Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega Chapter 136: Blackmail

Layle closed the folder with care, like it was a living thing that might lash out if handled wrong, and slid it under his arm. His jacket followed, draped over his forearm again, sleeves still rolled, the heir refusing to let grief or exhaustion turn him into sothing soft.

At the doorway he paused.

Rafael looked up from the couch, jaw tight, eyes still burning with the residue of Delphine’s na on paper.

Layle’s expression shifted into sothing almost gentle. Almost. "I’ll keep you updated," he said, his voice practical in the way he always got when it mattered.

Rafael’s throat worked once. "Don’t do anything reckless."

Layle’s mouth twitched. "I’m incapable."

Gregoris didn’t smile, but his gaze narrowed. "Two guards," he said.

Layle flicked his eyes to him. "Discreet."

Gregoris’s answer was imdiate. "Whose n do you think they are? They are more than capable of being both invisible and discreet."

Layle accepted that with the smallest nod, like he understood the language of weapons even if he preferred paperwork.

Then he looked back at Rafael, and the mischief tried to surface, one last joke as a shield.

It didn’t fully make it.

"Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone," Layle said instead.

Rafael’s glare was automatic. "Go."

Layle’s smile softened. "I’ll be back."

The door shut.

Gregoris barely waited for the sound to settle before he crossed the distance like he’d been on a chain the entire ti and soone had finally unhooked it.

Rafael’s breath hitched, and then Gregoris’s arms were around him, firm and warm and unreasonably careful for a man who could snap a neck with his hands and sign orders that moved armies.

Rafael’s palms went to Gregoris’s chest on reflex, a token resistance that didn’t go anywhere. "Greg—"

Gregoris pulled him closer.

A private kind of possessiveness that felt almost childish in its bluntness, like Gregoris’s entire body had decided that he wanted his mate back.

Rafael went still.

He could feel it then, under all the muscle and controlled violence... sothing tight. Sothing sulking.

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to see Gregoris’s face.

Gregoris looked like a beast soone had forced to sit through a council eting. His mouth was set in a line. His eyes were dark and offended. His brow was faintly drawn, as if the universe had personally wronged him.

Rafael stared.

Then, because Rafael had always had the worst timing for realization, it clicked.

This dangerous man - this dominant alpha with an army at his fingertips, this Shadow commander, this Emperor’s hound... was pouting.

Because their morning had been interrupted.

Rafael’s lips twitched before he could stop them. "Are you... upset?"

Gregoris’s arms tightened.

Rafael blinked. "That’s not an answer."

Gregoris’s gaze dropped to Rafael’s mouth for half a second, like it had unfinished business there. Then it returned to his eyes, steady and stubborn. "You left."

"I went to talk to my brother about inheritance clauses," Rafael said flatly.

Gregoris’s jaw flexed. "You left."

Rafael exhaled sharply, half in disbelief, half filled with a fond rage that made him want to throw sothing and kiss soone at the sa ti. "You are acting like a wronged spouse."

Gregoris didn’t deny it.

That, sohow, was worse.

Rafael leaned back just enough to look at him properly, hands still on Gregoris’s chest. "We are in the middle of a legal war with my dead mother’s paperwork."

Gregoris’s expression didn’t move. "And you were mine."

Rafael’s cheeks heated. "I am still..."

Gregoris lowered his head and pressed his forehead to Rafael’s temple, a slow, deliberate nudge like an animal insisting on contact. "The morning was ours," he murmured.

Rafael froze.

Because the words were ridiculous.

And because the ache that responded in his chest was not.

He swallowed, then forced himself into dryness like it could save him. "You’re sulking."

Gregoris’s breath ward his skin. "I’m waiting."

"For what?" Rafael demanded, already knowing he’d regret asking.

Gregoris lifted his head. His eyes were calm, serious, and absolutely offended at life.

"For you to be done," he said. "You know... I could finish this entire charade in less than two hours."

Of course he could. He said it like he was offering to fix a squeaky hinge, not dismantle a man’s life with quiet precision and leave the pieces arranged neatly enough for the court to applaud.

Rafael sighed. Then he rose onto his toes and kissed the disgruntled beast - slow enough to make a point, brief enough to keep it from turning into an argunt they’d both lose.

"Let Layle feel useful," Rafael murmured against his mouth, "and let’s have a late lunch in our sitting room."

Gregoris’s arms tightened, satisfied. The pout didn’t vanish, but it shifted - less offended, more possessive. Like he was accepting a delay only because Rafael had labeled it ours.

"You want lunch," he repeated, as if testing the word.

"I want food," Rafael corrected. "And quiet. And for you to stop looking like you’re planning an execution between bites."

"I can do all of those things," Gregoris said. The fact he didn’t specify the order was... concerning.

Rafael’s hand slid to the back of Gregoris’s neck, fingers pressing lightly, a reminder that he was allowed to be held but not allowed to be unleashed. "Lunch," he repeated.

Gregoris’s gaze tracked the movent of Rafael’s hand like it mattered more than the entire Rosenroth estate. Then he nodded once, slowly. "Fine."

Rafael blinked. "Fine?"

"It will be late," Gregoris said, as if he was granting permission. "And it will be ours."

Rafael rolled his eyes, but his body ward anyway. "You’re ridiculous."

Gregoris leaned in, the barest hint of satisfaction in his expression. "And you’re hungry."

"That’s not the insult you think it is."

Gregoris’s thumb brushed Rafael’s waist, possessive but gentle. "I’ll have Peter bring food." He dipped his head and brushed Rafael’s neck with his lips, a soft contact that still felt like a claim in private. "What do you want to eat?"

Rafael’s breath caught, not from the kiss, but from the timing of the question, from how normal Gregoris could sound while the world tried to reach for them through ink and ether.

"Anything," Rafael said, his voice quieter than he intended. "The baby isn’t fussing anymore if..." He hesitated, then added, like it was an operational update. "If I eat dessert too."

Gregoris went still.

Not in a dramatic way. In that terrifying, predator-still way, it was like every sense he had snapped to one point.

His eyes lifted to Rafael’s face, calm on the surface, but sothing hot and startled moving underneath.

"Dessert," he repeated.

Rafael’s mouth tightened. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?" Gregoris asked, and there was a faint edge to it. "Make sure you eat?"

Rafael huffed. "Make it a thing."

Gregoris’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to Rafael’s stomach, the instinctive flick of a man whose world had narrowed to a single fragile truth.

Then his hand spread more fully over Rafael’s waist, as if he could shield the future with his palm.

"The baby fussed," he said quietly.

Rafael rolled his eyes because if he didn’t, he’d feel the softness threatening to crack him open. "Yes. Because the baby is rude."

Gregoris’s mouth twitched, almost. "The baby is practical."

"The baby is blackmail," Rafael corrected.

Gregoris leaned closer again, breath warm against Rafael’s skin, voice lower. "Then we comply."

Rafael blinked. "You’re agreeing with blackmail."

"I am agreeing with you eating," Gregoris said simply, and it sounded like an order and a promise at the sa ti. "You forget who the other father is. At this point is inheritance."

Rafael’s cheeks ward. "Fine. Soup. Sothing with salt. Bread. And... whatever dessert Peter doesn’t make look like a moral failing."