CHAPTER 43: SHOULD I RUN AWAY?

[Rynthall Estate – Night Before the Wedding]

Lucien stood in front of the gilded mirror in his bedroom, shirt hitched up just above his slightly rounded belly. He poked at it very gently. Then frowned.

"You better not try anything dramatic tomorrow," he muttered, staring at the soft swell. "I know you’re only the size of a plum right now, but you feel like a stubborn little tangerine."

The belly, unsurprisingly, did not respond.

He sighed. "At least try not to puff up more overnight. I need to fit into my outfit without the corset threatening a diplomatic incident."

Just then, the bathroom door creaked open—and in walked Silas.

Dripping wet.

Towel low on hips.

Hair damp and messy in the kind of way that would’ve gotten Lucien arrested for public indecency had he tried it.

Lucien didn’t even turn to look. "Please don’t tell me you’re planning to seduce me. I have indigestion and an emotional support cookie waiting for me."

Instead of replying, Silas strolled up behind him and wrapped both arms around his waist. His palms came to rest over Lucien’s belly with the softest touch.

"You talking to the wobbelbean again?" Silas asked, chin propped on Lucien’s shoulder, voice smug.

"I’m bonding," Lucien huffed. "You wouldn’t understand. You’re not carrying your’s most chaotic heir."

Silas grinned. "No, but I am responsible for its conception. You’re welcome."

Lucien rolled his eyes so hard it echoed in the mirror. "Don’t pat yourself too hard. You basically tripped, fell, and nine months later I’m fighting back acid reflux."

Silas chuckled low and pressed a kiss to the side of Lucien’s neck.

"You still looked beautiful that night."

Lucien gave him a look. "You mean the night you shoved your shiny duke sperm into me without a single ounce of subtlety?"

"Ah, yes. The night of passion, candles, and—"

"SHUT UP!"

Silas just chuckled and rested his chin on Lucien’s shoulder, eyes locked with his in the mirror. "Tell me, darling... do you even remember the night I gave you this lovely belly?"

Lucein didn’t say anything. Then Silas brushed his hand affectionately over Lucien’s belly. "It’s okay if you don’t remember, because tomorrow night... after the vows, after the cake, after the fireworks and awkward and idiot emperor speeches... I’m going to help you remember everything we did that night. Vividly."

Lucien’s ears turned a scandalous shade of red. "Excuse you—I am pregnant! You cannot just toss me around like a breadstick."

"I’ve read six books, three pamphlets, and one very weird forum post about safe marital activities during pregnancy. I’m prepared."

Lucien gasped. "You did pregnancy homework?!"

Silas puffed his chest. "I’m a responsible husband."

"You’re a responsible menace."

Still, Lucien didn’t resist when Silas gently lifted him off his feet and carried him to the bed like the dramatic romantic hero he clearly thought he was.

"Put me down," Lucien grumbled, tucking himself under the blankets. "You’re dripping water all over the carpet. Alphanso’s going to have a heart attack."

Silas grabbed a robe, finally covering his scandalous existence, and slid in beside him.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, curling around Lucien like a protective furnace, "you’ll officially be mine."

Lucien blinked at him. "And I

will officially inherit your political enemies."

"Romantic," Silas murmured.

They stayed there in comfortable silence, tangled in silk sheets and ridiculous affection.

"I can’t wait," Silas added softly, arms wrapping tighter.

Lucien yawned. "Mmm. Me neither."

A pause.

Then—

"You don’t think I’ll accidentally fart during the vows, right?" Lucien mumbled.

Silas nearly choked. "W-What?"

Lucien’s voice was sleepy. "I’m just saying. Our wobblebean is squishing things in there."

Silas kissed the top of his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. "If you do, I’ll say it was a trumpet of love."

Lucien snorted. "Gross."

"Still marrying me, though."

Lucien grinned and tucked himself into Silas’s arms. "Unfortunately."

And as the candlelight dimmed and laughter faded into a soft hush, the night before the wedding wrapped them in a cocoon of love, sarcasm, and the promise of vows to come.

***

[Rynthall Estate — Morning of the Wedding]

Three Words: Absolute. Bridal. Mayhem.

The sun had barely peeked over the horizon.

Birds chirped sweetly.

Dew clung to the garden roses.

And then—

BOOM.

The chandelier in the west parlor rattled. Porcelain figurines toppled off shelves. Somewhere in the estate, a footman screamed.

The Rynthall Estate shook like the gods themselves had descended for a mid-morning mosh pit.

Lucien sat bolt upright in bed, hair a mess, blanket tangled around his legs. "WHAT—WHO—ARE WE BEING INVADED?"

Silas, beside him, didn’t flinch. "Nope. That’s just Marcel and Alphanso."

Lucien blinked, half-asleep and wholly alarmed. "Did they install explosives?"

Silas yawned. "Only metaphorical ones."

BANG.

The bedroom doors slammed open like a tempest dressed in silk and lace.

And there he was.

Marcel.

Wearing full black formalwear, embroidered gloves, a monocle he clearly didn’t need, and what looked like three different clipboards hanging from his arms.

"My Lords!" he thundered, voice carrying the wrath of a thousand wedding checklists. "IT. HAS. BEGUN."

Lucien flopped back onto the pillows. "Kill me."

"We are T-minus six hours from the ceremony, and disaster is already peeing on the drapes!" Marcel continued, striding in like a military commander giving war orders. "The hair stylist couldn’t come because his son suddenly fell ill, the dessert tower melted, and your ring bearer has CHICKEN POX!"

