The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist Chapter 16: Protecting Wobblebean

[Rynthall Estate, Next Morning]

The next morning, Rynthall Estate shimred under the bright sunlight, looking every bit the peaceful noble manor — dew-kissed roses blood in the garden, the fountain burbled in elegant rhythm, and birds sang their little courtship songs.

But inside... oh no, inside, it was bedlam.

Maids were whispering frantically in corners, gardeners pretending to trim hedges while eavesdropping, knights holding their swords but not training, and the estate’s top chef nearly burned a goose while leaning into the kitchen door to hear the latest.

"I’m telling you, I heard it from Anna—who heard it from her cousin, who cleans near the council chamber!—he’s still here!"

"You an that Baron?"

"In our lord’s chamber! Can you believe it?!"

Gasps echoed like a broken choir of scandal.

"It’s true! Lord Silas carried him to his chamber after he fainted during the council eting. Carried! Like a princess in a romance novel!"

"Even Dr. Frederick ca out of the room looking pale. And he’s never pale."

"But there’s sothing even weirder," one of the younger maids whispered, glancing around dramatically.

The others leaned in so far they were practically tangled.

"The Baron—yelled at Lord Silas."

Silence.

Pin-drop, heartbeat-stopping silence.

"What?"

"He what?"

"Yelled? At our Grace?"

"And he’s still alive?"

Several maids clutched their aprons, so fanned themselves, and one even whispered a quiet prayer.

"Not only alive," another added in a trembling voice, "but Lord Silas didn’t say a word back."

Mouths dropped open like doors unhinged by a storm. One of the gardeners dropped his shears. Sowhere, a tray of breakfast was dropped and shattered in disbelief.

"I can’t... I can’t believe this."

"Right? Like—he’s gorgeous and all, but still!"

There was a brief silence for a second.

"Anyway..." a maid said cautiously, "I wonder what their relatio—"

And just like that, the wildfire of gossip spread from the west wing to the kitchens, from the stables to the guest rooms. The estate had fallen to whispers.

***

[anwhile at Silas’s Office]

anwhile, in the east wing at Silas’s office, chaos of another flavor brewed.

Silas, the deadly, dignified, and absolutely fed-up King’s Blade, was muttering under his breath like a man betrayed by his own house.

"Why... won’t he let in my own damn chamber?" he grumbled, arms crossed, face stormy.

A full minute passed.

"It’s my chamber," he mumbled again, this ti with more indignation. "He’s in my bed. With my pillows. Under my expensive sheets. And he kicked out."

Elize and Callen stood silently across from him, exchanging glances like two soldiers watching their general slowly spiral.

"What is he even thinking?" Elize whispered to Callen.

Then—

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, MY LORD?!" Callen’s voice cracked across the silence like a slap.

Elize froze. Silas blinked.

Callen wasn’t done.

"HOW—and I ask with utmost respect—HOW can you just... just... recklessly spend a night with so random oga in heat and—AND—make him pregnant?!"

Silas didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Still deep in thought.

Still brooding.

Still very much not answering that particular question.

"...Right. He is pregnant," Silas finally mumbled, almost to himself. "They say people have mood swings during pregnancy..."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Is that why he’s acting like this? Mood swings?"

Then Callen added, tone shifting into serious concern: "Are you even sure it’s your child?!"

Everything stopped. The birds. The wind. The earth. Yeah...everything.

Silas’s crimson eyes turned slowly toward Callen like a predator locking onto prey.

"What did you just say?"

"I— I an..." Callen stumbled, "You can’t just trust soone who goes into heat at a party! What if he’s lying? What if he’s—"

"UTTER ONE MORE WORD, CALLEN, AND I WILL KILL YOU RIGHT HERE WITH A SPOON."

Callen flinched—but stubborn as ever, he didn’t back down.

"I didn’t an to offend! I’m just—just stating facts!"

Silas’s eyes were still fixed on him like twin blazing daggers, unmoving, unreadable—lethal.

"Do you think I don’t rember what happened that night? Or...you think I am a fool?"

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Before blood could be spilled—or bones broken—Elize, dear, long-suffering Elize, stepped between them like a goddess of peace ard with only exhaustion and impeccable timing.

Hands raised. Calm but firm.

"Gentlen. Please. Can we not start the day with a murder? Just this once?"

She let out a long sigh, rubbing her temples like a woman who deserved at least three days of uninterrupted sleep.

"This entire situation is already... a disaster. But there’s sothing even more pressing we need to deal with."

Both n turned to her. Silas’s glare eased just a fraction. Callen looked grateful to be alive.

Elize continued, her voice low and asured, like she was defusing a ticking bomb:

"The killer is still out there. And if word gets out that Baron Lucien—who, might I remind you, is a rare male oga capable of pregnancy—is carrying a child..."

