CHAPTER 51: THE MORNING AFTER THE APOCALYPSE

[Rynthall Estate—Private Duke’s Chambers, Midnight-ish]

Lucien groaned softly, his body still trembling, his chest rising and falling in shallow waves.

"I said slow..." he murmured, dazed and breathless, one hand limp on the sheets, the other still clutching at Silas’s wrist like he wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to hold him back—or pull him in harder.

Silas didn’t answer right away.

He was too busy pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along Lucien’s thigh—trailing fire with every brush of his lips, his large hand sliding up to cradle Lucien’s knee again.

"I am being slow," Silas said innocently. "Much slower than the second round."

"That’s not—hnnngh—what I meant—"

Lucien let out a tiny yelp as Silas adjusted his grip, easing his hips back into position, guiding one of Lucien’s legs up over his shoulder again. Lucien’s thighs twitched from oversensitivity, and his belly gave the faintest flutter—whether from nerves or Wobblebean wiggling at early stages, it was unclear.

Silas paused.

His hand came to rest on Lucien’s belly again—his expression softening for the briefest moment, a smile ghosting across his face. "Still okay?"

Lucien nodded, face flushed, hair damp with sweat. "Y-yeah. Just... gentle. Please."

A rare flicker of restraint crossed Silas’s face.

And then it was gone.

"I’ll be gentle," he promised. "But I also plan to make you scream."

Lucien’s eyes went wide again. "That’s not gent—mmph!!"

Whatever protest he had died in his throat as Silas kissed him again—hot and deep and consuming. Lucien moaned into it, arms sliding around Silas’s neck instinctively. His legs shifted, trying to adjust, but Silas was already moving, sliding inside again with careful, practiced grace.

The stretch still made Lucien sob softly—his entire body clenching, breath catching.

But Silas moved slower this time.

Deeper.

More controlled.

He rocked his hips in smooth, steady thrusts, each movement pressing Lucien into the mattress, each grind dragging sweet friction through Lucien’s core.

"Nnngh—hah... S-Silas... y-you..."

"You feel like fire," Silas growled against his throat. "Like heaven wrapped in sin."

Lucien whimpered.

He couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

His skin felt too hot. His lips are too swollen. His mind too fogged with pleasure and ache and the unbearable fullness of being worshipped like this. Silas kept moving, kept whispering things that shouldn’t be allowed:

"So warm, so tight—gods, I want to stay inside you forever."

"You clench around me so perfectly—like your body doesn’t want to let me go."

"One more time. Just once more, my love..."

Once more was a lie. It was three more times. At some point, Lucien gave up keeping track. He moaned. He sobbed. He even bit Silas’s shoulder—once, hard—while crying out his name in that high, breathless voice that made Silas lose rhythm for a heartbeat.

And when it was finally over—when Silas spilled inside him again with a broken moan and kissed Lucien through the last trembling aftershocks—Lucien was done.

Absolutely, completely, soul-deep done.

Silas rolled over with him still in his arms, careful of his belly, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks and hair as Lucien curled against his chest like something small and too tired to complain anymore.

"...My love?" Silas whispered with a grin.

Lucien didn’t answer.

He was already half-asleep, fingers twitching slightly against Silas’s chest, breath evening out, and lashes fluttering shut.

Silas smiled.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Lucien’s swollen lips, his voice dropping into a warm, teasing murmur. "I wish I could go more..." he whispered, brushing his nose against Lucien’s, "but I’m controlling myself—for your sake. Because of the pregnancy."

Lucien groaned in protest even in sleep, too tired to argue but not too tired to pout. Silas chuckled low in his throat, the sound full of affection.

"Sleep, my love," he said gently.

Then, without hesitation, he gathered Lucien into his arms—holding him like something precious and irreplaceable—and stood. Lucien didn’t speak. Didn’t even open his eyes. But a tiny, dreamy sigh escaped his lips as he nuzzled deeper into Silas’s chest, completely at peace.

Silas pressed another kiss to his temple. "I’ll clean you up," he murmured, his voice barely above a breath.

The bathroom door opened with a soft creak, moonlight spilling in like liquid silver. Outside the window, the moon still hung in the sky—soft, round, eternal.

And in the hush of that final hour, only two heartbeats remained—entwined, steady, and utterly in sync.

And just like that...

The wedding night finally ended.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Duke’s Chambers, Morning Light]

The sun had the audacity to rise.

Golden light filtered through the velvet curtains, scattering across the battlefield that had once been a dignified duke’s bedchamber. Tangled sheets hung like war banners. Clothes lay strewn in strategic disarray. A very expensive vase was shattered near the fireplace—an unfortunate casualty of Round-Two-And-A-Half.

