[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 104: From Lunch to Retribution

Chapter 104: Chapter 104: From Lunch to Retribution

Dax’s grin widened, far too pleased. "Of course. We keep up with the times. Now it’s PowerPoint duels and public polling."

Trevor made a low sound of despair. "Keep pens away from him when deranged. He almost killed someone over a graph bar with a pen once."

Lucas’s brows lifted. "That sounds like a joke."

Trevor didn’t even blink. "It was during a budget hearing. The delegate tried to prove Dax’s numbers wrong with a bar graph where the values didn’t match the scale. Dax corrected him—with a pen. Through the thigh."

"It missed the femoral artery," Dax said helpfully. "Barely."

Lucas slowly turned to stare at him. "Now I start to understand why Serathine talked about you like you were a demon."

Dax didn’t even flinch. In fact, he looked proud.

"Well, she did have a positive opinion of me. Too bad Trevor was the favorite; he got to you first."

"Are you still hung up on that? Do you feel any shame after giving Trevor a three-month warning?" Lucas called him out on his warning without hesitation, and Windstone and Trevor exchanged looks of surprise and pride.

Dax blinked, then laughed—a low, rich sound that made a few passing staff flinch like it might carry consequences. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the rim of his glass with mock thoughtfulness.

"Shame?" he echoed. "Lucas, I don’t even know what that word means. And I gave Trevor a deadline; I didn’t expect him to speedrun it."

"You gave him three months," Lucas said dryly. "To a man that married me the second I asked and now I’m showered in pheromones. I say that’s enough claim for you to leave me be."

Dax looked genuinely affronted. "Showered? I’d say lightly seasoned. Maybe marinated at most."

Trevor didn’t even glance up from his tablet. "You’re not helping your case."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "He leaves his scent on my pillow and my shirts, and everywhere in the suite."

"I hope you don’t complain." Dax said, leaning back in his chair and smoothing a crease in his shawl.

Lucas didn’t even blink. "If I complained every time he marked something, I’d have no voice left."

Trevor, deadpan and still focused on his tablet, added, "He tried once. Got distracted halfway through by me marking him again."

Dax made a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. "You two are worse than teenagers."

"We’re on our honeymoon," Trevor said without looking up. "Legally sanctioned feral behavior, plus I started only this morning."

Lucas gave Dax a razor-edged smile. "Besides, if you’re going to crash our time off, you don’t get to be scandalized."

"I’m not scandalized," Dax said, lifting his glass with flair. "I’m entertained. Scandal is what I aim for."

Windstone, from the doorway, sighed loud enough to count as a formal objection. "Then please aim away from the floral arrangements this time. Last time it took three hours to remove the evidence."

Lucas blinked. "Evidence?"

Trevor: "Don’t ask." View the correct content at NovelFire

Dax, cheerfully unrepentant: "Definitely don’t ask."

—

Lunch had settled into something deceptively peaceful—warm sunlight pooling across the polished table, the scent of citrus and spice lingering in the air, and Dax, for once, not shouting at a minister. He had been convinced by Trevor to accept just a private lunch with them.

That silence was broken by the soft knock at the terrace door.

A guard stepped in, crisp in his uniform, posture as rigid as ever. "Your Majesty, the luncheon proceeded without issue. Minister Halden made a speech, the press took photos, and the Duchess of Ravelle tripped on her hem again—three glasses of wine in."

Dax made a sound between amusement and derision. "Ravelle can’t survive one banquet without committing at least one fashion crime."

Behind the messenger stood another man—silent, just a touch too stiff, lower ranked, beta. Nothing unusual. And yet Lucas’s breath hitched.

His gaze caught on the second guard like it had struck a wall.

Jason Luna.

The name thudded in his chest before he could stop it. A ghost, not from a battlefield, but from a darker, fouler place. Not one of the shadows who stood silently, but one who had whispered, laughed, and insisted—insisted Lucas scream his name as if pain was something to be proud of.

Trevor noticed first. His hand, already half-lifted for a glass of water, froze midair.

Dax’s sharp golden gaze flicked between them—Lucas, suddenly pale and rigid, Trevor, going still—and without missing a beat, he turned toward the second man. "Thank you, that will be all. Dismissed."

Jason didn’t even get a full glance before he turned to leave.

When the door closed behind him, Dax spoke, his tone lighter than before. "Windstone, have Tyler bring the secondary in for questioning. Quietly. I want every assignment he’s had. Every shift. Every transfer. And who approved them."

Lucas’s breath stopped, his eyes were slightly unfocused, drifting already to silence. He didn’t hear Dax dismissing the guards or his order to find out who he was.

Trevor’s pheromones were seeping into the air surrounding him, bringing him back to reality. Lucas’s hand clenched on Trevor’s and he said the name he despised. "Jason Luna."

Dax’s expression didn’t shift. Not visibly. But the air in the room thinned—like the pressure had dropped around them, the gravity sharpening.

"Windstone," he said again, this time lower, colder. "Make sure Tyler hears that name."

"I already sent it," Windstone confirmed, his voice tight. He didn’t look at Lucas—he didn’t need to.

Trevor’s grip was steady. Unyielding. His other hand rose slowly, fingers brushing back a lock of Lucas’s pale hair with deliberate care. His scent deepened—warm, steady, dominant—until it wrapped around Lucas like a shield.

"Is he the one?" Trevor asked, soft but lethal. Correct content is on NovelFire.

Lucas’s lips parted, breath shallow. "One of the only ones who made me say it," he whispered. "My name. His name. He wanted me to remember it. Said it was the only way I’d understand who I belonged to."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

Dax rose from his chair.

No dramatics. No outburst. Just a deliberate, slow push of the chair as he stood and walked to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of water with the same hands that had once gutted a man over a graph bar.

"I don’t like when people touch what’s mine," he said mildly. "And I hate when they touch what belongs to someone I respect."

He turned, eyes violet and full of stormlight. "We’ll bury him quietly. Or loudly, if you’d prefer."