CHAPTER 33: A RARE KIND OF TROUBLE

[Rynthall Estate—Night, Silas’s Chamber]

Silas gently placed a fast-asleep Lucien onto the enormous bed like he was laying down the world’s most precious (and potentially dramatic) artifact. Lucien, wrapped in a soft throw, was snoring like a smug baby who’d just won a petty argument before passing out mid-victory.

Silas pulled the blanket up to his chin, stared for a moment at the mess of his black hair, then leaned down and kissed his forehead softly.

He blinked.

Then kissed his left cheek.

Another blink.

Then the right cheek.

Lucien let out a low groan in his sleep, scrunching his nose like a cat refusing belly rubs.

Silas blinked again—this time slower—and hovered over Lucien’s lips like a thief contemplating a heist. He was just about to lean in for the forbidden fruit when—

"Before you start EATING him—why don’t we go finish some work?"

Silas flinched like someone had dumped cold water down his spine.

At the door stood Callen, his ever-efficient and eternally unimpressed assistant, arms crossed, mouth twisted into a flat line of judgment.

Silas slowly turned, staring at him like he’d just found a fly in vintage wine. "Callen," he said, voice dry as the desert. "Why must you insist on haunting my most intimate moments like a romance-hating ghost?"

Callen raised an eyebrow. "Because someone has to protect the public from witnessing the aristocratic duke’s crimes."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "People are right. Singles really are jealous of romance."

Callen’s jaw twitched. "I—You—" He stepped forward with all the dramatic grace of a man personally offended by kisses. "You arrogant, soap-opera-in-a-suit Duke—!"

Silas turned back to Lucien with a long-suffering sigh, brushing back a lock of hair from his fiancé’s forehead. "See that? That’s bitterness talking. Poor man hasn’t touched a hand in three fiscal quarters."

"I can hear you," Callen snapped.

"Good," Silas muttered. "That means your tragic loneliness hasn’t taken your hearing yet."

Callen looked like he was about to combust. He finally marched to the door, grabbed it, flung it wide, and shouted dramatically, "Let’s GO, let’s GO—come along, Duke of Romance and Eternal Delay!"

Silas blinked slowly again—his new signature move—and gave Lucien one last wistful glance. "I’ll return to kiss you properly in a few minutes," he whispered.

Callen gagged loudly from the hallway. "I swear to the Ancients, I’m going to start charging emotional damage fees."

Silas smirked and finally turned, his boots echoing against the marble floor as the two of them began walking down the long corridor. Laughter and warmth lingered behind them—but ahead, the atmosphere shifted. Like flipping a coin. Light gave way to shadow. The scent of rosewood and silk was replaced by stone, steel, and blood.

The hallway grew colder as they descended. Torches flickered, casting jagged shapes on the ancient stone walls. The guards along the corridor stood stiffer. Quieter.

"So," Silas ssaid, hisvoice casual—but with that lethal undertone only the foolish missed. "Did he confess?"

Callen gave a tight nod. "He did. Elize gave him the Third Degree Special. You know—the ’You-breathe-I-stab-you’ treatment. Had him spilling his soul in ten minutes. Then she made him write it down. Twice. In blood and ink."

Silas chuckled. "Charming as always."

"She even made him correct the grammar," Callen muttered, rubbing his temple. "Honestly, that part disturbed me more than the blood."

Silas nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Then..." his smile faded into something sharper, colder, "...now it’s my turn."

Callen glanced at him warily. "Just go easy on him, Your Grace. The Imperial Army wants him alive."

Silas hummed, stepping toward the dungeon gate. "Alive is such a flexible term."

Callen opened his mouth to protest—then thought better of it.

The massive steel doors groaned open.

The dungeon of Rynthall wasn’t some dark cliché—it was worse. Polished stone. Spotless. Sterile. Lit just enough to see what you didn’t want to. The kind of place where pain was administered with clinical precision and no one screamed, because the walls didn’t echo—it absorbed.

In the center of the room, bound to a reinforced obsidian chair with chains that looked far too customized, sat The Baker. The man responsible for killing four pregnant omegas.

The man who had kidnapped Lucien.

His white apron, once pristine, was now stained with dried blood and soot. His eyes were sunken, but his mouth still twitched with the remnants of madness.

When Silas entered, the room grew smaller.

The Baker looked up—face pale, eyes wide, throat working hard to swallow the terror clawing up his spine. "My... Grace... please... I was... I wa—out of my mind... I am... sorry... I—"

Silas didn’t respond immediately.

He walked forward—slow, measured steps that echoed like death bells. The type of steps no one ever wanted to walk toward. He stopped right in front of the man.

And smiled.

Not the kind of smile people return. The kind of smile that makes a man regret ever learning to breathe.

"I heard you’re fond of knives," Silas said softly.

The Baker blinked. "What....do you—?"

Silas drew a blade from his coat. Thin. Clean. Surgical. The steel caught the torchlight and gleamed coldly. He held it up between two fingers, admiring its elegant cruelty.

