Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega Chapter 100: Safe

Norman’s head tilted the barest fraction, like a man who had just been given a new objective and was already calculating tilines. He didn’t look at Rafael directly, but he listened with the attention Shadows reserved for orders that would change the weather.

Gregoris’s gaze stayed on Rafael. "Earlier," he repeated, careful. "Define earlier."

Rafael’s mouth tightened, not with uncertainty, but with that particular brand of decision he always wore like jewelry, unapologetic. "Now."

Gregoris didn’t react the way most people did when soone said ’now.’ He studied Rafael’s face again, the quiet inventory he had started doing without aning to: the pallor that had eased over the last two days, the calm in his eyes, and the fact that he was standing without bracing a hand on anything.

"You are sure," Gregoris said.

Rafael’s laugh was small, almost offended. "Do you think I would have the energy to say that if I wasn’t?"

"I think you have spite," Gregoris corrected.

Rafael’s blue eyes sparked. "And you like it."

Gregoris’s mouth curved slightly, but his tone stayed even. "Yes."

Rafael inhaled slowly, then let it out like he was releasing whatever patience he had left for nobles and their interpretations. "Delphine is implying it’s temporary because we didn’t make it public. That was our mistake."

"It was not a mistake," Gregoris said at once.

Rafael’s gaze cut to him. "It was a priority shift. I know. We didn’t do it because the mont we did, I would’ve been dragged into a hundred appearances while my stomach tried to kill ."

Norman stayed perfectly still, eyes forward, but his fingers hovered near his tablet like he was waiting for the word execute.

Rafael looked at the holo-display, at the neat lines of correspondence, the ridiculously polite offers, and the crests that looked so dignified while acting so ugly, and sothing in him hardened.

"I’m done," he said quietly.

Gregoris’s brow lifted by a milliter. "Done with what?"

"With caring," Rafael replied. He turned slightly, robe sleeve sliding up his wrist, and placed his hand on the edge of the desk as if anchoring himself to his own decision. "With calculating how to be palatable. With letting them fra as a phase you’ll outgrow."

Norman’s eyes flicked, quick and respectful, to Gregoris - as if to confirm that yes, the oga was speaking in front of him like this, and no, the commander wasn’t stopping him.

Gregoris didn’t stop him.

He watched.

Rafael’s voice sharpened. "They want a Duchess? Fine. Give them one. They want legitimacy? Fine. Put it on the feeds in a way even their grandmothers can’t pretend they missed."

Gregoris’s gaze stayed steady, but his hand shifted, resting lightly at Rafael’s hip in silent support.

"And," Rafael added, eyes turning almost cold with satisfaction, "publish the pregnancy too."

Norman’s posture changed, barely, but enough to signal the weight of it. That wasn’t just a rumor-killer. That was a political grenade wrapped with confetti.

Gregoris’s tone remained asured. "Rafael."

Rafael looked at him, chin lifted. "I am not ashad of it."

"I know," Gregoris said, softer. Then, practical again, "But once it’s public, you lose privacy. The press will hunt. Nobles will circle. The palace will try to involve you in appearances."

Rafael’s eyes narrowed. "You are the Shadow commander. I’m going to use the benefits of that."

For a heartbeat, Gregoris simply stared at him.

Then his mouth twitched like sothing amused was fighting to get past discipline. It won.

He laughed.

Not the quiet, restrained sound from earlier. This one had teeth. This one was pure, unfiltered enjoynt, as if Rafael had just handed him a weapon he liked and given him permission to use it.

"You’re learning," Gregoris said, voice warm with it.

Rafael lifted his chin, unimpressed. "Don’t patronize ."

"I am admiring you," Gregoris corrected, and his eyes glead. "There is a difference."

Rafael rolled his eyes with the performance of a man who had never enjoyed being admired in his life, which would have been more convincing if his ears hadn’t ward a shade. "I’m not asking for miracles. I’m asking for a reasonable level of violence."

Gregoris leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm authority, like this was a briefing and not dostic warfare. "Define reasonable."

Rafael’s smile sharpened. "No caras on my face when I leave the manor. No forced palace tea parties. No sympathetic duchesses grabbing my hands and calling ’dear’ while trying to count my nausea by the hour."

Gregoris humd. "Achievable."

