The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 72: The First Kick

[Rynthall Estate—Morning After the Great Reconciliation]

The sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows of the Rynthall dining hall like an overly eager blessing. The long mahogany table—polished to a royal shine—was covered in what could only be described as a culinary battlefield of abundance.

Piles of golden croissants, neatly stacked pancakes dripping with syrup, buttery eggs, seven different kinds of cheeses, freshly baked bread towers, assorted tropical fruits carved into suspiciously romantic shapes, and—because the chef had no chill—an entire roasted duck.

Lucien stared.

No.

Gawked.

"...Wow."

Silas, ever the doting husband, gently helped him ease into the velvet-lined chair like he was made of spun sugar and heartbreak poetry. "There, there... take a seat carefully, my love," he whispered, voice dipped in syrup.

But Lucien wasn’t listening.

His eyes were locked on the breakfast table like a war general surveying a battlefield he fully intended to conquer.

"...So. Much. Food."

Silas tilted his head, blinking innocently. "Huh? Is it not enough, my love? Should I summon the chef? Triple the portions? A second duck, perhaps?"

Lucien slowly turned his head, squinting at him. "Why do I feel like... you’re calling me a pig right now?"

Silas looked visibly offended. "Wha—? I would never! My precious dove! My moonbeam! My delicately enraged pudding—"

Lucien leaned in with a teasing glint, cupped his cheek, and kissed him lightly on the lips. Then, with a smug smile and a finger poke to Silas’s forehead, said, "Even if you’re a pig... you’re my lovely little pigglet."

Silas blinked.

Then—

"You called me a pig."

Lucien clutched his chest in mock betrayal, eyes wide and dramatic. "You actually called me a pig!"

Then he looked down at his belly, hands cupping the slight roundness with all the grace of a concerned mother hen.

"Did you hear that, Wobblebean?" he said gravely. "Daddy just insulted your noble host body. I hope you’re protesting in there. Kick him in the ribs later."

Silas, clearly fighting a laugh, bowed his head. "Apologies to Wobblebean the Glorious. I throw myself upon your mercy."

Lucien rolled his eyes with affection and flopped back in his seat like a noble martyr.

Silas, watching him with too much fondness, slipped into the chair beside him. "Shall I feed you, my love?" he purred, already reaching for a silver spoon.

Lucien’s eyes gleamed.

He cracked his knuckles.

He rolled up the sleeves of his robe like a warrior preparing for a feast-day duel.

"Nope," he said darkly. "I can devour this on my own."

And then—

He attacked.

He grabbed a fork like a sword, speared a sausage, bit into it with a moan of pure devotion, and shoveled scrambled eggs like his soul had been craving them for decades.

"Oh gods," Lucien mumbled between bites, cheeks stuffed like a squirrel. "I missed our chef’s food. I missed him. I missed his roasted duck. I’d marry that duck if you weren’t already legally attached to me."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "I feel offended, my love."

"I missed it!!" Lucien wailed dramatically, shaking a croissant in the air like a protest banner. "You don’t understand—I was emotionally starving and also literally starving! That duck is looking at me like it wants to be loved!"

"It’s dead."

"Then let me love it posthumously!!"

A servant passed by the dining room, saw what could only be described as an emotionally overloaded domestic buffet scene, blinked once... and wisely decided to keep walking.

He’d seen enough.

Silas, still lounging beside Lucien like a lion mid-feast, reached for a muffin with the grace of a man peeling back destiny itself. Slowly. Sensually. Like the muffin had committed crimes and he was about to interrogate it.

Then, eyes dark with mischief, he turned to Lucien and murmured low, "If you keep eating like that, my love... Wobblebean might come out with a croissant in each hand."

Lucien froze.

Then he snorted, hand covering his mouth as he chuckled. "Don’t say that—I just imagined it! our Wobbelbean, rising from the womb with baked goods like it’s leading a pastry revolution!"

Silas’s grin widened.

But he didn’t laugh.

He just kept staring.

Lucien blinked.

"...Silas?"

Silas had gone completely still, head propped lazily on one hand, elbow on the table, gaze trained on Lucien’s chest like a predator staring at dessert.

No.

Worse.

Like a man devouring a dessert with his eyes before it even hit the plate.

His gaze dropped lower.

Lower.

To Lucien’s chest, where his silk robe had shifted slightly, and—

Just barely.

The outline of his nipple peeked through.

Lucien raised a brow. "What?"

Silas blinked slowly. Voice like molten sin. "It’s... grown. A lot."

Lucien frowned. "Huh? What’s—oh."

He looked down at his chest and sighed in realization.

"Oh... that. Yeah. The milk’s forming." He patted his belly gently with affection. "It’s for Wobblebean, obviously."

Silas bit his lip like he was about to commit sin. Biblical sin. Apocalyptic sin. Then he whispered under his breath—just audible enough to cause Lucien’s soul to leave the room for five seconds:

"I want it."

Lucien choked on his tea.

"Excuse me?!"