"I bake too," he murmured, gaze still on the blade. "Mostly threats and nervous breakdowns. But I do enjoy handling ingredients."

The Baker tensed, eyes flicking from the knife to the guards, to Callen—then back to Silas. "M-My Grace... please... you can’t touch me. The Emperor needs me alive."

Silas tilted his head slightly, almost curious. "I am touching you. With my presence. And my disdain. And possibly this blade in the next five minutes—depends how chatty I’m feeling."

He crouched, eye-level now with the man chained to the chair, and spoke with chilling calm.

"You see, I’m a Grand Duke. The King’s blade and you must have heard rumors about me. Which means if I want to pull out your fingernails and bake them into tiny apology muffins—I can. I just have to file a form afterward. In triplicate. Callen loves paperwork."

Callen coughed behind him. "Your Grace..."

Silas didn’t look back. "You kidnapped my omega. My Lucien," he said, voice dipping lower. "You murdered four innocent omegas—pregnant omegas. You ruined lives like they were pastries to cut open and gut."

He paused, something vicious flickering in his crimson eyes.

"And because of you... Lucien was in a coma for ten days. Ten. Days." His fingers twitched once. "Which I consider the gravest offense."

The Baker’s lips trembled. His entire body went stiff, like a rabbit realizing it had been spotted by the wolf.

"I was... I was out of my mind, My Grace... I-I—"

He didn’t get to finish.

Silas’s fist connected with his jaw in a blur—clean, fast, merciless. The man slumped sideways in the chair with a dull grunt, blood trailing down his chin.

Silas stood up slowly, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision. "See? Still alive and weak," he said to Callen without glancing at him. "I’m complying."

Callen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Barely. That’s like handing over a chair after removing one leg and setting the other two on fire."

Silas turned, coat swishing behind him, and began walking toward the dungeon doors. "Good chairs are hard to find. Monsters, on the other hand..."

Behind him, the Baker groaned, half-conscious and bleeding.

Silas stopped at the threshold, glanced back. "Oh—and Callen, remind the Empire’s escort team they’ll need gloves." A beat. "And maybe holy water."

Callen groaned. "I already ordered garlic. Just in case."

Silas arched a brow. "Smart. You’re learning."

But just as he reached for the door, he paused again. The fury hadn’t passed. Not even close. His red eyes gleamed again—this time darker, sharper, crueler.

"Wait...Don’t send him to the Imperial Palace yet."

Callen blinked. "Wait—what? But he’s—"

Silas turned to face him fully now, a storm cloaked in silk and steel.

"He has interest to pay back."

Callen frowned, wary. "Interest?"

Silas’s lips curled—no amusement, just wrath dipped in silk. "He needs to pay for every

pain. Every moment of fear. Every trauma he gave to my omega..." His voice dropped to a growl, "And my child."

The silence that followed was loud.

Callen stared. Then slowly nodded. "Understood."

Without another word, Silas turned and walked out, his coat trailing behind like a royal executioner’s cloak, the scent of rage and justice thick in his wake.

Somewhere behind them, the Baker whimpered again—and even the shadows flinched.

***

[Imperial Palace — Emperor’s Office]

A knock echoed through the chamber.

"Enter," Emperor Adrein Soleil said, not glancing up from the parchment he was signing.

An Imperial Knight strode in, sharp and composed, and bowed deeply before placing a sealed document on the emperor’s desk."The information you requested on Baron Lucien D’Armoire, Your Majesty."

Adrein arched a brow, finally setting his quill down. "About time." He flipped open the file, eyes scanning the contents with practiced ease. "And what’s the update on the Rynthall prisoner?"

The knight cleared his throat. "The Imperial escort team sent to retrieve the serial killer was... returned."

Adrein frowned. "Returned? Why?"

The knight shifted uncomfortably. "Grand Duke Silas sent them back, Your Majesty. His exact words were: ’The killer has interest to pay.’"

There was a pause.

Adrein blinked. "Interest to... What is he, a bank now?"

The knight did not laugh.

Adrein sighed. "Fine. Let him play tax collector with a knife. What about Baron Lucien? Still at Rynthall?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the knight said. "And..." He hesitated.

Adrein narrowed his eyes. "And?"

The knight cleared his throat again. "The Baron... became the next target of the killer."

Silence fell like a blade.

Adrein leaned forward, confused. "But the killer’s victims were all pregnant omegas with black hair. Baron Lucien doesn’t fit the pattern, does he?"

The knight paused.

Adrein looked at him sharply. "Unless..."

A slow, knowing smirk began to form on the emperor’s face.

"Don’t tell me—he is?"

The knight nodded once, gravely. "We believe Baron Lucien is a rare male omega... and appears to be pregnant with Grand Duke Silas’s child."

Adrein stared for a moment, utterly still.

Then he slumped back into his throne with the most undignified laugh he’d allowed himself in months. His eyes gleamed with intrigue as he murmured to himself,

"Looks like we’ve got something here. A rare male omega... now that’s pretty interesting."