CHAPTER 28: THE OMEGA APOCALYPSE (NOW WITH EXTRA SCREAMING)

[Unknown Location...]

Lucien was still perched on the baker’s back like a miserable, shaking prince on a meat throne.

His legs had gone numb ages ago. His breathing? Ragged and uneven. And that stupid wooden leg he was holding like a sword? It now felt heavier than his will to live.

What started as self-defense now felt like an Olympic sport for the chronically exhausted. His skin was clammy, his vision was politely asking to black out, and the blood on his temple had dried into some avant-garde abstract art—but it still hadn’t stopped bleeding entirely.

His limbs trembled.

His stomach made the sound of a haunted cello.

He was officially powered by nothing but spite and pregnancy hormones.

Too angry.

Too scared.

Too hungry.

Too alone.

He curled in a bit, one hand slipping protectively over his belly.

"Wobblebean..." he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking at the edges. "Just hang in there, okay? Mama’s got you. We’re gonna be fine. I promise."

The words came out like the world’s worst lullaby sung through clenched teeth.

Then, with the grace of a Victorian ghost who’d just stubbed their toe, Lucien stood. Or tried to. It was more of a wobbly hover. Still, he managed.

"I can’t wait for Silas," he mumbled to no one in particular. "I have to protect my child. Or we’re both going to end up as a tragic backstory."

Behind him, the baker groaned—still on the floor, a full-time pulp with part-time villain aspirations.

Lucien glanced over his shoulder.

"Don’t even think about it," he growled, voice hoarse. "You try anything stupid, and I will kill you for real this time. I swear to all things sacred and unholy, I’ll beat you with your own kneecap."

He turned toward the door, walking like a marionette whose strings were held by someone drunk.

And then—

A voice.

Soft. Mocking.

"I’m sorry, my lord..."

Lucien paused. He didn’t like where this was going.

He turned just enough to catch the baker’s face—still smeared in blood, one eye puffed like a rotten fruit, and yet somehow still finding it within himself to smirk like a Saturday morning cartoon villain who refused to stay canceled.

"But I have to protect myself too, right?" The baker continued, his voice syrupy and broken around cracked teeth. Then the smile deepened, corrupted. "So if I want to live... you need to die."

Lucien’s brow twitched.

"Hah," he scoffed, trying to keep his stance firm. "You’re still talking like you’re relevant. I beat you until your soul came halfway out—what part of that gave you the courage to open your mouth again?"

But then—

The air shifted.

Not a breeze. Not a sound.

But a scent.

Heavy.

Slick.

Rotten-sweet.

Wrong.

Lucien’s eyes widened, pupils contracting. His hand instinctively flew to cover his nose, but it was too late—the smell was already coiling around his senses like barbed wire.

"You..." he breathed, stumbling a step back, pressing against the wall. "You disgusting bastard—are you... Are you releasing your fucking pheromones right now?"

The baker let out a sick little chuckle from the floor, even as blood trickled from his lips.

"Oh yes," he whispered. "I am an Alpha, my lord, and this... this is my last defense. It’s enough to bring an omega like you to your knees."

Lucien’s knees were buckling.

His body wasn’t prepared.

Not after the starvation.

Not after the stress.

Not after the blood loss.

The scent was vile. It was suffocating—like sweet rot and burnt sugar left in a sunlit jar. The kind of pheromone that wasn’t meant for attraction, but subjugation. The kind bred out of hatred, not desire.

Lucien clawed at the air like he could rip it apart. His eyes watered. His throat burned. He pressed both hands against the wall behind him to stay upright, gasping.

His hands clawed at the air like he could physically grab the stench and throw it in the trash.

"You... fermented gremlin..." he gasped. "I swear I will carve the smell out of your bones with a butter knife—"

But then his voice gave out.

Just—poof. Gone. His next threat came out as a breathy wheeze that sounded like a dying squirrel.

And the baker?

He was wriggling.

Wriggling.

Like a worm at a yoga retreat. Like a particularly smug wet sock trying to reincarnate as a snake. Lucien’s eyes were blurred, vision spinning like a carousel designed by someone who hated children, but he could still see it.

The bastard was almost free.

And if that psycho managed to untie himself?

Lucien was dead. He and Wobblebean were toast. Stale. Burnt. Unbuttered. Omega toast.

***

[Meanwhile. Back in the bakery]

Silas stood in the center of the empty shop like a statue carved from barely contained wrath.

His eyes swept over every surface, every out-of-place flour sack and scuffed tile. Damon and some knights trailed behind him, stiff and nervous.

Then Elize entered the storeroom with a worried look. "My lord... we still couldn’t find him. We checked the back alley, the rooftops, even the—"

Silas raised a hand.

She fell silent instantly.

He tilted his head slightly. Sniffed. The air was thick with old yeast and spilled cinnamon, but...

His expression darkened. "There’s an Alpha’s pheromone," he whispered. "Here."

Damon’s eyes narrowed. Elize stiffened.

"...It’s coming from beneath us."

