[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 137: More.

Chapter 137: Chapter 137: More.

The room had gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes after something full, after the crash of waves, the breathlessness of being known too much and too fast. Lucas lay there on the sofa, his legs tangled in Trevor’s, skin flushed, muscles sore in all the places that made him remember everything. And Trevor wasn’t even moving, just resting beside him, his fingers drawing little aimless shapes against his side, like he couldn’t stop touching but didn’t want to crowd him.

Lucas swallowed.

The back of his throat burned.

He should’ve said something. He should’ve made a joke, or rolled off the couch, or done anything but lie there with this stupid knot of feeling tightening in his chest. But Trevor hadn’t said a word either, hadn’t done anything but hold him like it was natural.

Like he didn’t need a reason.

"I should shower," Lucas muttered, mostly to say something.

Trevor shifted slightly but didn’t let go. "Bath’s ready."

Lucas blinked. "You—wait, you ran a bath before?"

Trevor hummed, shrugging one shoulder. "Figured we’d need it."

Lucas almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he nodded and made the mistake of trying to sit up. He immediately hissed, a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

Trevor was already moving, his hand steadying Lucas with quiet, practiced calm. "Okay, easy. I’ve got you."

"I can walk—"

"You don’t have to."

And then, without another word, Trevor scooped him up.

Lucas didn’t protest this time. Didn’t joke. He just let himself be carried, his cheek resting lightly against Trevor’s bare shoulder, letting the warmth of skin and the clean smell of him sink in. He hated how much he liked this. How much he needed this. Not the bath, not even the afterglow—this. The feeling of being wanted for nothing but existing.

The bathroom was warm, lit low. The tub steamed gently, and the scent of something herbal, eucalyptus, maybe, hung in the air. Lucas didn’t even remember seeing Trevor prepare it. When had he—

Trevor lowered him into the water carefully, easing him down like he was glass.

Lucas winced at first, then let out a soft breath as the heat soaked into his muscles. It helped. Not completely, but enough.

Trevor slid in behind him, arms coming around his chest without hesitation, pulling him back until they were tucked in close.

And that was it.

That was the moment Lucas felt something give.

Not his body, his chest. His ribs. His goddamn lungs.

It snuck up on him, stupid and quiet. A tight breath. A sting behind his eyes. A single heartbeat where he realized no one had ever held him like this before. Not without wanting something. Correct content is on NovelFire

He blinked hard.

"Lucas?" Trevor’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "You okay?"

Lucas shook his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m—" His throat closed up halfway through the lie. "I don’t know."

Trevor didn’t push. Just waited, arms still loose around him, steady. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

"I’m not used to this," Lucas said eventually, his voice rough. "You being like this. Not rushing. Not... needing something from me."

Trevor exhaled slowly, chin brushing his shoulder. "I don’t need anything from you."

Lucas nodded, but it felt heavy. "I keep thinking you’ll stop. That you’ll realize I’m not worth all this."

Trevor turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him. "You want to hear something stupid?"

Lucas let out a breath, almost laughing. "Sure."

"I keep thinking you’ll realize I’m not enough. That I’m too late to be what you really need."

Lucas twisted a little and met his eyes. "Trevor..."

But Trevor leaned in before he could say more, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You don’t have to be anything but yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone."

Lucas bit his lip, hard. "I want this."

"I know."

"I want you," Lucas said, his voice catching. "And I want a family. I want something—real."

Trevor’s arms tightened just slightly. "You have that. Or... you can. If you want it with me."

"I do." Lucas blinked fast, tears sliding down anyway. "God, I do."

Trevor didn’t ask him to stop crying. He didn’t tell him it would be okay. He just held him tighter, soaking in silence, letting the water and time and everything else carry the moment.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t romantic in the storybook sense.

But it was real.

And Lucas clung to that like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

—

Lucas was asleep.

For real this time.

Trevor had dried him off slowly after the bath, helped him into fresh clothes—one of Trevor’s shirts, too big but soft—and carried him to bed without a word. Lucas hadn’t resisted. He barely stayed awake long enough to pull the covers up before his eyes slipped shut, lashes still damp, breath already evening out.

Now he lay curled on his side, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other resting across his chest like he was guarding something precious.

Trevor stood by the balcony’s open French doors, the curtains pulled slightly back as a warm breeze slipped through the room. The city beyond was quiet at this hour, but lights still flickered in the distance—somewhere, people were still awake, still alive, still playing games they thought no one saw.

But Trevor saw everything now.

He watched the skyline like it might answer for the things done to the boy asleep in his bed.

Lucas.

His omega.

His.

Trevor crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame, the cool air doing nothing to dull the heat simmering just beneath his skin. Not the kind from earlier, not the kind Lucas drew out of him with every smile or whispered plea.

No, this was sharper.

Colder.

The kind of heat that sat in the bones. The kind that meant war.

Because now he knew.

He knew what Lucas had survived. What had been done to him. And more than that, he saw the way Lucas still flinched when someone was too gentle, like it was a trap. Like it was temporary. Like it would be taken away the moment he asked for more.

And Trevor wasn’t going to forgive that.

He wasn’t built to forgive that.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

Misty. For what she did. What she sold. What she kept doing even now was acting like Lucas was still hers to command.

Christian. For touching what didn’t belong to him. For pretending his money, his bloodline, and his lies gave him any claim.

Trevor had let it go once.

Never again.

He turned from the window and picked up his phone from the desk, stepping out into the hallway so as not to wake Lucas. The moment the line connected, he didn’t wait for pleasantries.

"Put me through to the Emperor."

A beat.

Then: "Yes, Lord Fitzgeralt. One moment."

He heard the click of the line shifting, the low hum of static, and then Caelan’s voice—deep, unreadable as always.

"Trevor. Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight."

"I’m keeping this simple," Trevor said, voice low. "Christian’s mine. You do whatever you want with Misty, but he, he belongs to me."

Caelan was silent.

Then, after a pause, "You’re serious."

Trevor glanced back through the doorway, just enough to see the edge of Lucas’s foot peeking out from under the blanket. "Dead serious."

Another pause.

Then a quiet chuckle, not amused, satisfied.

"Good," Caelan said. "I was hoping you’d say that."