Lucien stirred.

Brows furrowed.

Lashes fluttered like a wronged heroine in a tragic opera.

He blinked—once. Twice.

His lips, kiss-swollen and pouty, parted as a breath escaped. And then—

Pain.

It hit him.

The ache. The soreness.

The absolute betrayal of his lower back.

The slow, creeping realization that his thighs were now purely decorative.

He blinked again, this time with existential dread.

"...Oh gods," he whispered, voice raspy with betrayal.

He tried—foolishly tried—to sit up for a sip of water, something, anything to feel like a functioning human being again.

But instead, he collapsed like a man being dragged into the abyss.

His eyes widened. Then he screamed—

"I’M... I AM FUCKING DEAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!!"

The sound tore through the estate like a banshee with unresolved trauma and a flair for the theatrical.

Silas jolted awake.

Hair tousled.

Chest bare.

Still gloriously, obscenely half-hard for no reason except the crimes of the night.

"What—what is it?! Are you hurt?! Is Wobblebean okay?!"

Lucien flailed.

Literally flailed.

He kicked the sheets off with the only leg that still obeyed him, rolled toward the edge of the bed like a man betrayed by gravity itself—and collapsed with a pitiful whimper and a death glare.

"You—YOU—animal. You unholy, infernal, midnight-borne creature—I am DESTROYED!" he screeched, voice cracking like a chandelier dropped from heaven. "You’ve broken me! My spine is in Tartarus! My thighs have resigned! My ass—oh gods—MY ASS!!"

Silas blinked once. Then again.

And then—his gaze fell on Lucien.

On the hickeys.

The bite marks.

The bruises that spelled claimed in languages not even invented yet.

His eyes sparkled.

Like a man seeing divine art.

"My love..." he whispered reverently, stepping closer. "You look...absolutely fucking beautiful."

Lucien blinked.

Blink.

Blink.

And then—THUD!

One elegant kick from his functional leg sent Silas rolling onto the plush rug with an undignified grunt.

"You hell-spawned bastard from the deepest pits of demon-orgy hell!" Lucien shrieked. "I am in pain. I am in PIECES. And you say I look BEAUTIFUL?! Are you on crack?!"

Silas, still sprawled and somehow looking stupidly pleased, got up with the serenity of a man who knows he’ll get kicked again and still considers it foreplay. He slipped into his robe with a sheepish grin.

"Should I... get you water?"

Lucien didn’t answer. He just groaned like a cursed ghost and face-planted into his arm.

"I can’t walk," he moaned dramatically. "I can’t walk. I can’t sit. I can’t BREATHE properly because my lungs are BRUISED FROM MOANING."

Silas, now holding a crystal glass of water like a peace offering to a furious god, approached carefully and placed it in Lucien’s trembling hand.

Lucien sipped. Stared. And hissed. Silas sat beside him, innocently, like he hadn’t just turned his husband into soup the night before.

"You’re being dramatic, my love."

Lucien froze. Then slowly turned to him like a horror movie creature about to maul a man for his sins.

"What. Did. You. Just. Say?"

Silas paled.

"I—I mean—you’re being... beautifully expressive?"

Lucien squinted.

Picked up the nearest pillow.

And launched it like a flaming meteor.

"I AM A DELICATE FLOWER!" he bellowed. "AND YOU TREATED ME LIKE A GODDAMNED PLANTER BOX!"

Silas backed up, hands raised. "I’m sorry! I just got a little... excited?"

Lucien reached for a second pillow.

Then a vase. Then he reconsidered the vase as his back made a sound not meant for the new duchess.

"Ugh—curse you and your...your THING. That THING shouldn’t be legal!"

Silas cautiously inched closer, arms outstretched like one might approach a wild, injured fox prince.

"Let me help—"

"DON’T TOUCH ME UNLESS IT’S TO PUT ME IN A BATHTUB FULL OF ICE AND PRAYER OILS."

Silas paused, then very gently reached forward and scooped Lucien into his arms. To his shock... Lucien didn’t fight. He just buried his burning face into Silas’s neck and muttered like a man haunted, "Wobblebean... probably knows things... no fetus should..."

Silas pressed a kiss to his temple, trying very hard not to laugh. "He’s stronger for it."

Lucien groaned in despair. "He’s going to come out quoting your filthy pillow talk."

Silas chuckled darkly. "That’s character development."

"That’s trauma," Lucien snapped, voice muffled.

They disappeared into the hallway, one dramatic prince cradled like the most exhausted, violated sea otter, and one smug husband already plotting round four—for maybe a week later.

Or two.

Depending on how many ice packs survive the day.