The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist
Chapter 38: Soup Dates and Sword Fights

Chapter 38: Soup Dates and Sword Fights

[Imperial Palace—Private Bathing Chambers, Morning Drizzle]

The imperial bath was, objectively speaking, more ridiculous than any bathtub had a right to be.

It wasn’t a tub—it was a pool carved from shimmering moonstone, large enough to host a small musical. Tiny golden koi fish swam lazily through warm, lavender-scented water, like unpaid extras in a royal spa commercial. Rose petals floated on the surface, looking confused about their purpose.

In the center of all this luxury...

Lucien slept.

Floating.

Half-draped on the smooth edge of the tub, like a very elegant drowned poet. His head lolled gently to the side, dark curls damp and sticking to his cheek. Both of his hands rested lightly on his belly—his favorite sleeping position lately, as if protecting a barely-there secret from an invisible draft.

Tiny bubbles popped around him in leisurely intervals.

A baby duckling (where did that come from?) paddled past his elbow with the attitude of someone who owned the palace.

Lucien sighed in his sleep, a little hum escaping his lips. His foot bobbed up above the water, then dipped back down. Somewhere deep in his dreams, he was probably yelling at Silas for trying to feed him spicy turnip noodles at 2am.

He looked—

Peaceful.

Glowing, even.

Not glowing in the mystical-omega-aura way, but more in the "this lighting was designed to flatter hormonal skin" way.

Then—

A quiet creak at the door. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. A familiar silhouette leaning against the marble entrance, arms crossed.

Silas blinked once.

Twice.

Then tilted his head, took in the whole scene—the koi fish, the duckling, the barely floating beauty in the middle—and whispered softly, with the kind of smile that stretched all the way into his ribs:

"Hah... I can’t wait to marry him."

The duckling quacked in protest. Possibly about the wedding caterer.

Silas took that as a yes.

He padded across the misty floor, his boots silent, and came to kneel beside the tub. His sharp features softened, eyes tracing the shape of Lucien’s relaxed mouth, his fluttering lashes, and the gentle swell of his belly beneath his palms.

"You’ll wrinkle if you sleep in here, you know," he murmured, reaching out to brush a drooping curl from Lucien’s forehead.

Lucien didn’t wake.

But he did mumble something into the water.

Silas leaned in closer, like he was catching a state secret.

"...seaweed waffles... illegal... Artemis’s eyebrows..."

Silas blinked. "Huh."

Lucien’s brow furrowed slightly. Then one hand gave a slow, comforting pat to his stomach, like he was reassuring the wobblebean inside that no, darling, no seaweed waffles today. The duckling quacked again, paddling closer. Drama was unfolding, and it wanted a front-row seat.

Silas chuckled. Then, without a word, he slid one arm beneath Lucien’s knees and the other behind his back—and lifted him gently out of the bath like he weighed nothing more than the flowers he slept in.

That motion made Lucien blink, slow and confused, eyes fluttering open.

"...Silas?" he whispered, still only halfway inside the world of the living. He looked around blearily. Then down at himself. Then up at Silas. "Wait. Did I—did I fall asleep while bathing?"

Silas smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging upward with dangerous fondness. "Yes, my love. You absolutely did."

Lucien made a little embarrassed sound in his throat, hiding his face in Silas’s shoulder. "Ughhh. I am a soggy mess."

"You are my soggy mess," Silas corrected proudly, as he effortlessly scooped him up into his arms.

Lucien half-heartedly protested, flopping in his grip like an exhausted sea otter. "Put me down, Silas. I can walk..."

But Silas had already started deploying the face. That goddamn, sparkly-eyed, kicked-puppy, please-let-me-carry-you-I-live-for-this expression.

Lucien squinted at him. "No. Stop that. I know what you’re doing. Don’t sparkle at me—Silas!—I’m serious—"

Too late.

The glittery sparkles had already hit. One. Two. Three. Like shoujo manga stars. Right in the face.

Lucien groaned. "Ugh. Fine! Do whatever you want, you glitter-bomb of a man."

Silas beamed. Like he’d just won a small war. He carried Lucien out of the bath, bridal-style, steam still clinging to his skin. The duckling watched them leave like it was filing a report.

Gently, Silas laid him on the plush velvet bed and grabbed a thick towel. Lucien let his limbs flop dramatically, arms splayed like a fainting prince.

He began rubbing Lucien’s curls with slow, practiced movements, releasing just a thread of his alpha pheromones into the air.

Subtle. Warm. Calming.

The exact amount Dr. Faylen and Frederick had insisted upon during one of their eighty-seven royal wellness checkups. (Silas was still recovering from the "hydration lecture" alone.)

Lucien’s nose twitched.

Then again.

Then he melted forward like an enchanted marshmallow and buried his face into Silas’s chest with a groggy whimper.

"You really smell soooo goooood," he moaned into the expensive embroidery of Silas’s tunic. "Like... like a deep ocean. But sexy."

Silas chuckled, low and fond. "Is that a compliment?"

Lucien gave a muffled nod. "Mmhmm. Don’t stop. I’m emotionally pregnant."

"That’s not a real term."