She paused, letting the weight of that hang in the air.

"...well, that would make him a glowing, vulnerable, very fertile target. Like putting a crown jewel on a silver platter and waving it in front of a madman."

Callen blinked. Silas’s gaze finally snapped into focus. The fire dulled—but didn’t vanish.

Elize pressed on, choosing every word with care.

"So. I’d like to suggest—strongly—that we delay any talk of marriage. Just until we catch the bastard who’s been taking the lives of black-haired pregnant ogas like it’s nothing."

Silas didn’t respond. His jaw tightened, muscles ticking in his cheek. Thinking. Calculating.

Then Callen—because of course he couldn’t shut up—muttered under his breath,

"Also... Like... we don’t even know if Baron Lucien wants to marry you? He did kick you out after all..."

Silas turned to him.

Slowly.

With the silent nace of a man who’d killed people for less.

"Would you... like to serve His Majesty directly, Callen?"

Callen went pale. Flinched again.

"N-no, my lord."

"Good."

Silas turned back to the window. Outside, the sun bathed the Rynthall Estate in gold. Inside, however, war brewed quietly.

Elize was right. He knew it.

Lucien—and the child he carried—had to be protected. Silas muttered under his breath, "If that bastard cos near him, I’ll cut him down myself."

He wasn’t about to take any chances.

Not now.

Not when it mattered most.

***

[The Chamber of Doom (a.k.a. Silas Rynthall’s Room)]

Inside Silas Rynthall’s chamber—currently hijacked by one very exhausted, very hormonal Oga—a gloomy silence filled the room like thick fog.

Lucien lay sprawled dramatically across Silas’s absurdly expensive bed, looking every bit like a ghost of noble scandal past. His eyes stared blankly at the canopy, one hand flopped limply over his forehead like he was auditioning for a tragic opera.

Next to him, perched on the edge of the bed like a man who had long since given up on joy, sat Marcel—his ever-faithful butler and now, unwilling midwife-in-training. Marcel looked like soone had wrung out his soul, hung it to dry, and then made him iron it.

Still, duty was duty.

Lucien opened his mouth like a baby bird, still without moving a muscle.

Plop.

Grape in.

A long silence followed.

Then, in perfect synchronization—no cue, no rehearsal—they both sighed. Long, dramatic, exhausted sighs.

"...So," Marcel said finally, with the tone of a man who had given up on life, "he’s the father."

Lucien slowly turned his head to look at Marcel, his gaze hollow, haunted.

They stared at each other.

Another sigh. In unison. As if it were part of a ritual.

"...Grape," Lucien said weakly, one hand erging from beneath the blankets like a ghost asking for one final favor.

Marcel wordlessly obliged. Another grape. Another plop.

"...How did this happen?" Marcel asked the ceiling, more to the universe than to Lucien.

Lucien blinked slowly. "I think... I tripped. And fell. On a dick—I an—Duke. In heat."

Marcel paused. Considered responding. Thought better of it. Gave him another grape.

Silence again.

Lucien sniffed. "Do you think my ankles are swelling?"

"You haven’t moved in two hours."

"I think they’re swelling from emotional betrayal."

Marcel nodded solemnly. "That’s the worst kind of inflammation."

Another grape.

Lucien closed his eyes. "Do you think if I pretend I’m in a coma, they’ll leave alone for the next nine months?"

Marcel, very seriously: "If you stop talking, it might be convincing."

Lucien cracked one eye open and gave him a narrow glare.

Marcel, entirely unfazed, gave him a grape.

Lucien chewed in silence.

Then, after a long pause, Marcel asked, "Why exactly are we still here and not fleeing to the countryside, my lord?"

Lucien sighed. "Because there’s a killer roaming around, and I don’t want to risk losing my Wobblebean, obviously."

Marcel blinked. "Wobble...bean?"

Lucien glared. "Yes. Wobblebean. That’s what I’m calling the baby."

Marcel looked personally offended. "Can we please reconsider our soon-to-be-next-lord’s nickna? Sothing a little less... vegetable adjacent?"

Lucien scoffed. "It’s my baby. I can na him anything I want. Wobblebean stays."

Marcel stared at him, defeated. Then he fed him another grape.

Then, quietly—like the question had snuck up on him: "...Do you think he actually wants the baby?"

Marcel paused mid-reach, the next grape forgotten. "Do you?"

Lucien didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t hear. But because he’d never really asked himself that.

All he knew was that the mont he realized he was pregnant, sothing inside him had shifted—sothing soft and fierce and terrifying. He just... wanted the baby safe. Wanted to keep it close. Wanted to protect it like it was already the most important thing in the world.

But wanting it? Wanting it for himself?

He didn’t know.

And that silence said more than any answer could.