Desmond finally freed Luren from the ropes, his hands moving with unexpected gentleness as he applied ointment to the raw, bleeding marks around Luren's wrists.
"Why do you keep struggling?" Desmond muttered, his voice low with both irritation and concern as his fingers caressed the tender skin. "Now you're bleeding and
wounded because of it."
Luren didn't answer. His eyes were distant, his lips pressed in a thin line. Fighting
them now would only make things harder. He needed to save his strength, needed to wait for the right moment. Once the ship anchored, he would find a way to escape.
The cabin door burst open.
"We're here!!!" Hajim announced with a wide, almost boyish grin. "Welcome to Velgarith, Duchess Luren," he added, drawing out the title with mocking delight.
He turned to Desmond, his smirk sharpening. "Marquis Cedric is waiting for you. And my brother won't let you take him again, you missed your chance, my friend."
Desmond's jaw tightened as he shot Hajim a look full of irritation.
"I'm not your subordinate," he snapped. "You came to me for help, as the Archbishop of Seravelle. And as long as I still want him, I won't hand Luren over to anyone."
Luren kept silent, watching them trade barbed words. His mind was elsewhere, focused, calculating. He was in Velgarith now, the land of his enemies. Soon, he would
come face-to-face with the man who had murdered his parents… the same man who
had stolen away every Omega.
"Come out now!" Fiona's sharp voice cut through the tension as she appeared at the
doorway. Hajim gave a last smirk before following her out.
Desmond turned back to Luren, his gaze intense, his arm sliding firmly around Luren's
waist.
"Let's go, Luren," he murmured
"Don't touch me!" Luren shoved Desmond away, his voice sharp but trembling.
Desmond's expression didn't flare with anger, it chilled instead. In one fluid motion, he gripped Luren's chin, forcing him to look straight into his eyes. His hold was unyielding, his fingers digging in just enough to remind Luren he couldn't break free.
"If you want your child to live long enough to take its first breath," he said in a calm, deliberate tone, "you'll do exactly as I say."
Luren's stomach twisted. Child? The word alone sent panic clawing up his throat.
Desmond's smirk deepened as he saw the fear bloom in his eyes. "King Herald can kill your unborn child with a single command," he continued, his voice quiet but cutting.
"One word, and it will be gone before you even feel it move. But if you stay with me, obedient, compliant—I'll let you give birth. And when that day comes, I'll send your child to the Duke as a little… gift."
Luren's breath hitched. The thought of his baby in Desmond's hands made his blood run cold.
Desmond leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "So tell me… will you gamble
your baby's life just to defy me?"
Luren stayed silent, his jaw tight, his silence his only act of resistance.
"Good," Desmond murmured, brushing his thumb along Luren's trembling lips. "Then don't fight me… and maybe I'll keep both of you alive."
Without waiting for a reply, he let his control slip into hunger. His lips dragged along Luren's jaw and down his neck, licking, biting, and sucking with a rough
possessiveness that was equal parts desire and dominance. Luren clenched his fists, forcing himself to endure.
"You smell…so sweet," Desmond muttered, intoxicated now by both the taste of his skin and the power in making him submit. He pushed Luren back onto the bed, his body
pressing down, his mouth dangerously close to claiming his lips—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"We've arrived, Archbishop. Prince Hajim is waiting for you," the soldier announced from
behind the door.
Desmond stood up with an irritated sigh, his expression hard and impatient. Without
giving Luren a choice, he pulled him up and led him out of the cabin.
Luren's chest tightened as they stepped outside. He couldn't—he wouldn't—let Desmond have his way. His hand instinctively moved to his belly, gently rubbing as if to shield the little lives within. Are you both alright? he wondered. A small,
trembling smile curved his lips when he felt a faint kick. Warmth and relief washed over him, it was as if his babies were telling him they were safe… for now.
"This way," the soldiers ordered, leading them toward the row of waiting carriages. Fiona and Hajim stepped inside first, Desmond reached out to assist him, but before Luren could board, a sudden touch caught his wrist.
The grip was brief, gone in an instant, but when Luren looked down, he saw a small folded paper pressed into his palm. His eyes flicked toward the soldiers behind him;
one of them gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod before turning away as if
nothing had happened.
"Come on, Luren," Desmond urged impatiently.
Luren quickly hid the paper beneath the folds of his clothes, his heartbeat quickening. He didn't dare look back.
The journey took several long hours, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels doing little to
ease the tension coiled in his chest. When they finally arrived, the sight before him stole his breath.
The palace of Velgarith rose like a monument to dominance and excess. Gleaming spires of gold caught the sunlight, casting dazzling rays across the marble courtyard. The walls shimmered with intricate silver filigree, every inch carved with
scenes of conquest and triumph. Vast pillars, each crowned with crystal
chandeliers, guarded the grand entrance, while towering gates inlaid with precious gems glinted like a constellation brought to earth. The air was heavy with the scent of rare flowers and the faint hum of power that seemed to radiate from the very stones.
Luren's stomach tightened. This was not just a palace, it was a reminder of who ruled
here and how small he was in their eyes.