Silas took a step forward. Then another. Until he was at the edge of the mattress, looking down at the elegant chaos that was his new reality—an omega, pregnant, theatrical, and maybe… his to-be husband.
Lucien lay sprawled like a Renaissance painting that had given up halfway. One leg was flung off the bed like it had somewhere better to be, his hair looked like it had lost a fistfight with a leaf blower, and his satin robe hung open just enough to be dramatic, but not enough to be censored.
His eyes shimmered with unshed tears—of what, no one knew. Hunger? Betrayal? Low sodium? And his fingers were pressed dramatically to his forehead, as if he'd just been informed that he'd been engaged to a goat with a gambling problem.
Silas exhaled slowly through his nose. The omega glow was real. The omega drama was feral.
"Dinner is served," he said, deadpan. "Let's go before—"
Before he could even finish, Lucien exploded off the mattress like a demon summoned by the scent of chili oil.
