Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 84: Ruined day

Chapter 84: Ruined day

Count Raymond lingers longer than I’d prefer, dragging me into pointless, inane chatter. I smile, nodding at the right moments, my responses clipped as he drones on about irrelevant nonsense—the weather, his estate, and even the flowers I’m tending to. None of it interests me. I’m far more focused on the rhythmic snip of my scissors as I trim the roses, finding more satisfaction in the clean cuts of the stems than in anything the count has to say. I keep hoping he’ll run out of things to talk about and leave me in peace, but of course, that would be too much to ask.

Then, he pauses, smiling at me in that insincere way he does, as though he’s carefully crafting his next move in whatever game he’s playing.

"Well, I’m glad to see you’re such a reasonable person. I imagine you’ll get along quite well with Oliver."

His words hit me like a sudden jolt of icy water, sending a chill straight down my spine. The scissors in my hand still, and I whip my head around to look at him, narrowing my eyes. There’s something about the way he says it, something casual and calculated all at once. Alarm bells ring loudly in my mind. What the hell does he mean by that?

"What’s that supposed to mean?" My voice comes out sharper than the blades in my hand, tension creeping into every syllable.

Count Raymond’s expression doesn’t shift an inch. If anything, he looks amused, like he’s been waiting for this moment.

"Oh, come now. It’s obvious, isn’t it? You and Oliver will share a husband, after all."

He says it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as though I’m a fool for not expecting this. As though it’s something that should be accepted without question.

Share? The word feels like poison in my veins, burning with anger and disgust. I can practically feel the knot of rage tightening in my chest, winding itself around my heart. I’ve always known Oliver had feelings for Thorne—it wasn’t exactly a well-kept secret. But for Count Raymond to stand here and speak of it so casually, to imply that I should simply step aside and share my husband as though it’s some trivial arrangement—it’s revolting. Insulting. Outrageous.

"I think you’re mistaken, Count," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady, cool. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my anger, even though it simmers just beneath the surface, begging to be let loose.

"There’s no sharing involved. Thorne is mine, and I won’t let anyone come between us."

Count Raymond raises an eyebrow, his condescending expression making my blood boil further. It’s as though he’s looking at a child throwing a tantrum, as though I’m the one who’s ignorant of the way things work. His gaze is patronizing, smug.

And that’s when the thought strikes me.

I could stab myself right now. Just a shallow cut, nothing fatal. Maybe on the arm, or my side. Enough to draw blood, enough to shock him. I could scream, crumple to the ground, accuse him of attacking me. Thorne would come running. He would see the blood, see the horror on my face, and he wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t need proof or an explanation. My alpha would believe me, without a single doubt in his mind. Count Raymond’s word would mean nothing in the face of my accusation. Thorne would kill him in a heartbeat, and it wouldn’t matter what anyone said after that. He would be dead, and I would be free of this smug bastard’s games.

I toy with the idea for a long, terrifying moment. The image of Count Raymond lying in a pool of his own blood plays vividly in my mind. The thought of seeing the life drain from his eyes sends a dark thrill through me, an unfamiliar hunger for violence that coils tightly in my chest. It would be so easy. Just one cut. One scream.

But then, I stop myself. My grip on the scissors loosens slightly as I take a breath, letting the dark thoughts fade. No. Thorne has seen too much violence, too much bloodshed. He doesn’t have many good memories left as it is, and I refuse to add to the weight on his shoulders. Not for this man. Not today.

I force myself to exhale slowly, releasing some of the tension from my body, though my anger still simmers beneath the surface, ever-present. I meet Count Raymond’s gaze again, refusing to let him see the turmoil that just played out in my mind.

"I won’t share my alpha’s affection with another soul,"

I say firmly, my voice steady. "Shouldn’t you, as a father, be looking for another suitor for your son? I’m sure Oliver is very popular."

The count’s expression shifts slightly, but not in the way I’d hoped. His condescension turns to mock sadness, his face an exaggerated mask of woe. "Oh, I’ve tried," he says, his voice dripping with theatrical sorrow. "But you see, the heart can’t be changed at will."

Oh, please. I want to roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my head. The man is clearly trying to paint himself as the victim here, as though Oliver’s unrequited feelings are some tragic love story I’m supposed to sympathize with. As though it’s my problem to deal with.

"Well, that’s going to be awkward," I say, allowing a bit of ice to slip into my voice. "Because as long as I’m alive, I will never share Thorne. He is my alpha. Mine."

The finality in my words seems to land this time, though Count Raymond quickly masks whatever emotion flickers behind his eyes. He gives a shallow nod, clearly not wanting to push any further.

"I suppose no one would want to," he says with a shrug, as if the whole conversation has been nothing more than idle chit-chat. Then, as if we hadn’t just exchanged thinly veiled threats, he smoothly transitions back to small talk, rambling on about the estate and the flowers again as though nothing had happened.

I barely respond, my mind already done with this charade. After what feels like an eternity, Count Raymond finally decides he’s said enough and takes his leave, walking out of the greenhouse with a farewell smile that I want to slap off his face.

*

I sit in front of the mirror, brushing my hair slowly, the rhythmic strokes almost soothing. The moon hangs high in the sky, casting pale light through the window, but it does nothing to calm the growing fire beneath my skin. Thorne still isn’t back. Not yet. I can’t help but feel the weight of his absence even more keenly tonight.

Count Raymond ruined my day.

The longer I sit here, the more the irritation festers, bubbling just below the surface. I glance at my reflection, my green eyes staring back at me. They’re colder than usual, narrowed with frustration I haven’t let out. My grip tightens on the brush, my movements becoming mechanical as I continue, though my mind is elsewhere—trapped in the sharp edges of the conversation with that insufferable man.

My hand moves absently, brushing the same strands over and over again, but it does nothing to smooth the thoughts swirling in my head.

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