"It is now. Respect the condition."

Silas shook his head with an amused sigh and continued drying Lucien’s hair like he was preparing a sacred fluffball for display. Lucien purred. Literally purred. He was this close to falling asleep again when—

KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Lucien?" came a voice through the door. Elegant. Familiar. Slightly terrifying.

The Empress.

Lucien shot up like he’d been tasered.

"OH GOD. SHE’S HERE."

He shoved Silas off him with the strength of divine betrayal. Silas, caught off guard, actually toppled back onto the bed with an oof, towel flying like a flag of surrender.

Lucien leapt to his feet—robe flying, dignity abandoned—and scrambled into a fresh outfit. In under five seconds, he had transformed from half-drowned towel goblin to radiant imperial sunflower. His cheeks were still a little pink, but now it just looked like he’d glowed that way on purpose.

He flung open the door dramatically, like the protagonist of a soap opera mid-reunion.

"Elise!" he gasped. "Did you wait too long?!"

The empress blinked. "No, I just got here—"

Lucien clutched her hand like they’d been separated in a past life by war and plague. "I’m so sorry, I was dealing with..." he paused, glanced back once at Silas sprawled on the bed in a confused pile of towel and betrayal, "...domestic interruptions."

Elise looked amused but said nothing. "Come. I ordered something delicious for us. Chef Lenn prepared a delicious soup. The one that smells like cinnamon but tastes like sin."

Lucien lit up like a chandelier. "You angel."

And just like that, the two pregnant besties—one glowing like moonlight, the other like wrathful sunshine—linked arms and glided down the corridor. Not a look spared. Not a backward glance.

They were gone.

And Silas?

Silas remained motionless on the edge of the bed, mouth slightly open, hair damp, holding the towel like it was the only stable thing in his life.

He blinked.

Twice.

And then... his expression slowly changed. The confusion melted away. His eyes narrowed. Darkened. A dangerous gleam sparked behind his lashes like the slow ignition of a long-burning grudge.

"That bastard Adrien..." he mumbled.

Without another word, Silas stood, grabbed his sword from the wall like a man preparing for a revenge musical, and stormed out of the room.

***

[Imperial Training Grounds – Seconds Later]

Adrien, Emperor of the Realm, was mid-sword swing—sweating, focused, deadly graceful.

Until—

"YOU BASTAAARD!!!"

A sword clanked to the ground in front of him like punctuation.

Adrien blinked. "What."

Silas was already stomping across the field, cloak billowing, towel still somehow draped over his shoulder like a warrior monk who had just come from a bath and a betrayal.

"Because of YOU," Silas growled, eyes blazing, "I CAN’T EVEN SPEND A ROMANTIC MOMENT WITH MY LOVE. BECAUSE OF YOU—"

Adrien stepped back, wide-eyed. "I AM FACING THE SAME ISSUE TOO. I’M A VICTIM TOO, SILAS!"

But Silas wasn’t listening. With a dramatic shout, he charged, sword raised like a man who had just been denied cuddles and sanity in the same afternoon.

CLANK.

Adrien blocked just in time. "I didn’t ask them to be in the Pregnant Best Friends Club either! I thought it was just brunch and gossip, not every second of every day—"

"YOU KNEW.""YOU ENCOURAGED.""YOU ENABLED THE BRUNCHING."

CLANK. SWOOSH. DODGE.

Nearby, the Imperial Knights paused mid-training, watching two of the most powerful alphas in the empire duel like high-drama theatre kids with unresolved emotional baggage.

"...Should we intervene?" one knight whispered.

The others slowly shook their heads.

"Nope. Last time someone tried, they ended up being used as a table at tea time."

***

[Elsewhere... in a much calmer dimension of soup and sapphires...]

"I heard you’ll be marrying the Grand Duke soon?" Empress Elise asked sweetly, sipping her lemon tea like a royal gossip queen.

Lucien, delicately slurping mushroom soup, nodded with a radiant smile. "Mhm! That’s the plan! Assuming Silas doesn’t explode from my cuteness first."

Elise’s eyes sparkled. "Then—can I be your bridesmaid?"

Lucien gasped. Stars bloomed in his pupils like a constellation was born in the dining hall.

"Oh yes! No doubt—you’ll be my chief bridesmaid. And," he added with a sly glint, "you will throw me a bridal shower. With loooooots of gifts. Like diamonds. Maybe a small kingdom."

Elise grinned. "Done. You get the bridal shower. And I get to dress you in something ridiculous for it."

Lucien giggled. "If it sparkles, I’ll wear it."

They clinked teacups like pirates toasting over treasure.

Then stood up in sync.

"Let’s go shopping."

They swept out of the room like two fashionable hurricanes ready to destroy the royal treasury in the name of retail therapy.

***

[Back in the training ground...]

CLANG. SWISH. DRAMATIC GRUNTING.

Silas and Adrien’s swords clashed again and again, ringing out with the unmistakable sound of unresolved emotional trauma—and the shared agony of two husbands whose wives were now spending more time with each other than with them.

It was the sound of deep betrayal.

And mild abandonment issues.

And maybe a little jealousy over exclusive soup dates.

The Novel will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!