Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes-Chapter 125: Weak father

Chapter 123

Ciel

Eventually, I calm down.

Forcefully.

My hands stop trembling before my heartbeat does. I sit at the small kitchen table, elbows on my knees, head hanging. The plastic bag lies crumpled on the floor beside me like some defeated creature that barely survived the storm in my chest.

Nolan hovers near the doorway—close enough to reach me if I fall apart, far enough to give me space if I need to pretend I’m fine.

"I’m okay," I say, even though my voice betrays me with a crack.

He doesn’t believe me. He sits across from me with Lanny on his lap, patting our son’s back in slow circles. Lanny is quiet now, watching me with big, wet eyes—eyes too perceptive for a child.

Guilt slices straight through me.

I force myself upright.

"I’m sorry," I whisper.

Nolan shakes his head. "Don’t do that. Don’t apologize."

But I do. Inside, I do. Because I was doing so well. Because I promised myself I wouldn’t let them control even a corner of my mind anymore. Because I swore I wouldn’t let Lanny see me like this.

But the moment Laurent’s face flashed on the screen... everything inside me fractured.

I grip the edge of the table until the wood creaks.

Nolan moves around the small apartment quietly, bouncing Lanny in his arms, whispering nonsense to soothe him.

He doesn’t look at me directly—

thank God.

I don’t want pity.

I don’t want concern.

I don’t want to see myself reflected in his eyes looking small and weak and terrified.

Lanny’s cries soften into little hiccups.

He’s so small.

So warm.

So innocent.

And when he finally settles, eyelids drooping, cheek pressed to Nolan’s shoulder, something inside me snaps in a different way.

Shame.

Sharp and choking.

Looking at my son—

my perfect boy who didn’t ask for any of this—

I feel like the worst possible father.

What kind of parent panics at the sight of a face on a screen?

What kind of father almost drops to the floor shaking when he should be holding his child steady?

What kind of man lets ghosts ruin him so completely?

The answer echoes inside me, cruel and familiar:

Me.

I hate it.

I hate myself for it.

And yet I can’t stop shaking.

***

Nolan

After getting Lanny down again, the apartment finally quiets.

A rare peace.

A fragile one.

I settle beside Ciel on the bed, watching him breathe, still a little too fast from earlier. He’s curled up around me like I’m a life raft. One arm across my waist, one leg thrown over mine, face buried against my chest as if he could hide from the world by sheer will alone.

He looks so small like this.

So young.

So tired.

I stroke his hair gently, careful not to wake him. Lanny and Ciel share the same expression when they sleep—tiny frowns, twitchy lashes, the way their eyebrows pull together like they’re dreaming complicated dreams.

They really are the same.

My two troublemakers.

I exhale slowly and reach for my laptop with my free hand, trying not to move him.

I check the usual—emails, job applications, any replies.

Nothing.

Not even a rejection.

Great.

I close the laptop gently. The truth is, Jack gave us enough money to survive comfortably for years, but I still want a job. Something to do. Some way to contribute. Some way to feel like I’m not just... floating.

I glance down at Ciel again.

His fingers flex in his sleep, tightening in the fabric of my shirt as if he knows I’m thinking too much.

"Yeah, yeah," I whisper. "I’m not going anywhere."

He burrows closer, pressing his forehead against my skin.

His breath warms my ribs.

His body finally relaxes fully.

I sigh and give up on any hope of moving.

He needs this.

So I put the laptop aside, wrap an arm around him, and let the weight of the day settle. For now, it’s enough to hold him while he clings to me like his world depends on it.

I close my eyes, matching my breathing to his, letting the rhythm lull me. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Eventually, I drift off too.

***

Ciel

I’m cold.

Not physically — the room is warm from the lanterns and the soft glow of the studio lights he likes to pretend are "natural ambiance."

No.

It’s the kind of cold that sits inside your bones and refuses to thaw, no matter how many blankets or illusions you wrap around yourself.

I sit on the stool, naked, the wooden seat biting into my skin.

I don’t bother to cover myself. What’s the point? He’ll just move my hands away again. Pose me the way he wants. Tilt my chin. Spread my legs. Part my lips.

I don’t own my body here.

I only inhabit it.

Breathing carefully.

Existing carefully.

Existing was always safer than reacting.

Laurent steps into my line of vision. His voice is soft, almost gentle, and that somehow hurts more.

"My beautiful Rose."

He says it like a prayer.

He says it like a possession.

I do not answer. I learned long ago that silence is easier for both of us.

"So perfect," he murmurs as if admiring a sculpture, not a person.

I stay still.

He takes my hand. His skin is warm. Mine is cold.

A sharp sting pierces my finger.A needle. Quick. Precise. He doesn’t even warn me anymore; warnings imply permission.

He tilts my hand over his palette, watching as droplets fall into the paint. He sighs in contentment, like a man adding the final seasoning to a dish.

"There. The last ingredient," he says. "Your essence brings the color to life."

I don’t respond.

I don’t even blink.

Then he lifts my hand, brings the finger to his lips, and sucks the blood away, I merely stare at the empty space in front of me.

He releases my hand and drifts behind me. His lips touch my shoulder, his breath brushing over my collarbone.

His fingers weave through my hair.

"It saddens me to see it so short," he sighs. "You would look far more ethereal if these crimson strands were longer."

Laurent steps back to his canvas and begins to mix the color,my blood spreading through it like veins.

"Let me paint you while it’s fresh. Afterward, we’ll have dinner together," he says, as if we are lovers. As if I have a choice.

And I remain on the stool. Silent. Empty.

A body arranged for someone else’s fantasy.

The thoughts come slowly, tired thoughts that no longer carry heat.

Will I ever be more than this?

Will I ever be something other than a body wrapped in beauty and traps?

Is it possible for anyone to love me without wanting to own me?

No.

Impossible.

Alphas like that don’t exist.

And even if they did...

they would never let me escape.