Chapter 36
In the kingdom of Solmere, an island nation with a monarchy whose lineage stretches back centuries, the capital city of Sol rises like a jewel on the northern coast.
It is a place of contradictions—ancient castles looming beside sleek glass skyscrapers, centuries-old stone streets swallowed up by highways, tradition locked in a constant duel with modernity. The elite and royal families reside in the glittering oceanfront district, where the waves crash against engineered sea walls and mansions glitter with imported marble. The crown itself rules from a castle rebuilt dozens of times over the ages—its foundations older than the city, its towers now wired with fiber optics and security drones.
It is here, in this gleaming metropolis, that one of the Four Dukes throws a tantrum that rattles through marble halls.
Duke Laurent Duvall stands barefoot in a cavernous studio, the sharp scent of turpentine clinging to the air. Canvases tower around him like silent witnesses, most splashed with the haunting strokes of his obsession—faces, half-faces, fragments of scarlet hair and golden eyes. A hundred versions of one omega.
Always the same.
His dark purple hair spills loose over his shoulders, his slate-gray eyes glimmering with unsteady fury. His white shirt is unbuttoned to mid-chest, smeared with streaks of cobalt and crimson paint. The slacks he wears are stained at the knees, like he's knelt too often before his own canvas altar.
In front of him, a cluster of trembling men kneel, their foreheads nearly pressed to the paint-streaked floor.
"You are telling me…" Laurent's voice is soft, deceptively calm, his paint-stained fingers tightening around a brush that has already snapped once under the strain of his grip.
"…that he fucking vanished out of thin air?"
The brush clatters to the ground. His voice explodes like glass shattering.
The men flinch, sweat dripping down their temples. None dare answer.
Laurent's laugh is sharp, unhinged. The sound ricochets off the stone walls, bouncing back like the shriek of metal dragged across glass.
"You're telling me…" his voice dips, low and poisonous, "that an omega vanished. Escaped under the eyes of you."
He tilts his head, gray eyes flashing, paint still dripping from his fingers. "Trained men. Paid men. Men hired for one task. And now?" His voice crescendos into a roar.
"You return empty-handed."
The group of guards trembles as he paces closer, barefoot on marble spattered with dried pigment.
"Find me Ciel Rosengarde." His words drip like acid.
"I don't care how. Tear apart every street, every port, every rat-hole tavern on this island if you must. Bring him back to me. Bring him back before they get to him."
His eyes narrow to slits. "If you fail, you'll join the predecessors I hired before you. Their ashes and blood became my last pigment." He smiles, cold and vicious.
"Perhaps you'll make a finer red."
"Now go."
The men scatter, scrambling out of the studio like startled prey. The heavy doors slam shut, leaving Laurent alone in the cavernous room.
Alone with his obsession.
Thousands of canvases loom in the shadows, each bearing the same face. Scarlet hair. Golden eyes. A beauty immortalized and mutilated across oils and sketches—sometimes robed, sometimes bare, sometimes carved into the backdrop of violent fantasy.
Laurent drifts through the room like a phantom, finally stopping before one particular painting. A nude. Skin rendered with aching detail. But the painted man's eyes do not meet his, forever staring somewhere else. Untouchable.
Laurent lifts a trembling hand, caressing the painted cheek.
"My sweet muse…" he whispers, his voice breaking with hunger. "…I will have you back. And this time, you won't escape."
His thumb smears fresh red pigment across the canvas like a bloodstain.
***
Ciel
I'm halfway through a bite of avocado toast when I hear it—the sharp click of a camera shutter.
I freeze. Slowly turn.
"Can you not?" I grumble, glaring at Jack standing by the counter, camera in hand, grinning like he's just caught me in the middle of a magazine spread.
"I'm just trying to eat."
He chuckles, utterly unrepentant, and sets the camera down on the kitchen counter.
"What can I do?" he says, walking toward me. "You're so beautiful."
My heart skips. Not like before—not like panic. Like a stumble, a catch, something quick and dizzy in my chest. I don't flinch this time.
"I'm a giant watermelon," I mutter, glaring down at my rounded belly as if it betrayed me.
Jack's grin softens, turns warmer. He leans down, thumb brushing my cheek.
"An attractive giant watermelon," he corrects, his voice low and sure.
I blink at him. My lips part to reply, but he tilts his head.
"You've got something here," he murmurs, brushing his thumb along the corner of my mouth.
"Where?" I ask, instinctively leaning forward.
Jack's eyes glint. His lips curve with mischief.
And then he leans down—closer, closer—and instead of wiping it away, he licks the corner of my mouth.
I gasp, shocked.
And he takes that single second, that little breach, and presses his mouth to mine, tongue sliding past my lips in one smooth, deliberate motion.
How sneaky.
I can't help it—I smile against his lips, the corners of my mouth curving even as his tongue brushes mine.
His hand shifts from my cheek to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling lightly in my hair as though I'll bolt if he's not careful. But I don't move away. I lean in.
The kiss deepens—slow, deliberate, nothing frantic. He tastes like coffee and something faintly sweet, something distinctly him. He doesn't crowd me, doesn't push. He just coaxes, tilting his head, brushing his lips against mine like he has all the time in the world.