The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 17: Pregnant, Not Powerless

[Rynthall Estate]

Two hands met in a firm, overly enthusiastic handshake that sent a ripple of tension through the room—as if the universe itself had paused to ask, Wait, are they trying to summon a medical prophecy or just shake hands?

The room, mind you, was already full of more than enough drama: one irritated, visibly unimpressed, barely-pregnant baron (Lucien), his exasperated soon-to-be husband (Silas), and now—two physicians whose energy levels could be classified as "threateningly cheerful."

"Nice to meet you!" chirped Faylen, practically vibrating with uncontained glee. "I am Baron Lucien D’Armoire’s family physician, Dr. Faylen Hawke!"

Faylen sparkled. No, really—his eyes sparkled like he had just spotted a unicorn trying to do taxes in his pantry.

Fredrick matched his energy like a kindergartner who had just discovered fruit punch was free and bottomless.

"The pleasure is all mine!" Fredrick beamed. "I am Grand Duke Silas’s family physician, Dr. Fredrick Argrave. It’s an absolute honor to work together on such an exceedingly rare, medically confounding, impossibly beautiful phenomenon!"

He said it with the kind of breathless reverence one usually reserves for the discovery of a lost dragon egg or a flawless antique teacup.

"I’m the one actually pregnant here," Lucien deadpanned, resting a protective hand over his almost-invisible bump. "But sure, let’s all gather around and admire the medical miracle like I’m not the one throwing up every two hours."

Silas tilted his head dramatically toward Frederick. "Their names sound weirdly similar. Faylen. Frederick. I don’t like it. It’s confusing. Like someone gave up halfway through the character list and hit copy-paste."

"It’s been bothering me too!" Lucien mumbled.

Meanwhile, the doctors? Entirely unfazed. Lost in their own world of graphs, hormones, and faint squeals of joy.

Faylen, eyes gleaming like a man presenting a thesis to the gods, pulled out a diary thick enough to legally count as a weapon. "I’ve started taking notes on my lord’s daily schedule since the day I discovered his... condition."

He said it like it was a sacred mission passed down by generations of Hawke ancestors.

Fredrick adjusted his glasses like he was about to announce the end of famine. "Brilliant. Genius. Essential. What kind of notes?"

Faylen flipped the diary open with the dramatic flair of a sorcerer casting a forbidden spell. "Mood swings, cravings, morning sickness timestamps. Even his spontaneous poetry bursts at 3:00 a.m."

Fredrick leaned in, breathless. "You’re a genius."

"I’ve also been rereading our ancient medical textbooks," Faylen added with a solemn nod, "particularly the Chapters on rare male pregnancies from the mytho-historical period. Some mention a duke who birthed a boy."

Fredrick gasped. "Ah, the one from the eastern Isles! I remember that one!"

Lucien blinked. "They’re weirdly annoying."

Silas nodded gravely. "I agree. It’s like they share a single brain cell, and it’s shaped like a syringe."

Then, silence. The two "parents" turned their heads toward each other. Eyes locked.

Three seconds passed. Exactly three.

In those three seconds, there was war on Lucien’s side. There was peace on Silas’s side.

Then suddenly—Lucien whipped his head around dramatically like he’d just found out that Silas was secretly married to a sack of potatoes.

Silas blinked. "Did I... do something wrong again?"

From behind, Callen snorted.

Silas glared over his shoulder. "Don’t you dare laugh."

"I didn’t do anything," Callen said, smiling far too smugly for an assistant.

The door creaked open with the exact timing of a divine intervention, and in walked Elize, followed by another knight in full uniform.

"My lord," she said crisply, "it’s time to leave. The carriage is ready."

Lucien blinked, glanced at Silas, "Are you going somewhere?"

Silas nodded with the gravity of a man about to enter a war zone. "Yes. The last omega woman who went missing was last seen in a bakery. We’re hoping to find a lead there."

Lucien’s entire posture changed in an instant. One second he was lounging, the next he was on his feet like a very offended pancake flopping onto a hot griddle.

"I’m coming too."

Silas didn’t even blink. "No."

Lucien froze mid-step. "Excuse me?"

"I said no," Silas repeated, his tone firm like a brick wall with parental instincts.

"Why? WHY CAN’T I?" Lucien demanded, hands flying to his hips like the world’s sassiest tea kettle.

"Because," Silas said, crossing his arms, "you’re pregnant."

"Exactly," Lucien snapped, crossing his arms over his very unimpressive bump. "I’m pregnant. Just ten days pregnant. not crippled. I can walk. I can think. I can solve mysteries. What I can’t do is sit around this mansion like a glorified egg with legs while you go off chasing clues like a tragic, handsome detective!"