"And," Rafael added, eyes narrowing, "if anyone sends another ’candidate’ for your vacant position, I want their na, their family tree, and the exact mont their confidence dies."

Gregoris’s laugh dropped again, low and pleased. "Now you’re speaking my language."

Rafael glanced at him, suspicious. "Don’t enjoy this."

"I do," Gregoris said simply. "You are weaponizing . It’s adorable."

"It is not adorable," Rafael snapped automatically.

Gregoris leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, posture relaxed in a way that was almost unfair, like he could afford to be casual because nothing in the world could touch him without permission. "You’re right," he agreed, eyes bright. "It’s terrifying."

Rafael’s lips parted, then he shut them again, because he refused to be flustered by his own husband.

Gregoris’s gaze dipped to Rafael’s hand still clutching the ginger wrapper. "You want privacy?"

"Yes."

"You want control."

"Yes."

"You want to make Delphine choke on her own implications."

Rafael’s eyes glittered. "If possible."

Gregoris nodded once, as if confirming a tactical plan. Then he reached for his tablet, woke it with a thumbprint, and opened a secure channel.

"Norman," he said.

The reply ca in under a second, the sound soft through the ether dampening. "Commander."

Gregoris didn’t take his eyes off Rafael as he spoke. "The announcent goes out today. Registry feed. Ducal channel. Verified relays only. Comnts locked. Reply vectors muted."

"Yes, Commander."

"And the press list—every outlet, every influencer, every ’independent journalist’ that’s actually funded by a noble house. Filter them. Anyone who tries to approach the manor gets flagged and redirected."

"Understood."

Rafael’s brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

Gregoris saw the expression, and his mouth curved. "You forget," he murmured, "I’ve been terrifying people for a living."

Rafael blinked. "You’re enjoying this too much."

"I am," Gregoris said, and there was absolutely no sha in it. "You’re giving a righteous target and a dostic reason. It’s a rare treat."

He ended the call, set the tablet down, and reached out, catching Rafael by the robe belt and drawing him close enough that their space collapsed into intimacy.

Rafael stiffened out of habit.

Gregoris didn’t let him retreat, but he also didn’t press. He simply held him there, steady, as if reminding Rafael what he could lean on now.

"You’ll get your privacy," Gregoris said. "And you’ll get your announcent."

Rafael searched his face, wary even in comfort. "And the palace?"

Gregoris’s eyes sharpened with a familiar, dangerous delight. "The palace will get a polite ssage informing them that your schedule is non-negotiable while you’re in your first trister."

Rafael’s lips twitched. "You’re going to cite dical protocol."

"I am going to cite imperial security protocol," Gregoris corrected. "dical protocol is optional. Security protocol is law."

Rafael stared at him, then huffed a laugh. "You’re abusing your authority."

Gregoris shrugged, unrepentant. "You’re my husband. I’m allowed."

Rafael’s gaze narrowed. "That’s not how the law works."

"That’s how I work," Gregoris said, and his grin was a brief flash of sothing feral beneath the controlled surface. "Besides, you asked for benefits."

Rafael’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his pride and his relief tangling in a way that made him want to bite sothing.

"You’re having fun," he accused.

Gregoris’s expression softened, but the amusent stayed. "Yes."

Rafael’s eyes flicked away, and he muttered, "Fine. Use your terrifying."

Gregoris’s thumb brushed his waist lightly. "Gladly."

Then, as if he couldn’t resist the last touch of mischief, Gregoris added, almost conversationally, "Now... do you want the announcent to include the word ’beloved’?"

Rafael snapped his head back, scandalized. "No."

Gregoris’s smile widened. "Pity."

Rafael glared. "I will actually vomit on you."

Gregoris laughed again, delighted. "There it is. Excellent reaction."

"Gregoris."

"I’m being honorable," he said, voice warm. "I’m not attacking. I’m rely enjoying the view."

Rafael narrowed his eyes, but his hand, traitor, slid up and caught Gregoris’s sleeve, holding him there anyway, as if routine had already rewritten what he allowed himself.

Outside, the ether grid humd steadily beneath the manor.

Inside, Gregoris looked entirely too pleased to be useful, and Rafael - sick, proud, and furious at the world - found himself safer than he’d ever been.