Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 151: Son of the year

Chapter 151: Son of the year

"Have the cup of tea," Celia says, placing the steaming cup in front of me with a delicate clink. Her movements are precise, practiced, and overly gentle, the way one might handle a wounded animal. She’s been acting like this more and more lately—extra motherly, almost smothering—and it’s hard not to notice. I narrow my eyes slightly, suspicious. What exactly is she up to?

It’s been a month since I arrived in the capital, and the restlessness in my bones hasn’t faded, not even a little. If anything, it’s only grown sharper, more suffocating. The knowledge that Noelle is somewhere nearby makes it worse, makes the air feel tighter, like I’m standing on the edge of a knife. I’m supposed to be patient, to focus on my duties, but how can I when the one thing I’ve been searching for feels so painfully close?

From the corner of my eye, I catch the twins lurking nearby. They’re watching us, wide-eyed and curious, whispering to each other like conspirators. I know they’re itching to come over, maybe hoping to get a closer look at the infamous, brooding brother. I sigh heavily and take a sip of the tea. It’s hot, bitter, and does little to calm the storm inside me.

"You look tense," Celia remarks, her voice annoyingly pleasant. The kind of pleasant that makes me want to throw something.

"I’m always tense," I answer flatly, setting the cup down with more force than necessary. My patience is stretched thin today, a hair’s breadth away from snapping.

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Don’t be so scary. The twins can’t even muster the courage to come over and introduce themselves like this."

I huff out a humorless laugh. "They’re fifteen, Celia. At fifteen, I was on the battlefield. If they can’t handle me scowling, they won’t survive the real world." My voice is harsh, clipped, but it’s the truth. At their age, I’d already seen blood, death, and betrayal. I refuse to coddle anyone.

Celia folds her arms, her gaze hardening. "Brooding like this won’t make you find your omega any sooner, you know." Her tone is sharp, cutting into me with startling accuracy. The mention of Noelle sends a pang through me, a wound that hasn’t healed, and I clench my jaw.

"Celia." Her name comes out as a low, dangerous warning, a barely restrained growl that has her stiffening slightly. She knows she crossed a line. We both know it.

Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she ducks her head.

"I apologize," she mumbles, her voice softer now. Even she knows that some subjects are too painful, too raw to touch. But the damage is done, the ache in my chest a dull throb.

I don’t respond, because honestly, there’s nothing left to say. We sit in silence, the tea between us growing cold.

"I hope you find them. Truly, I do. All things considered, that’s my first grandchild," Celia says, her voice carrying a mixture of hope and sorrow. She stands up slowly, smoothing her dress as if she needs to regain her composure. I don’t stop her as she leaves. There are no words left to offer her, not when my own heart is weighed down with grief and longing.

I take another sip, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe me.

"Can you give her a break?" a voice interrupts, sharp and uninvited. I sigh, the sound escaping me in a rush of exhaustion. I don’t have the energy for this. Without looking up, I recognize the intruder: Duke Remiro junior,now standing tall and confrontational in front of me. He has tan, light brown skin, striking white hair, and eyes like shards of ice—pale blue, almost grey. Annoyingly handsome. His name is... Carl? Kyle? No, that doesn’t seem right. It’s Doyle.

"Listen, Kyle—" I start, hoping to dismiss him as quickly as possible, but he cuts me off.

"It’s Callan," he corrects me, glaring like I’ve just insulted his entire family line. Ah. Right. Guess I was way off.

"Callan," I say, forcing the name through clenched teeth. "Forgive me if I’m not in the mood to play family games with the Remiros. My omega and daughter are missing. I’ve never even held my daughter." My voice comes out rough, pain creeping into my words despite my best efforts to keep it buried. "So, no. I’m not feeling particularly jolly."

"She’s trying, Thorne," Callan insists, his voice tinged with a desperation I can’t bring myself to care about. I can see the way his jaw clenches, how fiercely he wants to defend her. It’s almost admirable, in a way. Celia must have become an incredible stepmother for him to plead her case like this. When we just met Callan hated me. All because of the Remiro family heirloom ring I wear—something that was never meant for me but given by the Duke himself. Glad we’re over that drama but his determination to earn the title of "Son of the Year" for Celia is grating, to say the least.

"It’s going to be rude if I say this, but I don’t care," I mutter, shutting down the conversation with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

Callan’s jaw tightens, his icy eyes narrowing in frustration. For a moment, I think he might lash out or say something brash, but he takes a steadying breath instead.

"We’re all trying to find them, Thorne. We’re not just standing around, waiting. Celia, my father, the entire Remiro family—we’re working day and night. You’re not alone in this." Callan says.

At his words, I bristle, every muscle in my body going taut. I push myself to my feet, coming face-to-face with Callan. The sudden movement catches him off guard, and he stiffens, but he doesn’t back down. For a moment, the air feels stifling, the tension between us coiled like a spring ready to snap.

"Oh dear," I mock, my voice dropping to a menacing growl. "What should I do? Applaud you for your effort? I never asked for your help."

"The only way you’d be right to say I’m not alone in this," I continue, my voice low and venomous, "is if your pregnant wife went missing too. Then—maybe—you’d understand a fraction of this feeling."

Callan visibly recoils, his tan complexion paling slightly. The image I’ve forced on him is one he clearly hadn’t considered, and it hits its mark like a dagger. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, just a shocked silence. The arrogance he carried earlier slips away, leaving something vulnerable behind.

"You didn’t picture that, did you?" I press, my tone slicing through the air. "I care not for your hypocritical comforts." Without waiting for a reply, I turn on my heel and walk away.

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