenly:

"You broke into my house. You laid hands on me first. I defended myself. That’s all."