[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 115: Predator’s Game

Chapter 115: Chapter 115: Predator’s Game

Trevor watched the screen in silence for a beat longer, jaw tight, every movement too controlled to be calm. Then he turned to Dax.

"Move our quarters today," he said, his voice low and absolute. "But in silence. No announcement. No change in security pattern. Keep the actual ones like we’re still living there."

Dax arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind his usual deadpan. "Comfortable, aren’t you? Giving me orders now?"

Trevor didn’t flinch. "You said I was your favorite disaster."

Dax snorted. "You’re not my favorite anything, Fitzgeralt. But I do enjoy the chaos."

He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp now. "There aren’t many places I can move you without stirring gossip. The Sahan court is a nest of jackals in silk, and at least three nobles are obsessed with watching your every door open."

"Then make it so only the rotation Luna is on doesn’t know we’ve moved," Trevor said, eyes hard. "We’re in Saha for a few more days. If he notices the change, fine. There’s nothing he can do now. But once we’re back in the North—he won’t get anywhere near Lucas."

Dax regarded him for a moment, the shift in mood caught between fond exasperation and grim calculation.

"Protective," he said. "Noted."

"Obsessively," Trevor corrected, unapologetic. "I have every right to be."

Dax clicked his tongue. "True."

He opened a new tab on his tablet, fingers moving with the sharp precision of someone used to making kings nervous. A few swipes, and the palace floorplan rotated into view—color-coded and guarded with access locks that only someone like Dax would dare override mid-conversation.

"There’s Suite 002," he said. "Near the central wing. Not too grand, not too humble. Secure on three sides. And it’s quiet."

Trevor raised an eyebrow. "Occupied?"

"Temporarily. But the current guest is on a diplomatic retreat in Vaska. She won’t be back for another month."

He tapped once, initiating a silent override of the suite’s records. "If anyone asks, we’ll blame the reassignment on Vassinger’s brat and her little tantrum in the gardens."

Trevor’s mouth twitched—just once. "Elegant."

"I’m always elegant. But you," Dax gave him a sideways look, "you need to stop drawing blood every time someone looks at Lucas the wrong way. We’re still in Saha."

Trevor’s response was soft, too calm to be dismissed. "And yet Jason Luna is still breathing."

Dax let out a dry laugh. "Only because I asked nicely. You’re welcome."

"Don’t get used to it."

Dax didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

The screen went dark, and the hum of hidden systems clicked into standby. All that remained between them was a shared understanding: the game was on. And they weren’t playing to lose.

—

Jason Luna sat at a quiet café two blocks from the outer garden wall, a place favored by palace aides and visiting staff who needed strong coffee and weak surveillance. It was his free day. No uniform, no headset. Just a black jacket zipped to the neck and a tablet propped discreetly behind his cup.

He hadn’t gone near the gardens today. Dever’s warning still sat in his mind like a heat bruise.

’The Grand Duke is really sensitive when someone watches his new wife too closely.’

Jason had believed it. Still did. That Fitzgeralt man had the same controlled violence as a blade just shy of being drawn. Not someone to cross.

But then came the rest.

’He’s not even marked.

No wedding.

A ring with the King of Saha’s eye color.

Adopted to be married off.’

Jason stirred his coffee without tasting it, eyes on the traffic drifting past the shop window. He wasn’t stupid. Half the palace whispered about the D’Argente heir and his sudden marriage. But now that he’d heard it directly—and framed like that—he understood something else entirely.

Lucas wasn’t secured.

Jason’s pulse thudded briefly before returning to normal.

He took a slow breath, tasting the bitterness of the coffee more clearly now.

’Two doors,’ he reasoned.

Door one: the High Clergy’s shadow network. They would seize the information, silence him with a fat stipend, and, once Lucas was in their custody, discard the disposable beta who’d delivered the prize. Simple. Predictable. Fatal.

Door two: Christian Velloran.

A king’s son in all but title, violent when cornered, but bound by old grudges.

Christian hated the clergy even more than Fitzgeralt did.

Jason’s hand tightened on the ceramic cup. A beta with a recessive alpha strain did not seek mercy; rather, he calculated leverage. Between a faceless priesthood and a single, vengeful alpha, the latter was the only foe he could see—the one who might negotiate rather than erase.

He powered on his private holo-pen, the one wired to an off-grid satellite ping that bypassed palace firewalls. Its blue light glowed across his knuckles.

Recipient: C. Velloran View the correct content at NovelFire

Protocol: Gamma-Cipher

When the secure channel opened, he spoke barely above a whisper, eyes still on the rain-streaked window.

"Confirmation: target unclaimed. No bond, no offspring, no public wedding. Fitzgeralt’s hold is status only. Recommend an immediate strategic move before clergy intervention. Awaiting instructions. —Luna"

The message atomized the moment he ended transmission—each data packet shredding itself mid-bounce, leaving nothing but a phantom blip on a relay far beyond Saha’s jurisdiction.

Jason set the pen down, his pulse already steady again.

Christian would respond. He always did.

And when he did, Jason would finally step off the palace chessboard and onto a field he understood: one predator facing another, no sanctimonious robes in sight.

—

The reply came exactly forty-three minutes later.

Jason was halfway through a silent meal at a corner diner near the inner ring of Saha’s merchant quarter, a place where palace guards never went and high nobles never looked. The screen embedded in the side of his wristband flickered once, then stilled.

He tapped it.

The lights dimmed around him.

And then Christian Velloran’s voice came through—low, clear, and carved from something colder than war.

"So. Still breathing, Luna. I’ll take that as proof you didn’t sell this to the bishops."

A pause. Not long enough for Jason to speak. Just enough to remind him who was on the other end.

"I know Lucas isn’t marked. I knew the second the report hit my desk three days ago. What I didn’t know... was who else noticed. Congratulations—you get to live another day."

Jason didn’t move. He knew better than to assume this was goodwill.

"You want to make yourself useful?" Christian continued, his tone lighter now. Almost conversational. "Then listen carefully: don’t touch him. Don’t approach. Don’t think about doing more than watching from a distance. If you try to sniff around that omega like he’s unclaimed territory again, I’ll send someone who doesn’t miss."

Jason’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt.

"That said..." A soft inhale. "I admire your initiative. Keep reporting. Quietly. I’ll make it worth your time when this is done. And Luna, if anyone finds out we spoke, I will personally drag your corpse through the doors of the southern cathedral. You’ll be their new relic."

The line went dead. Just silence.

Jason slowly reached for his drink, his fingers steady despite the sharp pull of adrenaline still coiling in his chest. He took a measured sip, letting the burn anchor him.

So, Christian already knew. Of course he did.

But he hadn’t struck him down. That meant something.

Jason had chosen the predator who wouldn’t lie behind gold-stitched robes. He’d chosen the man who would burn the church just to watch them scream. And now?

Now he had a leash around his neck and a front-row seat to a bloodbath.

And if he played this right...

He might just survive both.