[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 174: Lucas has teeth.

Chapter 174: Chapter 174: Lucas has teeth.

Lucas didn’t get a moment to respond before a familiar shadow loomed too close to ignore.

"Your Grace," purred a voice soaked in old money and political desperation. "May I say how pleased we are to see you in such... radiant form."

The man smiling down at him was Count Elison Moor, the type who shook hands like contracts and wore his titles heavier than his conscience. He bowed with a flourish entirely too theatrical for a brunch table.

Lucas gave him a polite nod, just this side of cold. "Count Moor."

"Your reputation precedes you," Moor continued, eyes gleaming. "In fact, I believe it’s been preceding you through half the court since the engagement was announced. Everyone is quite curious about the final ceremony. And the absence of clergy... well, it’s inspired some rather interesting speculation."

He didn’t pause long enough for a response, just forged ahead, smile too slick, too certain.

"I’ve heard a particular rumor," he said, lowering his voice just enough to feign intimacy, though others were clearly still listening. "That you’re a dominant omega. It would make sense, of course. His Grace, the Grand Duke, is a dominant alpha. Such... arrangements are rare, but not without precedent."

His gaze dipped, slow and unpleasant, dragging across Lucas like a man used to purchasing people instead of earning respect. "That would explain the absence of a collar, wouldn’t it?"

Lucas didn’t blink.

He set his teacup down with slow, deliberate care, with just enough pause to draw every nearby ear a little closer.

Cressida’s smile didn’t falter, but her fingers went still around her glass.

Across the table, the countess with the lace gloves stopped pretending to eat.

"Is that the part that excites you, Count?" Lucas asked, tone deceptively mild. "That I might be uncollared? Or that you think it entitles you to look at me like that?"

Moor’s smirk faltered, but only slightly. He was the kind of man who mistook boldness for power and always assumed a noble title gave him room to circle his prey.

"I assure you, Your Grace," he said smoothly, "it’s a subject highly debated in the social world. I’m afraid that not even Her Grace, Lady Cressida, can shield you from them."

Lucas didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, smile still perfectly polite, the kind that made blades out of manners.

"Count," he said evenly, "I am marked and bonded. If you have a complaint, you’re welcome to file it directly with House Fitzgeralt."

A pause. Just long enough for the table to be still again.

Lucas’s smile sharpened. "And I assure you, Trevor would be delighted to speak with you."

Cressida’s glass paused midair, and for the first time that morning, her smile widened.

"Though," she added lightly, "I would advise making peace with your estate beforehand. Just in case the conversation is... terminal."

Moor’s throat bobbed, the tightness in his jaw now unmistakable. He gave a shallow bow, this one less theatrical and more survival instinct.

"Of course, Your Grace. I... meant no disrespect."

"No," Lucas said softly, "you meant to provoke. You just lacked the spine to follow through."

And with that, he turned back to his plate, calmly spearing a piece of fruit like nothing had happened.

Cressida leaned in, her voice quiet with amusement. "If you keep this up, they’ll start sending you death threats before breakfast."

"I’ll ask Windstone to forward them to Alistair," Lucas said dryly. "He’s better with threats before caffeine."

He paused, frowning faintly as his gaze swept the terrace. "Now that I think about it, where is my cousin-in-law?"

As if summoned by complaint and sheer timing, Alistair Fitzgeralt appeared at the edge of the marble stairs, sunlight catching on the crest pin at his lapel. He wore the casual arrogance of someone born into power but bored by it, one hand adjusting the cuff of his tailored jacket, the other holding an espresso like it owed him money.

"Talking about me?" he called, his voice lazy, but sharp enough to carry across the terrace. "I felt a sudden drop in decorum and figured someone needed to clean up the mess."

Cressida didn’t bother hiding her smirk. "You’re late."

"I’m elegant," Alistair corrected, descending the steps. "There’s a difference."

Lucas arched a brow. "And yet you’re still here."

"Blame the security escort," Alistair said, pulling out a chair with practiced ease and settling into it like a cat claiming a throne. "Trevor’s orders. Something about not letting me get used to the good life."

Lucas reached for his tea again. "That sounds like him."

"Also," Alistair added, glancing around the table, "I passed Moor on the way in. He looked like someone had kicked his ego down a flight of stairs. Should I be congratulating you?"

Lucas offered a small, satisfied smile. "I told him Trevor would be happy to take complaints."

Alistair whistled low. "You really have adjusted."

"Don’t sound so proud," Lucas said. "You’re next on the list for redirecting my hate mail."

"Oh, please," Alistair said, waving a hand. "I’ll monetize it."

Cressida raised her glass slightly. "Now that is a Fitzgeralt."

Lucas sighed, but he couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. Around them, the court buzzed on, but for the moment, surrounded by teeth and silk, he felt, oddly, at ease.

Protected.

—

The Imperial Courtroom shimmered with polished restraint, arched ceilings, columns lined in aged marble, and seats carved to intimidate more than comfort. It was a room meant to echo, and the echoes today held names that once slipped through cracks and shadows: Misty Kilmer and Christian Velloran.

The Imperial Courtroom held its breath.

Misty Kilmer was brought in through the lower side doors, not with grace, not with dignity, but with the shuffling precision reserved for prisoners the court wanted everyone to look at. She wore a pale beige inmate uniform, stripped of jewelry, title, and all illusion of status. Her wrists were cuffed in front of her, forcing her to walk awkwardly beneath the scrutiny of the nobility that once tolerated her. Her lips were pursed into something faintly resembling defiance, but even that cracked under the weight of humiliation.

She’d always dressed for control.

Now the room watched her unravel one inch at a time.

Christian Velloran followed shortly after, and the contrast was pointed. He was immaculate. Not flamboyant, but refined to the point of weaponization. His tailored black suit held the slight sheen of custom silk, his signet ring gleamed on one hand, and the small stack of color-coded folders carried by his legal team trailed behind him like a banner of war.

He walked like someone who knew the verdict didn’t matter.

Only the damage. Correct content is on NovelFire)

The justiciars took their seats in solemn silence, but the gallery was already alive with unspoken tension. Nobles packed the benches. Members of the press were strategically placed near the back. Ministers, aides, and even low-ranking clergy from the old guard were all watching. All calculating.

And seated toward the front, cool and unmoved in an ash-grey coat lined with deep green satin, was Serathine D’Argente.

Her gaze didn’t go to Misty.

It went to the figure stationed at the far side of the chamber: Lucas.

Or rather, the double.

He stood poised, silent, expression unreadable. Enough like Lucas in stature and carriage to fool the crowd, but Serathine knew better. She could spot her ward in a storm, and the real Lucas would never have stayed this still in the presence of his mother and Christian Velloran.

He wasn’t here to act. He was here to witness.

To be seen.

It was bait.

And Ophelia Kilmer, two rows behind, was biting.