Silas followed the scent—like a bloodhound trained for murder instead of rabbits. He dropped to one knee, scanned the wooden floor, and spotted it: a creaky board, slightly warped, like it had been stepped on too often by someone hiding secrets.

Without hesitation, Silas drew his sword.

CRACK.

He wedged it under the floorboard, wrenched it free with terrifying ease, and revealed a dark, narrow tunnel leading underground.

Elize gasped. "My lord—it’s a—"

But Silas was already gone.

He stepped into the tunnel without a word because he had no time to gasp or react. He needs to save his omega.

***

[Back in the murder basement, Same time]

Lucien could barely stand.

His legs were trembling like a newborn deer wearing roller skates. His hands were shaking. His nose was full of murder pheromones and poor life decisions.

But what he could see was the baker wriggling out of his bindings. One more tug and that man would be loose. One more second and Lucien might be—

"YOU FUUUUU—" Lucien’s voice cracked mid-word like a hormonal boy in choir practice, but he didn’t stop.

He forced himself upright.

One step. Two steps.

Each one felt like dragging a building behind him.

But he had a wooden chair leg. And pregnancy rage.

"YOU THINK I’M JUST A WEAK LITTLE OMEGA?!" he screamed hoarsely, lurching toward the baker.

The man blinked up at him, momentarily stunned by the sudden second coming of the omega apocalypse.

Lucien didn’t wait.

SMACK.

"I AM NOT—"

THWACK.

"SOME FRAGILE—"

CRUNCH.

"DAISY-SCENTED—CANDLE-LIGHT—TEACUP-DRINKING—SOB STORY!"

He was swinging the chair leg like it was a sacred weapon handed down from angry ancestors. The baker flailed, tied hands no help at all as Lucien beat him back into the floorboards.

"YOU WANTED TO SEE FERAL? CONGRATULATIONS!"

WHACK.

"YOU UNLEASHED THE FERAL!"

His voice broke again mid-scream, but the wooden leg didn’t.

Lucien’s hair was wild, eyes bloodshot, and lip curled like a feral raccoon defending its trash. And even as his knees gave one final threatening wobble, he kept going.

And then—

A door slammed open.

A voice like thunder roared from behind.

"LUCIEN!"

Lucien blinked through the haze—exhaustion fogged his vision. Blood slicked down one side of his face. His limbs were one breath away from collapsing into soggy spaghetti.

The wooden chair leg—now more splinters than structure—dangled from his grip like a defeated popsicle stick.

The room was frozen.

Dead silent.

Silas stood near the door. Behind him, Elize, Damon, and the other knights stood in stunned silence—eyes wide.

And on the ground?

The baker—that bloodied, pathetic, still-somehow-alive wreck of a man—was crawling toward them with all the grace of a roadkill slug.

His hands flopped like sad fish.His face, a Picasso of bruises and swelling.

"P-please," the baker wheezed, one loose tooth rattling in his mouth like a bad maraca, "Please save me..."

Silas didn’t blink.

But Lucien?

Lucien just stared.

Right at Silas.

Big, round, wet, emotionally damaged anime eyes.

"You..." he croaked, his lower lip trembling like an old bridge in a thunderstorm.

Silas instinctively stepped forward. "Lucien—"

"YOU ABSOLUTE GODDAMN BASTARD!!"

Everyone flinched.

The shout came out hoarse and broken, somewhere between a war cry and a dying cat’s final opera note. But it hit. Like a truck made of betrayal and hormones.

Lucien pointed a dramatically shaking finger at him—like a vengeful soap opera queen mid-season-finale meltdown.

"WHY WERE YOU LATE?!"

Silas froze. "I—"

"I BEAT A MAN TO DEATH WITH A CHAIR LEG! WHILE PREGNANT!!"

"I’m... sorry," Silas said softly, stepping closer.

But Lucien wasn’t done. Not even close. His voice was rising with every syllable—shrill, breathy, unhinged tears spilling down his cheeks in glittering streaks of rage and trauma.

"Do you know what that does to a person?!"My HAIR is STICKY!""My BABY is TRAUMATIZED!""I CAN TASTE PHEROMONES IN MY MOUTH, AND THAT IS NOT A FLAVOR I ORDERED!!"

He hiccupped.

Then sobbed.

Then teetered.

"Lucien," Silas murmured, his voice now low and trembling, stepping forward to catch him. "Come here—"

But Lucien?

Lucien had one final, deadly insult to launch.

A parting shot.

A cursed spell carved straight from the depths of his soul: "I HOPE YOU STEP ON A LEGO—"

And then the world swirled.

Everything blurred.

And Lucien collapsed—like a rage-powered sack of potatoes.Still dramatic.Still beautiful.Still very much five seconds from stabbing someone if he had the energy.

Silas lunged forward and caught him before his head could hit the floor. He held Lucien close, his jaw tight, the scent of blood and pheromones heavy in the air.

Then, in a voice sharper than a dagger: "I want Fredrick and Faylen at the estate in ten minutes—and drag some priest too. I don’t care if he’s asleep, drunk, or mid-sermon."