The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 69: A Dramatic Rescue

[Rynthall Estate—Silas’s Chamber—Same Night]

"Haa... haa... ahhh—ahhh..."

Lucien’s breath hitched, his back arching slightly as Silas trailed his lips down the slope of his neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin before his tongue followed, licking the sweat that beaded along his collarbone.

"You smell..." Silas murmured between kisses, voice low and husky, "So sweet... so fucking addictive, my love."

Lucien whimpered, his fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets beneath him. "U-ungh... s-slow down... please..."

But Silas didn’t slow. His pheromones were thick in the air—hot, possessive, and primal. The room pulsed with it, drenched in desire, and Lucien’s body trembled under the weight of his heat. Their bodies moved in sync, Silas buried deep inside him, every slow, deliberate thrust drawing out helpless moans from Lucien’s swollen lips.

THWOP. THWOP. THWOP.

Lucien collapsed against the mattress, breath ragged, his chest heaving. "H-how many rounds... was that...?" he managed between gasps, voice dazed and cracked.

Silas smirked against his flushed skin, licking lazily at one of his nipples, making Lucien cry out again. "Just six, my love."

Lucien’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and glazed with pleasure. "J-just... six?" he echoed, barely believing it himself.

Silas chuckled, then lowered his lips to Lucien’s stomach, trailing soft kisses down to the slight curve. "I’m dying to mark you," he whispered, breath ghosting over Lucien’s skin, "but I know... this isn’t the right time. Not yet."

Lucien looked down, barely able to lift his head, strands of sweat-damp hair clinging to his cheeks. "You still want to bite me though, don’t you?"

Silas’s eyes flicked up—dark, hungry, and reverent. "Can I?"

"...Do whatever you want," Lucien breathed, voice shaking but eager, giving in entirely to him.

And then—

"UGHH—HNGHHH—HAAAAH!!!"

Lucien’s scream ripped through the room as Silas spread his legs wider, thrusting deep with unforgiving precision. Yet his hands never left Lucien’s belly, fingers splayed protectively, cradling him with a tenderness that sharply contrasted the rawness of his movements.

Silas was relentless. The slick sound of their bodies echoed with every thrust, sweat-slicked skin meeting again and again.

"ARGHHHHH!!"

Lucien finally slumped, body trembling, completely spent. His limbs wouldn’t move. His voice was gone. His mind was blank.

"Haa... haa... haaa..."

He thought it was over.

But Silas leaned down again, fingers gently gripping Lucien’s thigh. "One more," he murmured, lips brushing against the shell of Lucien’s ear, "just one more, my love. Can I?"

Lucien’s lips quivered as he pulled Silas into a kiss, slow and desperate. "Go slow this time... please..."

Silas smiled against his lips. "Anything for you."

He entered him again, slower this time, dragging it out—every inch, every second. And as the night stretched on, Lucien could no longer tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began. His body felt like fire—burning, glowing, trembling.

By the time the moon began to fade, Lucien’s voice was hoarse, his skin flushed, his body marked by love—his hips bruised, his thighs trembling, his ass red from the endless friction.

And still, in the mess of it all, what he remembered most was Silas’s hands—gentle, protective, cradling the life they had created together.

***

[Rynthall Estate—The Next Day—Evening]

Lucien was dead.

Well—not dead dead. Just lying dramatically starfish-like on the bed, looking like a tragic noble widow from an opera. His cheeks were flushed, his lips beautifully bruised (courtesy of one overzealous Alpha), and his eyes were puffy from either crying, screaming, or both.

Meanwhile, Fredrick hovered beside the bed like a battle-weary medic, sighing as he checked Lucien’s pulse for the fourth time. "He’s fine," he muttered under his breath, "miraculously still alive."

Across the room, Silas sat curled on an armchair, knees up, chewing on his fingers like a man awaiting judgment. "I’m a monster..." he whispered. "A goddamn monster... How could I do that to him? He’s pregnant. Pregnant. And I—"

Fredrick didn’t look up. "Yes, we heard you the first ten times. And the floorboards heard it too."

"I went on rounds and rounds," Silas moaned into his hands.

"Yes. The entire west wing knows," Fredrick replied dryly. "The maids are traumatized. The gardener quit. The chandeliers are still shaking."

"I’m going to Hell," Silas whimpered.

"Well, tell them to prepare a nursery down there," Fredrick muttered, then turned to examine Lucien again. "No damage to the baby. Just exhaustion and a high risk of melodrama."

Silas blinked up with wide, bloodshot eyes. "Melodrama?! He’s not moving!"

"He’s sleeping," Fredrick deadpanned. "Or possibly pretending to avoid having to speak to you."

Before Silas could spiral further into despair, the door creaked open and Callen stepped in—looking entirely unbothered, holding a clipboard, sipping tea, and walking with the casual elegance of someone who absolutely did not witness the mating marathon of doom last night.

