[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega
Chapter 186: Bribed Lucas

Chapter 186: Chapter 186: Bribed Lucas

Lucas closed the bedroom door behind him with the quiet determination of a man who had survived twelve hours of high-fashion tyranny and lived to tell the tale, though barely. His hair was still perfectly styled, but the defiance in his posture had melted into a kind of stunned exhaustion.

In one hand: a bowl of vanilla ice cream he’d stolen from the staff kitchen like a fugitive. In the other: a folded blanket he’d yanked off the reading chair like a prize in a silent rebellion.

The room was dark except for the dim glow of the bedside lamp and the amber spill of hallway light before the door sealed shut. He didn’t bother with the grandeur of the velvet chaise or the glass doors that led to the private balcony.

No, he made a straight line for the foot of the bed.

He dumped the blanket, kicked off his shoes, and dropped down onto the mattress like a sack of dethroned nobility. One scoop of ice cream. Then another. Then a groan.

"I survived," he mumbled into the spoon. "I survived fabric wars and collar height debates and Evrin’s passive-aggressive pinning and that one sash with the gemstones shaped like teeth."

He took another bite.

"I deserve a throne. Or a nap. Maybe both."

The blanket was pulled over his shoulders in a haphazard mess. He wasn’t even cold. It was for comfort. Emotional shielding from the memory of Cressida saying "posture is a political act" while adjusting the angle of his spine like a chessboard.

He hadn’t seen Trevor all day.

Probably for the best. If he had, he might’ve snapped and begged him to elope immediately and never look back.

"You survived." Trevor said, exiting the bathroom with a towel on his hips while drying his hair with another one. "Are you ready for family dinner?"

Lucas groaned. "For fuck’s sake. I forgot about that."

Trevor arched a brow, water still dripping from his hair, catching the lamplight like betrayal. "You forgot about dinner with my mother and two brothers? After surviving Serathine and Cressida?"

Lucas buried his face into the blanket. "My brain shut down after the third fitting and the ninth ’constructive critique.’ I think Cressida tried to posture-correct my soul."

Trevor chuckled, walking over to the wardrobe with all the ease of a man who hadn’t spent the day being physically sculpted into a political monument. "She has that effect. Though to be fair, you do slouch when you’re plotting."

"I slouch when I’m tired. Or being slowly murdered by invisible expectations wrapped in brocade."

Trevor opened a drawer, pulling out a pressed shirt with calm precision. "You’ll be fine."

Lucas peeked out from the blanket with the expression of a man weighing his odds. "I didn’t meet any of them and after a day like this, I want to dive into the sea and disappear."

Trevor, now halfway through buttoning his shirt, glanced over his shoulder with a look that was entirely too fond for the situation. "You don’t even like the sea."

"I like the idea of the sea," Lucas muttered, dragging the blanket higher over his shoulders like it might shield him from genealogy. "It’s deep, it’s cold, and best of all, no one there wants to talk about monogrammed seat cards or the political implications of boutonnière placement."

Trevor laughed under his breath, the sound low and annoyingly warm. "You sound like Alaric during his philosophy phase. He tried to join a monastic order for a week after my grandmother commented on his handshake."

Lucas groaned into his blanket. "I don’t have the energy for inherited trauma tonight."

"You’re not required to," Trevor said gently, walking back to the bed and crouching beside him. His hair was damp, his sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms. Impossibly composed. It made Lucas want to cry and kiss him and possibly throw him into a pillow pile.

Instead, Lucas scowled. "What if they hate me?"

"They probably will," Trevor said cheerfully.

Lucas blinked. "You’re terrible at this."

Trevor smirked. "They’ll hate you because you’ll outshine them. Because you’re smarter, sharper, and dressed like vengeance. And because you terrify Cressida a little, which is more than most people achieve in a lifetime." NovelFire

Lucas stared. "You think I terrify Cressida?"

Trevor stood, smoothing his shirt. "She adjusted your sleeve length and then sent for brandy. You do the math."

Lucas set the ice cream aside and slowly stood, the blanket still wrapped around him like a battle cloak. "Fine. I’ll come. But only because if I disappear now, Cressida might take my place."

Trevor tilted his head. "She has been practicing your signature."

Lucas shivered. "That is not a joke I find comforting."

Trevor offered him his hand. "Come on, duchess. Let’s go disappoint the Fitzgeralt line."

Lucas took it, muttering, "They started it."

—

The door to the east wing dining room opened with an elegant click, and Lucas stepped through it like a man who had been bribed into diplomacy, because he had. The scent of amber soap still clung to his skin, his hair neatly styled, his collar slightly loose in the way Trevor liked.

He was, by all visual accounts, calm.

Internally, he was screaming.

Trevor had bribed him with exactly three kisses. One on the shoulder, one at the curve of his neck, and a final, slow one at the corner of his mouth with the whispered promise: "You make them nervous just by breathing. Use it."

Lucas had muttered something vaguely homicidal, and then let Trevor dress him.

Now, he walked beside his husband down the dining room’s long corridor of ancestral oil portraits, straight into the belly of the social leviathan that was the Fitzgeralt family dinner.

The table was long and mirrored, set with dark crystal and gold utensils. Silver candelabras burned low between centerpieces of blood-red flowers, dramatic, theatrical, and obviously Cressida.

And speaking of...

Cressida Fitzgeralt sat to Lucas’s right, draped in midnight silk, already sipping her wine like she was preparing to preside over a trial. NovelFire

Serathine D’Argente, in pale mauve and venom-laced poise, occupied Trevor’s left like a serene blade in a velvet sheath. Together, the two women framed the newlyweds like generals flanking a banner.

At the other end of the table sat Lucia, Trevor’s mother.