Silas rubbed his eyes. "Didn’t we not have a ring bearer?"

"We do now! It’s a symbolic gesture!" Marcel shrieked. "Everything is symbolic today!"

Lucien groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. "Please tell me that my wobbelbean can’t hear chaos yet."

"The baby is probably reconsidering being born," Silas muttered.

Marcel pointed to his clipboard. "You have exactly twenty minutes before the imperial seamstresses arrive to put you in the ceremonial outfit, and another ten minutes before the official ’blessing bath’ that the Empress insists must be done in holy milk and lavender oil!"

Lucien peeked from under the blanket, deadpan. "I’m lactose intolerant."

"WE HAVE NON-DAIRY OPTIONS," Marcel snapped, flipping to page twelve of his Emergency Wedding Binder.

A housemaid sprinted by the hallway in panic. A violin started playing somewhere in the east wing. A very large dog barked (Where did that come from?)

Lucien rubbed his face. "This isn’t a wedding. This is a cursed festival held on top of an active volcano."

Silas looked over at his omega, eyes soft despite the insanity. "You okay?"

Lucien exhaled. "No. But at least I’ll look pretty while emotionally unraveling."

Marcel dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "That’s the spirit."

Suddenly, a crashing sound echoed from downstairs, followed by a faint:"IT WASN’T ME!"

Lucien raised a brow. "Was that the florist?"

Marcel looked haunted. "The flower arch. Has. Collapsed."

Silas patted Lucien’s hand gently. "Should we run now or after the vows?"

Lucien sighed. "No point. He’d find us anyway. Probably through scent tracking and sheer rage."

Marcel snapped his fingers toward the hall. "NOW! MOVE! OFF TO BATHS, THEN WARDROBE, THEN HOLY BLESSINGS! WE HAVE A DUKE TO DOLL UP AND A WEDDING TO SALVAGE!"

Lucien was practically dragged from bed, still muttering about cursed milk and collapsing arches.

As the chaos swallowed them, Silas only grinned.

Because somehow, despite the shrieking and silk and exploding flower arrangements...he wouldn’t want his wedding day to begin any other way.

***

[Rynthall Estate — Private Bathing Chambers, Morning of the Wedding]

"Steam, Silk, and One Very Nervous Omega"

The bathwater shimmered like liquid pearl.

Milky oils swirled across the surface, touched with gentle glints of gold dust and pale rose petals, their scent delicate enough to coax calm into a raging storm. Steam ghosted toward the ornate ceiling, curling in the shape of prayers never said.

And right in the middle of it, Lucien sat... naked, flushed, and distinctly overwhelmed.

His fingers gripped the edge of the marble tub like he might flee at any moment. His knees were pulled in, arms wrapped protectively around his slight belly—the gentle curve just starting to show beneath the water.

"Gods," he whispered. "This was a mistake. I’m too pregnant for this."

A knock echoed from the other side of the door.

"My lord," came Marcel’s voice—low, dramatic, and already vibrating with the urgency of a man who hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. "The tailor has arrived with the final embroidery for the ceremonial cloak. It appears the dragon was facing the wrong direction."

Lucien buried his face in his hands.

Even the dragon was confused.

"I’m not ready," he mumbled, voice muffled.

A servant nearby—silent and respectful, as if working near a nervous baby deer—gently poured another stream of warm, scented water over Lucien’s shoulders. He flinched slightly, then sighed, shoulders sinking an inch.

His thoughts spiraled again.

What if he tripped down the aisle? What if the priest noticed his pregnancy bump? What if someone fainted? What if he fainted? What if the baby farted in utero during the vows and it echoed??

He pressed his forehead to the cool edge of the tub.

"I’m going to die of embarrassment. On my wedding day. In front of everyone. Pregnant, wet, and possibly surrounded by misplaced daisies."

Another gentle splash of water. A stray petal drifted onto his chest, right over the soft swell of his belly.

Lucien stared at it.

Wobbelbean, mercifully, was not kicking. (Too early. Thank the stars. He couldn’t handle movement on top of his nerves.)

But he could feel the weight of them.

His child. Their child. Just barely beginning to show, but undeniably real. Right there. A part of him. Of Silas. Of this wild, unexpected journey.

And now... they were getting married.

Not because of politics. Not because of duty.

Because Silas loved him.

Because somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, Lucien had become someone worth promising forever to.

He reached a hand over his belly, gently stroking the barely-there bump.

"...We’re doing this," he whispered. "You and me. We’re going to walk down that aisle. And hopefully not cry too much. Or vomit."

There was another knock at the door.

"My lord," Marcel called again, his tone now vibrating with more stress and the faint sound of organ tuning in the background, "Do I send the eyebrow specialist away or is the ’soft-arched regal omega’ look still what we’re going for?!"

Lucien groaned. "Marcel, I’m pregnant. My eyebrows have no priority right now!"

There was a pause.

"...So that’s a no to the eyebrow crystals?"

Lucien splashed water at the door.

Another servant giggled quietly in the corner before covering her mouth in horror.

Lucien sat back with a sigh, closing his eyes for just a second. The warmth of the bath. The gentle silence. The soft scent of roses and a future almost here.

He was nervous. Absolutely.

"...Should I run away?"

The room didn’t answer. But somewhere, down in the grand halls of Rynthall Estate, bells began to ring.