CHAPTER 27: WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MY OMEGA?

Lucien stood tall, wiping the blood from his forehead with the last remaining tissue. A slow, dramatic inhale. Then—

"Now," he snarled, voice low and unhinged, "WHERE. IS. MY. CUSTARD?"

The baker, sprawled on the floor with crushed tarts in his hair and sheer terror in his eyes, let out a trembling squeak.

"I—I dropped them!"

Lucien narrowed his eyes so hard it looked like he was trying to laser through the man’s soul.

"You. Dropped. The. Custard?"

The room trembled—not from magic, but from disappointment so thick it became an atmospheric event. Somewhere, a god sighed. Somewhere else, a dessert cried.

There are moments in life when a man realizes he has truly, catastrophically fucked up. This was one of them.

Lucien, with the cold grace of a pregnant panther in Gucci heels, strutted over and sat on the baker’s back like divine punishment. Then, without pause, he yanked the man’s hair like he was ringing a service bell at the gates of hell and slammed his fist into the floor beside his head with a thud that echoed like a judgment day drumroll.

"YOU FUCKING ROTTING PIECE OF SOURDOUGH-LOOKING BASTARD!!" he screeched, wild-eyed. "DO YOU—DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT A CUSTARD TART MEANS TO A PREGNANT OMEGA?!"

The baker sobbed. "N-no?"

Lucien’s voice cracked with fury and unspeakable craving. "It means COMFORT! It means LOVE! It means HOPE IN A WORLD OF BACK PAIN AND INSOMNIA! It means a sugar-coated escape from hormonal despair!"

He smacked the floor again. Dust flew like theatrical fog. A mouse in the corner fainted.

"And you. Dropped. It."

The baker whimpered again. "I—I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry—"

"Hah... fuck. Everything is pissing me off," Lucien muttered, reaching out and yanking the man’s apron as if it personally offended him.

In seconds, he had expertly tied the baker’s hands behind his back, creating what could only be described as a very angry human sushi roll.

And then Lucien threw his head back and screamed to the heavens, still firmly perched on the baker’s spine like a furious gremlin on a throne.

"JUST SEND SILAS HERE, FOR GOD’S SAKE—I’M HUNGRY!"

***

[Meanwhile at the countryside...]

Silas stormed through the narrow stone corridors like a beast unchained, his coat billowing behind him, boots slamming against the ground with lethal rhythm. His eyes scanned every shadow, every corner—yet his omega was nowhere to be found.

With each passing second, the fury in his chest bloomed like wildfire.

Where. Was. Lucien?

Then came the hurried steps—Elize, panting, flanked by Damon and a squad of armored knights. She halted a few feet away, her face pale.

"My—My Lord... we still—"

Silas turned. Slowly. Dangerously.

His crimson eyes gleamed with Alpha fury. "Don’t you dare finish that sentence." His voice was a low snarl, ice-wrapped in fire. "If you even utter the word ’failed’, Elize, I swear—I will end you right here."

Elize flinched, then dropped to one knee, bowing her head deeply. "W-We have searched, my Lord... every district, every alley... We even questioned the people. And yet... yet we couldn’t—"

"THEN LOOK MORE!" Silas’s roar shook the air like a war drum, birds scattering from the trees. "WHO THE HELL GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO STOP?!"

His voice rose, terrifying in its desperation.

"**I don’t care if you have to tear down every house brick by brick—dig under every damn road—I. WANT. MY. OMEGA. IN. MY. ARMS. SAFE."

Elize, trembling, exchanged a glance with Damon, who gave a short, grim nod.

Without a word, Damon spun on his heel and raced off, half the knights following him like shadows reborn. The others spread into formation behind Elize.

Silas stood there, jaw clenched, fists trembling, his aura thrumming with possessive rage. No one touched what was his. No one took what was his. And gods have mercy on whoever dared.

***

[Back to the Unknown Location...]

Lucein glanced down at the baker, who was lying on the floor, groaning, bruised, and very possibly questioning every life choice that led him here.

Lucien poked him in the thigh with the chair leg. "Okay, so... what’s your damage, huh? Why the hell would you kidnap a black-haired pregnant omega and kill them? Did one dump you or something?"

The baker groaned and wheezed, "N-no! It’s not like that!"

Lucien squinted. "Then what? You trying to win a ’Most Punchable Face of the Year’ award?"

No answer.

Lucien raised the broken chair leg slowly, dramatically—like he was summoning the spirit of revenge from IKEA. "Okay, I’m gonna give you five seconds before I turn this into a limited-edition skull dent—"

"OKAY! I’LL TALK!" the baker wailed, flinching like a terrified croissant.

Lucien lowered the chair leg. Still perched menacingly above him like a hormonal gargoyle. "Start. And make it quick. My blood sugar’s on thin ice."

The baker sniffled. "I... I’m impotent."