Before Silas could say anything more criminal, the doors opened with a crisp knock and a throat-clearing ahem.

Alphonso entered—blissfully unaware of the nipple-based crisis—holding a neatly folded morning paper.

"My Grace. The morning news."

Silas did not respond. Because Silas was still too busy mentally suckling his husband with his eyes.

Lucien, completely red and trying to maintain dignity, flailed a bit and said quickly, "H-HERE! Give it to me! I’ll read it! I want to know what actual disasters are happening in the empire while I was in my emotional dungeon."

Alphonso bowed. "Of course, Your Grace." He handed over the newspaper and fled the room like it might catch fire.

Lucien turned a page, chewing thoughtfully on a biscuit, his lips smudged slightly with jam. Silas, meanwhile, was resting his chin in his hand like the personification of hungry, horny, and highborn.

But then—

The biscuit froze mid-air.

Lucien’s whole body went still.

A beat.

Then, thud.

The biscuit slipped from his fingers and hit the plate. Lucien’s entire face went pale. All color drained, like someone had hit a reset button on his soul.

His hand instantly went to his belly, protective and trembling.

Silas straightened instantly, expression sobering. "My love?"

Lucien didn’t respond. He just turned, slowly, wide-eyed.

"...Silas," he whispered, voice cracking. "He’s going to take our baby."

Silas froze.

His chair scraped back with a screech as he stood, snatching the paper from Lucien’s hands like it had just issued a death threat.

And there it was.

Front page. Bold.

"A PROPHECY FROM THE GODS!"

A subheader read:

"The Holy Temple Confirms Divine Revelation: The High Priest Receives a Message from the Heavens—’The Child of Grand Duke Silas is a God-Sent Blessing!’ The Empire Rejoices as the Sacred Infant Is Declared a Miracle. Citizens Demand to See the Baby at the Temple for Blessings."

Silas’s jaw locked.

His knuckles went white as he crumpled the paper in one slow, bone-grinding fist.

"He’s... manipulating the public," Silas muttered, voice low and deadly calm. "Twisting faith into chains."

Lucien blinked, still frozen—still trying to breathe past the weight in his chest. "Silas... they want to see the baby. They’re calling Wobblebean a blessing—no, a prophecy."

His voice cracked.

"Are they going to take my child from me?"

His hand reached out—trembling—gripping Silas’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The other clutched protectively over his belly, holding their child as close as he could.

Silas didn’t hesitate.

He pulled Lucien into his arms like a fortress snapping shut.

"No one is taking our child, my love," Silas whispered fiercely, pressing a kiss into his hair. "Not the High Priest. Not a temple. Not the gods themselves. I swear to you."

Then, slowly, he dropped to his knees in front of Lucien, hands on his waist, eyes level with his husband’s—soft, steady, full of fire.

"Didn’t you say," he murmured, tilting his head with a small, dangerous smile, "that if the High Priest even looked at our baby wrong... you’d burn the whole temple down?"

Lucien blinked.

Then nodded. Slowly. Sharply.

"Yes. I did."

Silas’s grin widened, warm and wicked all at once.

"Then be ready, my love. Because it’s time to light the match."

Lucien exhaled, the fear not vanishing, but curling into something sharper—something fierce.

"I’ll do anything for our child," he whispered, eyes glinting with resolve. "Even if it means standing at the gates of the temple with a torch in one hand and a threat in the other."

Silas reached up, brushing Lucien’s cheek with reverence. "And I’ll be right beside you. But until that day comes..."

He stood, cupping Lucien’s face, voice low and protective.

"Take care of yourself. Eat. Rest. Laugh. Because until our child is born..."

His gaze darkened like a storm gathering behind his lashes.

"...I’ll make sure the temple doesn’t exist long enough to come near him."

Lucien nodded, lips trembling into the smallest, fiercest smile.

And beneath their joined hands—nestled under soft silk and swelling love—

Wobblebean kicked.

Hard.

Lucien gasped, eyes flying wide. His spoon clattered to the floor.

"It kicked," he whispered, barely breathing. His lips trembled into something caught between awe and a sob.

Silas blinked. "What?"

Lucien grabbed his hand tighter, eyes glassy with wonder.

"Our child, Silas," he said, voice cracking. "Our Wobblebean... kicked."

Silas froze like the world had just stopped spinning. And then, all at once—he dropped down, pressing his ear gently against Lucien’s belly like it was the most sacred altar in the world.

"Kick again," he whispered softly, tenderly. "My little miracle... let Daddy feel you."

And—

KICK.

They both flinched. Then locked eyes.

And then—

They laughed.

Not the polite chuckles of nobles, not the dry sighs of royalty.

But a full, giddy, breathless laugh—raw and honest and golden. The sound of two people who had been scared, broken, shaken to the core—and now, in this fleeting, perfect moment, were wrapped in something unshakable.

Joy.Love.Family.

The world outside still raged.Prophets still plotted.But in that room, in that second, all that mattered—Was the tiny kick of a tiny foot... and the echo of laughter that followed.