Silas’s voice exploded before the man had even taken three steps.

"Why did you let him go into heat in that state?! Why didn’t you stop him?!"

Callen blinked once. Then again. Then took another sip of tea with a sigh that sounded older than time itself. "Because," he said coolly, "your beloved ordered us not to meddle."

Silas opened his mouth to argue, paused, then closed it again. His shoulders sagged. Defeated. Exhausted. A little feral.

He looked at Lucien.

At the puffy cheeks. The mussed hair. The red, chapped lips. The peaceful, exhausted sprawl.

Then... he looked at Lucien’s stomach.

His expression melted from guilty wreck to tragic poet as he slowly walked to the bedside like he was approaching a sacred shrine. He knelt beside the bump, gently placing his large, trembling palm over the swell.

"...I’m sorry, Wobblebean," he whispered, reverently.

Lucien, still half-asleep, grunted something that sounded like "kill me."

Silas ignored him and kept talking to the belly with all the gravity of a royal apology speech. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to shake you like a maraca last night. I just love your mother too much. My hormones were stupid. My brain was an idiot. And my other brain was leading the charge."

Fredrick facepalmed. "Dear gods, what am I witnessing?"

Silas rubbed small, guilty circles over the bump. "I hope you forgive your father. I promise I’ll be better. No more extra rounds. Maybe like... three max. Four if he’s really feeling it."

Just then, the doors slammed open with royal fury, and Seraphina entered like a goddess of judgment, her dark cloak billowing behind her like she paid extra for dramatic wind effects. Right behind her was her father—Count Alaric, the living embodiment of noble disapproval—and two heavily armored knights who looked way too serious for a family reunion.

Callen, upon seeing Seraphina, straightened like he’d just seen an angel crawl out of his favorite fantasy novel. "Oh," he gasped, brushing invisible dust off his tunic. "My Lady..."

Silas, however, flinched like he’d just seen the tax collector.

"What," he snapped, standing up, "are you doing here?"

Seraphina’s tone could have frozen lava. "To retrieve my brother. From the clutches of a shameless, oversexed grand duke."

And then Seraphina’s eyes locked on the bed. Her face turned ghost-white.

"LUCEIN."

With a noise somewhere between a scream and a gasp, she skidded across the room in what looked like high-speed ballroom slippers, dropping to her knees beside her very unconscious, very sleep-deprived brother.

"Oh gods, his lips are bruised. He’s pale. He’s glowing—but not in a good way!"

With trembling hands, she checked his breath. Then sighed dramatically. "He’s still alive. Barely. But alive."

Silas, completely offended, threw his hands up. "Do you think I would kill my own husband?!"

Seraphina whipped her head toward him, eyes blazing. "Yes." 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Silas’s jaw dropped. "THAT IS A BOLD ACCUSATION—"

"I don’t trust you, Grand Duke," she spat, like his title was made of moldy cheese.

Fredrick raised a hand. "To be fair, no one trusts him right now."

Silas looked deeply betrayed.

Then Seraphina stood up, turned to her knights, and snapped, "Take him. We’re going back home now."

"Hold on!" Silas stepped in front of the bed, spreading his arms like a mother bird. "I never gave permission for that! He’s my husband. He belongs— I mean, lives—here!"

Count Alaric finally stepped forward, clearing his throat with the slow menace.

"He came here in an emergency," the Count said. "Don’t forget... he’s still angry."

Silas twitched like a bug under a magnifying glass. "He said he forgave me!"

Count Alaric scoffed, saying, "You’re lying."

And then knights approached Lucien carefully.

Silas snapped.

"LAY A HAND ON MY LUCIEN—AND I SWEAR ON MY TITLE, YOUR HEADS WILL ROLL ON THIS VERY FLOOR."

The knights froze mid-step.

Silas continued, voice dropping to a dangerously calm growl. "I won’t bear any other men touch him. The only thing getting near him now is a hot towel and my apology."

Count Alaric raised a brow, utterly unfazed. "But I can touch him, can’t I? I’m his uncle. His blood."

Silas groaned like someone stabbed him with honor.

"I mean... yes," he grumbled. "But emotionally speaking? I still hate it."

Without missing a beat, Count Alaric swept Lucien into his arms like a damn hero in a romance novel. Silas twitched violently. Even Callen winced.

As the Count turned to leave, he paused dramatically at the door.

"If you want Lucien back..." he said over his shoulder, "...then apologize properly—and if he forgives you, I won’t stand in your way."

Silas stood frozen as Lucien was carried away.

Fredrick clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations. You’re officially on the in-law shitlist."

Silas blinked.

Then muttered, "Wobblebean... I am gonna get you both back. I promise."

Callen, still staring dreamily at Seraphina’s retreating figure, added, "And I... will marry that woman."

Fredrick groaned. "Oh no. Not another one."