Chapter two
Jack
The omega slumps unconscious in my arms.
I adjust my grip and carry him inside, the hem of my joggers damp with sea spray, sneakers squeaking faintly against polished marble as I push the wide glass door open with my shoulder and step into the house."
The house feels different with him in it. Too bright. Too big.
I lay him carefully on the bed, in the spare bedroom next to mine—close enough that I'll hear if he stirs in the night.
He's filthy. Dirt streaks his calves, sand clinging to his bare feet, dried blood crusted in dark patches around fresh bruises. His nightshirt is half-ripped, hanging by stubborn threads.
I fetch a towel, soak it in warm water, and wipe him down. Careful. Slow. He doesn't stir. When his legs twitch, I pause until the tremor passes, then continue. By the time I'm done, his skin is clean, the cuts disinfected, his hair brushed from his damp forehead.
I tuck him beneath the sheets.
And then I just… stand there.
Looking at him.
He's—breathtaking.
And not in the stupid, flowery way romance novels insist on. Not a "heart-stopping hero" kind of beautiful. I mean it literally: it hurts to look at him and remember how to breathe.
His lashes, red as his hair, flutter faintly in sleep. His lips are parted, soft. His cheeks still flushed from fear. He looks like porcelain—if porcelain could bleed, cry, and keep living anyway.
And the scent.
God. The scent.
I've crossed paths with omegas before. Their pheromones always had a pull—something primal, magnetic. But this isn't pull. This is gravity.
Yet I don't feel the same frenzy the novel's alphas fell into. No instinct to dominate. No hunger to claim.
Just a bone-deep urge to wrap him in ten blankets and stand guard with a baseball bat.
Especially with that belly.
At first, I thought it'd look… wrong. Strange. A man, round with pregnancy. But it doesn't. Not on him. Somehow it feels right. Soft. Sacred. Like it belongs to him alone.
He looks like he's meant to be protected.
Ciel. Rose's tragic omega lead. The boy she tortured for sixty chapters straight.
I can't let him go.
In the original story, he ran after discovering the pregnancy. He knew those four obsessive dukes didn't want a child, not really—not when they couldn't be sure whose it was. So he planned an escape with his childhood friend, the beta.
And then the villain—novel Jack—showed up. Pretended to help. Tried to keep him. Got stabbed for the trouble.
The dukes caught up. Dragged him back. He miscarried. Lost everything.
Rose wrote him into a suicidal spiral.
But Ciel isn't a character anymore. He's here. Flesh and blood. Breathing under my roof. He's human, not fictional.
And I wasn't in the capital to play the villain's part. I left. I ran. And somehow, against all odds, he still ended up in my arms.
I don't know why. I don't care.
I just know I'm not letting him go back. Not letting him suffer through that story again.
Not letting him go—period.
Because no one deserves to go through all that.
***
I step back and call the in-house doctor. Money talks, in every world.
The man arrives quickly. Quiet type, probably used to discretion. He doesn't ask questions when I lead him upstairs.
He examines Ciel thoroughly, checking vitals with professional precision. He sets up an IV drip, cleans and dresses the wounds, lists out dietary needs, rest requirements, pain management, and—just in case—signs of early labor stress.
I pay in full before he can even finish his notes.
When the door finally closes behind him, silence fills the house again.
I linger in the doorway.
Ciel's still asleep, chest rising and falling steadily. Fragile, but steady.
I back away, head downstairs, and pour a glass of water. My hand trembles against the glass.
This wasn't the plan.
I was supposed to spend my days surfing, jogging, maybe flirting with the bartender in town. A quiet life. Peace.
Now I've got the plot's literal heart sleeping in my guest room.
I press my palms to my face, dragging down until my vision blurs through my fingers.
"What the hell do I do now?"