Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 171: Defiance

Chapter 171: Defiance

I wake up with a start, my heart racing as panic briefly floods through me. Have I slept too long? Did something happen? The weight of exhaustion is heavy, but instinct kicks in, pushing me upright in bed. I rub at my eyes and blink into the soft glow of lamplight spilling across the room.

I’m alone in the bed.

The emptiness beside me sends a small wave of fear coursing through my veins. My eyes dart around, scanning every corner until they settle on the sofa near the window.

And there they are.

Thorne is lying back, stretched out on the couch, his broad chest rising and falling with the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. Nestled against him is Mimi, her tiny body sprawled on his chest, one hand clutching a fistful of his shirt as if claiming him entirely. Thorne’s large hand is draped protectively over her back, shielding her even in sleep.

I freeze, the sight hitting me square in the chest. It’s as if an arrow has been loosed directly into my heart. For a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do is drink in the scene in front of me.

Mimi’s tiny face is turned toward his neck, her soft, chubby cheeks pressing into his skin. A small patch of drool has soaked into Thorne’s shirt, and instead of looking annoyed or uncomfortable, he looks... peaceful.

I slowly slip out of bed, my bare feet padding silently across the room. Careful not to disturb them, I crouch beside the sofa, close enough to see the soft rise and fall of Mimi’s little body as she breathes. Her raven hair, a stark contrast to her porcelain skin, is mussed, and I gently reach out to smooth it, my hand trembling as I do.

This is the scene I’ve dreamed of for months, clung to through the darkest of nights. A tiny part of me had whispered cruelly that I might never see this—that the three of us together, safe and whole, was just a fantasy. And yet, here they are.

My husband and my daughter. My family.

I blink back tears, the raw emotion threatening to overwhelm me. Thorne shifts slightly, his hand tightening over Mimi’s back as if sensing my presence even in sleep. A soft sigh escapes him, and Mimi makes a tiny noise in response, her lips parting in what looks like a sleepy smile.

I press a hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. This—this is everything I’ve ever wanted, more than I could have dreamed.

But it’s also a reminder of everything we’ve lost.

I rise slowly, my knees creaking in protest, and take one last lingering look at them before turning away. Thorne deserves this rest, and Mimi looks so peaceful in his arms. I’ll let them stay like this a little while longer.

I move quietly to the adjoining bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. My chest still feels tight, a mix of joy and sorrow threatening to spill over, but I force myself to take a steadying breath.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the warm light casting soft shadows across the tiled walls. I fill the tub, watching as the steam rises, curling into the air and filling the room with warmth.

As the water rises, I strip off my clothes, feeling the tension of the last few months weigh heavier with each discarded layer. When I finally sink into the bath, the hot water envelops me like a long-lost friend, and I let out a shaky exhale.

It’s been years since I’ve had a moment like this. A moment to just be. No worries, no rushing, no desperate fight for survival.

I close my eyes and let the water soothe my aching muscles. My mind drifts back to the scene I just left—the sight of Thorne and Mimi. My heart aches with love so fierce it’s almost painful.

***

The room was a mess of shattered glass and scattered papers, the aftermath of the King’s fury. The air was thick with tension, the faint scent of spilled ink mingling with the coppery tang of blood. The ornate desk, crafted from the rarest wood and polished to perfection, now stood bare, its contents strewn across the floor.

At the King’s feet knelt a man, bloodied and trembling, his breathing labored from the weight of his injuries. His once-pristine tunic was now soaked in crimson, the fine embroidery torn and tattered. The man dared not lift his head, his forehead pressed firmly to the cold marble floor as the King loomed over him.

"You promised me you would fucking deal with it!" the King roared, his voice echoing through the expansive office. His face was a mask of unbridled rage, veins bulging at his temples, his usually composed demeanor shattered. He slammed his fist onto the desk again, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap.

The man on the floor flinched but said nothing. What could he say? He had failed, and failure under King Soren’s rule came at a steep price.

The King paced, his boots clicking against the marble with a sharp, staccato rhythm. His mind raced, the memory of those piercing, ice-blue eyes burning into his thoughts.

Those eyes.

For the first time in years, Soren had felt it—a fear so visceral it turned his stomach. The cold, unflinching gaze of that blue eyed man as he stood before him, power radiating off him like an unstoppable force. It wasn’t just the raw telekinetic ability that shook him to his core; it was the intent behind those eyes. He had wanted him dead.

And he hadn’t tried to hide it.

If it weren’t for Remiro’s intervention, Soren had no doubt that he would have been killed. Killed. The very notion made his hands shake with a mixture of anger and lingering dread. In all his years, through countless battles and political games, Soren had never faced a threat like this—one that wasn’t cowed by his title or power.

He stopped pacing, gripping the edge of the desk as he leaned forward, his knuckles white. His breath came in heavy bursts, each exhale laced with fury.

He had looked at him like he was nothing. Less than nothing. The audacity, the sheer gall of it, was a wound to Soren’s pride that festered with each passing moment.

But worse than that...

Noelle didn’t care.

The cold detachment in his nephew’s eyes was haunting. It wasn’t rage, it wasn’t hatred—it was indifference. And that, more than anything, was what enraged Soren to his core.

"How dare he," Soren muttered, his voice low and venomous. "How dare he look at me that way? I am the king! Does he think he can challenge me because of his abilities?"

His voice rose again, his fury unabated. "I will show him otherwise. I will remind him who holds the power in this kingdom!"

The man on the floor shifted slightly, as if attempting to speak, but a sharp glare from Soren silenced him immediately.

Soren straightened, his breathing finally slowing as he forced himself to calm. He had not risen to this position by losing control. Despite being born an illegitimate child, he had clawed his way to the throne with cunning, strength, and ruthlessness.

He turned his back to the kneeling man, his voice eerily calm now. "Clean this mess. And remember this moment as a warning. I do not tolerate failure."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the man rasped, struggling to his feet despite his injuries.

Soren’s gaze turned toward the grand windows of his office, the city sprawling before him under the moonlight. It gleamed like a jewel, his jewel, and every piece of it was his to command.

Noelle thought he could escape him, but he was wrong. Dead wrong. Unlike with Mirelle, there would be no missteps, no second chances. Noelle belonged to him—his blood, his. Whatever it took, Soren would bring him back into the fold.

Not out of love, not out of concern, but because it was his right.

This was Noelle’s penance. His duty. And Soren would ensure that he fulfilled it.

The King allowed himself one final deep breath, his composure fully restored. His lips curled into a smile that held no warmth, only cold determination.

"This is nothing," he whispered to himself, a quiet reassurance to his ego. "I am the King. And no one, not even defies me."

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