Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 124: Desires and panic
Chapter 122
Nolan
I don’t know what to do with this.
Seriously.
I don’t know.
Half the time I’m a stumbling, mumbling fool because Ciel is... attracted to me.
To me.
I have no idea how to function when he’s looking at me like that.
Like my chest is something worth staring at.
Like my sweatpants are committing crimes.
Like he’s imagining things... dirty things,and biting his lower lip over it.
I’ve never experienced this Ciel.I’ve seen him treat Jack this way, shamelessly flirting, clinging, teasing — and I used to be jealous. I thought Jack was special in some way I could never be.
Now I understand why they always acted like hormonal rabbits.
Because apparently...
Ciel is a hormonal rabbit.
I pretend to be busy washing dishes, vigorously scrubbing a plate that’s already spotless, when hands suddenly wrap around my waist from behind.
"Ciel," I say, trying to sound stern, but it comes out breathless.
His hands slide under my shirt.
To my chest.
Touching. Palming. Exploring.
My brain disconnects from my body.
"Let me go," I say weakly. Pathetically. So much for dominance.
"I don’t want to," he murmurs against my shoulder, and his fingers graze my nipples — lightly at first, then a deliberate pinch.
I choke.
Is he serious?
Is this real life?
Does he know what he’s doing to me or is this man just naturally devastating?
Before I can combust, Lanny suddenly starts crying from the living room — a blessed divine intervention — and Ciel pulls away immediately.
He runs for Lanny, and I sag against the sink, gripping the counter as relief rushes through me.
Relief... and disappointment.
This is going to take time. Time for me to get used to this new version of Ciel — confident, bold, affectionate in ways my brain short-circuits over.
Time for me to stop acting like some panicked virgin.
I don’t hate it, though.
God, no.
Quite the opposite.
I really, really like it.
***
Ciel
I have a secret.
A secret I haven’t whispered to a single soul, not even in passing, not even when I’m half-asleep and my guard is down. It sits inside my chest like a hot coal, pressed right under my ribs, burning quietly and endlessly.
I want Nolan.
Not in the sweet, soft, innocent way omegas are told they’re supposed to want.
Not in the "let your alpha take the lead" way the world expects from us.
No.
I want him the way an alpha wants their omega.
I want him.
Inside me, yes — but more than that, some reckless, hungry part of me wants to be inside him.
It’s wrong. Or... it’s supposed to be wrong.
Omegas aren’t supposed to have these desires.
We’re decorative. Soft. Something to be done to, never the one doing.
So every time the thought crosses my mind — every time he looks at me with those wide blue eyes like he doesn’t know he’s beautiful — shame curls up my throat like another throat inside me.
Am I broken?
Is something wrong with me?
Why do I want to push him down and hear him gasp?
It’s ridiculous.
Impossible.
I shouldn’t want this.
But I do.
The thought loops itself quietly, shamefully, like it’s been waiting years for a chance to crawl out of whatever dark corner I shoved it into. I kiss Lanny’s head, burying my nose in his soft hair and breathing through the unease. He’s warm. He’s safe. He grounds me.
I lay him gently onto the couch, propping pillows around him like a tiny fortress, and reach for the remote. Something mindless will help — cooking shows, dramatic soaps, anything that fills the silence and keeps my thoughts in line.
I flick through channels aimlessly.
Until I land on him.
Purple hair.
That nauseating, unmistakable shade.
Laurent.
My heart stutters, then slams painfully against my ribs. The world tilts. The air disappears. I freeze, every muscle going rigid as the screen shows him smiling at some reporter, standing in front of a new museum he’s opening — covered in murals he painted with his own hands.
Those hands.
Those hands that used to touch my hair without permission.
Those hands that used to tilt my chin up when I tried to look away.
I can’t breathe.
It’s too much. Too sudden. Too familiar.
My fingers tremble around the remote, and a ringing fills my ears, drowning out whatever the reporter is saying. The room shrinks. The couch feels too small. The walls too close. My chest constricts like a fist is gripping my lungs from the inside.
No. No, no, no — not here. Not in front of Lanny. Not like this.
I stand too fast.
The room sways.
My grip tightens instinctively around Lanny, but my hands suddenly feel too weak, too clammy, too far away from me.My heartbeat is loud, pounding in my ears like it’s trying to escape my body.
Lanny squirms, disturbed, and then he starts crying.A thin, sharp cry, slices straight through my skull.
"Sshhhh."
The word comes out tight, strangled.
I try to bounce him, soothe him, anything—
but my arms are shaking.
I can’t.
I can’t.
Not right now.
Nolan appears in the doorway so fast I don’t even register the footsteps.
Just suddenly he’s there ,eyes wide, alert, instinctively taking in everything.
"Take him... please."
My voice breaks embarrassingly on the last word.
I practically shove Lanny into his arms, guilt stabbing me instantly, but the panic is rising too fast to control.
Nolan doesn’t hesitate.
He cradles Lanny, whispering soft nonsense, rocking him gently.
The crying softens.
I turn away.
I need air.
Something.
Anything.
The walls feel too close.
The couch feels too soft.
The lights too bright.
The world too loud.
I stumble toward the kitchen, every breath a rasp my vision narrowing to a tunnel.
Plastic.
Bag.
Something to breathe through, to control the airflow, to stop hyperventilating.
My shaking hands grab a random grocery bag from the counter drawer.
I press it against my mouth, forcing my inhales to slow.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My lungs feel like they’re collapsing.
My knees buckle and I lean heavily against the counter, clutching the bag with one hand, the other gripping the cold surface just to stay standing.
My breaths come too fast.
Too shallow.
Too loud.
In—
Out—
In—
Out—