Lucien blinked. He glanced casually at the man’s pants and mumbled, "Well... not that I was planning to investigate, but... yeah, vibes were off."

The man whimpered. "And... my wife—she cheated on me with some other Alpha and got pregnant."

Lucien raised a brow. "Oof. That sucks. So—did your wife have black hair?"

The baker nodded miserably. "Yeah. Long, shiny, beautiful black hair. Just like—"

Lucien held up a hand. "Stop. I don’t need the shampoo commercial detail."

He paused, then added flatly, "So let me get this straight. Your wife cheats on you, and your revenge was to KIDNAP any black-haired, pregnant omega like a discount Disney villain on a revenge spree?"

"I—I wasn’t thinking clearly," the baker sobbed into the floor, snot mixing with regret.

Lucien stared at him. His nostrils flared.

Then came the eye twitch. The kind that said pregnancy hormones + justified rage = incoming wrath of biblical proportions.

He leaned down and hissed, "And here I thought—honestly—you had some tragic villain origin story. You know? A dead mate, a cursed bond, maybe childhood trauma involving cinnamon buns—something!"He threw his hands up. "But this?! You were killing pregnant women... because your wife cheated?! What are you, the emotionally constipated mascot of toxic masculinity?!"

The baker whimpered louder.

Lucien’s face darkened. "You killed five omegas. Five pregnant women and their unborn children—because what? Your little croissant stopped rising, and your ego crumbled like stale cookies?"

He stood up, snatched a nearby knife off the table like it owed him money, and without pause, stabbed the man’s thigh. Not fatally. But enough.

"AHHHHHHHH—!"

"Shut up," Lucien snapped, yanking the blade out with flair and disgust.

"M-MERCY! Mercy, my Lord—!" the baker cried, flailing weakly.

Lucien pointed the bloodied knife at him with all the grace of a pregnant, pissed-off angel of death. "I am not your lord, you dough-brained disaster. And I don’t do mercy. You picked the wrong omega."

Then he paused.Rubbed his belly.Groaned.

"I swear, I’m going to give birth early just from pure annoyance. My wobblebean will come out with judgmental eyebrows and a strong sense of vengeance."

He turned away, tossing the knife aside with a clatter, mumbling, "Ugh. Now I’m hungry and emotionally disturbed. Thanks for ruining two moods."

***

[Meanwhile at The Countryside...]

The sun was about to set, casting long shadows across the path, but Silas wasn’t looking at the sky. His eyes were trained on the road, on every stone, every leaf, and every distant shape that might be his omega.

But there was nothing.

Only silence.

His jaw was tight, his breath shallow. He hadn’t stopped moving for hours. Dirt clung to his boots, his cloak was torn at the edges, but he didn’t care.

"Where could he be..." Silas whispered, more to himself than to anyone. "Where...?"

His hands trembled slightly as he gripped his sword. "I told him I would protect him," he muttered, voice low and bitter. "I said I’d keep him safe. Him... and our child. And in the end, I couldn’t even do that."

A sharp breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes for a second, like he was holding something in—grief, fear, or fury.

Behind him, Marcel stood frozen, shoulders trembling. His face was pale, his eyes glassy. He spoke quietly, as if haunted.

"I told him to stay put," he said. "I said I’d bring him something to eat. I thought... I thought if I left for a moment to get him those cakes he was craving... he’d still be there when I came back."

Silas turned to look at Marcel, something cold and sharp rising in his gut.

Marcel’s voice cracked. "I shouldn’t have left him alone. I should’ve stayed..."

And then Silas remembered. His eyes snapped open.

"Cakes," he said quietly.

Elize looked up, confused. "My lord?"

"The baker." Silas turned sharply, fire igniting in his chest. "That damn baker."

"Elize," he said tightly. "The baker. I told you to keep eyes on him. Did you follow up?"

Elize straightened, tense. "Yes, my lord. We did. But... there was no one inside the shop. It was empty when we got there."

Silas’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t ask questions. He ran.

He took off toward the bakery, the thunder of his boots on dirt swallowed by the sound of wind rising behind him. Damon and the others followed without a word.

They reached the building within minutes. The old wooden door creaked open. The familiar scent of baked goods had long faded.

The air inside felt wrong. Hollow.

"SEARCH EVERYTHING," Silas ordered.

Knights scattered. They tore through every room, every corner, every space a body could hide in. The storage room. The attic. The cellar.

Nothing.

Silas stepped through the kitchen slowly, his eyes scanning the walls, the floor, the untouched counter. No signs of a struggle. No scent trails left. No note. No clue.

Only silence.

He stood there in the middle of the bakery, fists clenched, chest heaving.

"Where...?" he whispered.

He looked around—slowly, hopelessly—at the still walls around him, his heart pounding louder than his thoughts.

"Where in the world could he have taken him...?"

And the room had no answer.

Only the sound of Silas’s breath and the relentless ache of not