[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega Chapter 6: The Second Sale

Lucas turned his head slowly. t her eyes.

He could have said sothing sharp. Could have drawn blood with words, the way the court taught him to—late, but thoroughly. He had seven more years of experience than the boy they rembered. Seven years of survival, observation, and silence turned to steel.

He could’ve put them all in their place.

But sothing stopped him.

Not pity. Not restraint.

Caution.

Because for all of Serathine’s elegance, her wealth, her impeccable timing—there was sothing underneath her actions that didn’t quite match the Emperor’s cold efficiency. Sothing far more personal. And far less explained.

He turned slightly, his voice smooth but edged.

"Lady Serathine..."

She raised a hand with a lazy flick of her wrist.

"Sera, for you, my dear."

The room stilled for a heartbeat.

Misty’s eyes flicked between them like a predator sensing a larger one in the room. Ophelia’s smile dimd. Andrew stopped pretending he wasn’t paying attention.

Lucas nodded once, slowly. Testing the shape of it. "Sera."

She smiled—real this ti. Sharp. Satisfied.

"I’ll make the announcent now," she said, rising from her seat.

Lucas blinked.

Misty looked confused. "Announcent?"

Sera tapped her glass gently with her spoon—one clean chi that brought silence like an old spell.

"I’ve decided to adopt Lucas Oz Kilr as my legal ward," she said calmly and clearly. "The paperwork is already signed. The court will receive the formal notice in the morning."

Ophelia gasped.

Andrew muttered a curse.

Misty’s hands clenched into the silk of her gown, her mouth parting—but no words ca.

Lucas said nothing, but he raised his crystal glass effortlessly, joining Sera.

"I wasn’t inford of that. I’m his mother!" Misty snapped, rising with a sharp rustle of fabric as she slamd her hands against the table. The silverware trembled.

The room didn’t.

Sera didn’t even look surprised.

"Sit down, Misty," she said lightly, almost amused. "You’re too old to throw tantrums at dinner."

"I have a right—"

"You had rights," Sera corrected, tone still pleasant. "Then you sold them. Along with your son’s future. You don’t get to raise your voice just because soone else paid a better price."

Ophelia made a small, distressed sound, her gaze darting to Lucas like she expected him to soften.

He didn’t.

"Better price?" Lucas asked, furrowing his brows, his voice deceptively calm.

Serathine didn’t blink. "Well, you see—Misty had already started to search for alphas to sell you to. Quietly, of course. Discreet contracts. Fertility clauses. I’m sure so of the nas would’ve surprised even you."

Misty’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.

"It’s my right as his mother!" she shouted. "It’s my right to keep him safe and make sure he’s with the right alpha. You know how hard it is to protect soone like him?"

Her voice cracked, too loud in a room ant for silk and secrets.

"You think the court would have spared him if I hadn’t kept him hidden? You think they’d have left him alone if I let him be seen too soon? He’s beautiful. Dangerous. Born with blood that makes enemies. I had to make plans!"

Lucas didn’t rise.

Didn’t speak imdiately.

He only stared at her for a long, silent beat—one heartbeat too long.

Then he tilted his head.

"So," he said softly, "you hid to protect , and then tried to sell when it didn’t pay off fast enough."

Misty opened her mouth—closed it.

Her mask cracked, not in tears, but in fury. The kind of fury born of losing control. The kind she used to use behind closed doors, when no one watched and the staff turned their backs.

"How dare you talk like this to your mother?!" Misty hissed, her voice high and shaking, thick with years of entitlent and wounded pride. "After everything I’ve done for you—"

Lucas looked at her. Really looked.

Calm. Cold. Almost curious.

"As far as I rember," he said, "the last thing you did for was collect the money the palace sends every month to raise ."

Misty froze.

Lucas tilted his head, just enough to be unreadable.

"Did you have fun declaring Ophelia’s dresses as my clothes?"

Ophelia flinched like soone slapped her with silk.

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward. It was evidence. Weighty. Witnessed.

Andrew’s hand dropped from his fork.

Serathine said nothing—but her smile widened, slow and precise, like soone watching a courtroom verdict she’d already known was coming.

Misty opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"You ungrateful little—"

Lucas stood.

Not fast. Not angry. Just... done.

"I’m going to change," he said to Serathine, ignoring the others entirely. "Thank you for dinner."

He turned.

And that’s when it happened.

The sound cracked through the air before anyone saw her move. A slap—not light, not performative, but vicious. Misty’s hand, still trembling from the force of it, hung in the space between them.

Lucas’s eyes widened—not from pain, but from sothing colder.

Disbelief.

She had done it.

In Serathine’s house.

In front of witnesses.

With no shadow to hide behind.

His cheek stung, not from the blow itself but from the weight of it. From the way it echoed against the gold and glass walls of a house far above her reach.

The silence was absolute.

Even Ophelia gasped.

Andrew dropped his glass.

Serathine didn’t move. Not at first. She simply inhaled, slow and precise, like she was letting the mont sharpen.

Then she stepped forward once.

"Misty," she said softly, "you just raised your hand against a ward of House D’Argent."

Misty’s mouth opened, but no sound followed.

"You just struck the heir I announced tonight—at my table, in my ho." Her tone never rose. The sheer calm froze the rest in place. "That’s assault against a noble house."

Lucas stood completely still, eyes on the floor, chest tight.

And then—he laughed.

Quiet. Low. Dry as ash.

The slap ant nothing compared to the years that had already carved their mark into him.

Not next to Misty’s jealousy—sharp and seething—when n her age eyed him instead of her, when courtiers whispered about his beauty behind closed fans.

Not next to the nights Christian made him beg, not for affection, but for permission.

Not next to the heat-inducing drugs.

The smile Christian, turned Velloran because of his abuse, wore when he handed Lucas over to another alpha like a gift basket.

He had been used.

Deconstructed.

Repackaged.

Sold.

Again and again.

His body knew it. His mind scread it.

And even now—young, whole, untouched by this tiline’s events—his mory would not let him forget.

Not the sll of silk and sweat.

Not the laughter.

Not the ache between his legs that no physician ever treated.

An ache he could feel in a virgin body, an ache that ca with him after death.

And now Misty had the audacity to strike him like it was new. Like it was now, she lost him.

Lucas lowered his hand from his face, his voice a whisper with razored edges.

"So you chose another alpha?" he asked.

The room held its breath.

His gaze never left hers. "Did you sell twice?"

His voice didn’t rise—but it split the silence.

"Once for D’Argent." He gestured faintly toward Serathine. "Who’s the second buyer, Mother?"