Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 167: Little mistress

Chapter 167: Little mistress

The carriage ride was steeped in heavy, awkward silence, the weight of the night pressing on each of them. The events they had witnessed—the violence, Thorne’s raw fury, and the upending of the social order—had left them each with their own tangled thoughts.

Celia, unable to bear the silence any longer, spoke up, her voice low and hesitant. "Your son, huh?" She tried to sound casual, but the question carried a tremble, betraying her conflicted emotions.

Duke Remiro glanced at his wife, then let out a soft, almost tired chuckle. He reached over and took her hands in his, the warmth of his touch a grounding presence. "If Callan is your son," he said, voice gentle yet resolute, "then Thorne is mine, too."

Seated across from them, Callan leaned forward, his own expression solemn. "He’s right, Celia," he said, his tone filled with sincerity. "I feel guilty, too. You were with me when Thorne needed someone... but maybe now we can make it up to him." His words were a quiet reassurance, a small offering to mend the unspoken wounds they all carried.

Celia’s lips quivered, and she swallowed back the rising lump in her throat. The woman who had raised Callan and come to love him as her own felt the sting of past mistakes. Yet here he was, the boy she had given so much of her heart to, comforting her. Callan had never called her "mother," but she knew it didn’t make her any less of one. The bond they shared had been built over years of love, care, and sacrifice.

Tears welled in Celia’s eyes, and she gripped Callan’s hand. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking. The weight of her emotions, of the years spent trying to hold their fractured family together, spilled out in those two simple words.

Callan exhaled deeply, his fingers raking through his hair as he tried to process the whirlwind of events. "I’m just... stunned," he murmured. "Who would have thought Thorne’s omega had been taken by the king himself?" His mind raced with the implications, the sheer audacity of the situation, and the chaos it was bound to unleash.

Celia’s face darkened, memories of the past flashing through her mind. "The king’s obsession is dangerous," she said, her voice steady but filled with unease. "He doesn’t let go easily. I remember how he was back when Princess Mirelle fled the kingdom... his wrath was unrelenting."

Duke Remiro listened to his wife and son with a grave expression, then leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "That’s where we come in," he said, his tone heavy with responsibility. "Or rather, where I come in." His gaze flickered to Callan and Celia. "I have to. Blood has already been spilled today, and knowing Thorne’s temper, more will follow if we don’t act."

He paused, his jaw tightening. "I’ll do whatever I can to smooth things over with the king. The last thing I want is for our home to turn into a battlefield." He glanced meaningfully at Celia, and then at Callan, the unspoken weight of his words sinking in. It had been a close call tonight. Had he not intervened, the banquet hall would have descended into a civil war, a catastrophic clash between power and rage.

No one spoke for a moment, the enormity of it all settling around them like a suffocating fog. They knew Remiro was right. The fragile peace they had clung to would have shattered if he hadn’t stepped in, and the kingdom itself would have been drenched in blood.

***

Roman stood by the cradle, his arms folded awkwardly as he gazed at the sleeping toddler. She was tiny, delicate, and peaceful—so unlike anything he’d expected from Thorne’s offspring. Thorne’s child. The thought alone was jarring. He felt out of place, like a hulking shadow looming over something too pure for the likes of him.

Leona, as always, had vanished into the shadows, blending seamlessly with the room’s dim lighting. Roman didn’t even bother trying to track her; she’d reappear when she wanted to. His gaze flicked briefly to Mona, who was seated on the bed with Ben wrapped in a tight embrace. The large, scarred man still looked worn, but not nearly as skeletal as when they’d found him. The sight of the siblings reunited, whispering quietly to each other, stirred something in Roman he wasn’t prepared to face.

But none of that held his attention for long. It always came back to her—the little mistress.

She was a vision, even in sleep, with Noelle’s ethereal beauty softened into a child’s cherubic features and Thorne’s intense, all-consuming gaze shining through even in repose. Her tiny chest rose and fell steadily, oblivious to the turmoil she’d been born into. Roman felt a strange mix of awe and trepidation. She was hope and fragility incarnate, and he felt wholly unworthy to even stand in her presence.

If anyone had told him years ago that he, Roman—the crimson general’s most trusted sentinel—would one day be staring at Thorne’s child with something akin to reverence, he would have laughed them out of the room. Back then, he’d been sure they were all destined to die violent, bloody deaths and rot in the depths of hell for their sins. They deserved it, didn’t they? Their hands were drenched in blood, their souls blackened by the lives they’d taken, the lack of guilt despite the amount of blood on their hands, they’d been monsters, they are monsters forged in the fires of war and vengeance. Only Victor had a semblance of humanity in him, he was probably around somewhere being family man of the year, Roman thought with a scoff.

His fingers twitched at his sides, the urge to poke the baby’s chubby cheek almost overwhelming. But he held back. She’s too pure, too good for my touch. He resigned himself to simply standing there like an awkward, overprotective sentinel—watching, marveling, and silently vowing to do everything in his power to keep her safe.

Roman snorted softly to himself, shaking his head. This kid was going to be the most spoiled child in history. Of that, he was certain. And he had no illusions about his own role in that. He’d contribute to her being utterly and unapologetically doted on, no question. Anything she wanted, she’d have it. He’d make damn sure of that.

But as he looked at the sleeping child, another realization dawned on him—Thorne was going to calm down. He already had, but Roman knew it would only deepen. The once-untouchable crimson general, the man whose rage could burn entire kingdoms, would soften. Not entirely, of course—Thorne was still Thorne. But the fire that had fueled him would dim, replaced by something else. Something gentler. Something stronger.

Which meant Roman’s job might just get a whole lot easier. Maybe he’d finally have time to pursue his own interests.

His lips curved into a mischievous grin as his thoughts wandered. There was a certain omega who’d caught his eye—the one with dark circles under his eyes, a sharp tongue, and an unhealthy obsession with poisons. Roman could already imagine the challenge of breaking through that icy exterior. But hey, if Thorne could find happiness, maybe Roman could too.

"Maybe," he muttered to himself, glancing back at the child with a faint smirk. "But first, let’s make sure your dad doesn’t burn the world down in the meantime, little one."

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