There was a pause.

"Two weeks pregnant, my lord," Faylen helpfully corrected, holding up two fingers like this was a classroom and not a battlefield.

"SHUT UP, FAYLEN!" Lucien barked without breaking eye contact with Silas.

Silas rubbed his temples. "Lucien, listen—"

"No, you listen!" Lucien snapped, stepping forward now, fire in his voice. "I’m coming with you. I want to help. I need to help. I’m not going to sit here and knit booties while someone out there is harming pregnant omegas! I need to know my Wobblebean is safe!"

There was a brief, stunned silence. Callen’s eyes went wide. He muttered under his breath, "No one... No one has ever talked to His Grace like this."

Fredrick stepped in quickly, the peacemaker with glasses and too much empathy. "My lord, with all due respect, it’s better to let Baron Lucien accompany you. Emotional confinement can affect the fetus’s development. A happy omega is a healthy omega."

Silas looked at him like he wanted to shove a medical textbook down his throat.

Lucien widened his eyes, hopeful and triumphant, practically glowing with self-righteous victory.

Silas exhaled. Slowly. Painfully. Like a man losing an argument to a hormonal tornado. "Fine. Fine. You can come. But—" he raised a finger, "—you stay near me. You do not wander off. You do not interrogate strangers."

Lucien lit up like a lantern. "Deal!"

As they turned to leave, Silas muttered under his breath, "...And we’re changing the baby’s nickname. We’re not naming my heir after something that sounds like it belongs in a witch’s soup..."

Lucien was already halfway down the hall.

He didn’t hear him.

***

[Outside the Rynthall Estate]

Outside, the sun was mild, the air crisp, and the carriage was waiting in dignified silence—until Lucien stopped in his tracks, staring at the wooden monstrosity like it had personally wronged him.

"Do I... do I have to sit in that thing again?" he asked weakly, one hand hovering near his mouth as color drained from his face.

Silas, who had been adjusting his gloves with military precision, paused. "Is something wrong?"

Lucien swayed slightly, lips pressed together. "I feel like I’m going to vomit." ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

"You can still go back inside," Silas offered, gentle but firm. "You don’t—"

"I am coming," Lucien hissed, snapping his head toward him.

Silas blinked, stunned.

Behind them, the maids gasped, frozen like characters in a cautionary tale.

"Did he... did he just cut off His Grace’s sentence?" one whispered, eyes wide.

Another maid added under her breath, "The Baron is either very brave... or he has a death wish."

Silas, however, merely sighed and opened the carriage door. "Don’t worry," he said casually. "I personally made sure this carriage has the smoothest suspension in the entire empire. It won’t jostle you around or make you sick."

A collective gasp rippled behind them.

"...And he didn’t slice off his head?" A third maid murmured in disbelief.

Lucien raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he climbed in with all the dignity a nauseous, hormonal nobleman could muster. He settled on the velvet seat like a wary cat. Silas followed and took the spot beside him, his presence immediate, steadying.

The carriage jerked slightly as it began to move, and Lucien—unprepared—lurched forward.

Silas’s arm shot out, catching him with ease.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low.

Lucien didn’t answer. His face was now mere inches from Silas’s chest, and his own hands were gripping his fiancé’s coat. Slowly, he looked up.

Their eyes met.

Silas’s expression softened. "I’ve got you."

And with no hesitation, he shifted closer, wrapping one arm around Lucien’s back with instinctive protectiveness, pulling him gently in. "Don’t worry. I’m here."

Lucien blinked.

Then, much to his horror... his cheeks began to burn.

Lucien stared at the arm around him—light but reassuring. He could feel the warmth.

What. The. Hell.

His mind, usually sharp as a blade, felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

Why am I blushing? Am I—am I swooning? Did I hit my head?

Silas’s thumb brushed lightly, unconsciously, along Lucien’s side.

Lucien felt his heart stutter.

No. No no no. This is not happening.

He blinked rapidly, his brain short-circuiting as he tried to look away. Silas’s face was so close. His breath smelled like cinnamon and self-restraint. Lucien wanted to punch something.

Or kiss something.

NO!

This was definitely the pregnancy.He wasn’t going soft. He was just hormonally confused.

Hormones. HORMONES.Not attraction.Definitely not romantic feelings.Right?

Outside, the carriage wheels rolled smoothly over the cobblestones.

Inside, Lucien sat stiff as a board, blushing harder with every passing second, while Silas simply held him, warm and quiet and impossibly steady.

It was going to be a very, very long ride.