Fallen General's Omega (BL)

274 – Thorne POV

The corridor is quiet.

Cold stone beneath my boots. Dim torchlight flickering against damp walls. The scent of salt and moss clinging to the underground air like mold. I walk without hurry, the echo of each step a calm, deliberate promise.

I’m going to see him.

The first guest of the dungeon.

The first to grace these cells.

The king.

—or should I say, the ex king.

There’s something poetic about it, really. The man who once sat on a golden throne, now locked beneath the earth, caged like the rat he is.

A faint wind hisses through the corridor’s vents, brushing past me like a whisper of judgment.

I don’t mind the cold.

It keeps the blood calm.

Two guards( guards? When did we get guards?) bow as I pass them. Leona stands silently beside the heavy iron door, arms crossed, her face blank. She doesn’t ask if I want company. She knows I don’t.

She opens the door.

I step inside.

The cell is bare—no bed, no table, only a slop bucket in the corner. The stones are uneven, streaked with mildew. The only light comes from a small barred window near the ceiling, letting in the faintest silver gleam of the moon.

He’s sitting in the corner, arms wrapped around himself, still dressed in what’s left of his royal garb—now torn and dirt-stained. The jewel in his crown is gone. His once-pristine gloves are soaked in sweat and grime.

He looks up as I enter.

His green eyes are bloodshot.

Good.

"You," he spits.

I don’t respond. I simply walk to the center of the cell, arms behind my back, and look down at him.

"You’ve come to kill me?" he sneers.

"No," I say, calm and flat.

"Killing you would be too merciful."

And it would.

Not when I think of the nights I spent pacing the halls of an empty estate, heart in my throat, wondering if my husband was alive or dead.

Not when I remember the hours of silence, haunted by the question of whether he was alone, in pain, or bleeding out somewhere in the dark.

Not when I think of how he gave birth alone, on the run, hunted.

Death?

Death would be far too easy.

So, what to do with a pathetic, crumpled former king?

Decisions, decisions.

A few broken fingers? No, too easy. A couple of missing limbs? Already did that to the crown prince of Asten.

Perhaps Felix has a poison that eats through the body from the inside out but keeps the victim alive long enough to regret everything?

I’ll have to ask him later. He enjoys getting creative.

I crouch a little, tilting my head as I study the man trembling at my feet, shackles chafing raw against his skin. He flinches under my gaze, and it pleases me.

He should flinch.

"This is where you disappeared to?"

The voice behind me is soft. Far too soft.

I freeze.

There’s only one person who can speak like that and still make my heart race in pure panic.

I turn slowly.

And there he is.

Noelle stands in the cell’s open doorway, arms crossed, wearing a dark green robe embroidered with gold thread.

His long black hair is pulled over one shoulder, and he’s beautiful, he always is.

Leona, standing a few feet behind him, avoids my eyes completely. Traitor.

"Noelle," I say, striding toward him. "You should be resting—"

He steps back from my outstretched hand.

Ouch.

He’s still mad.

I sigh internally. I hadn’t planned to actually knot him. It just... happened.

My eyes trail over him. His expression is calm, too calm. His green eyes are unreadable. But I can tell—he’s not done being angry.

The king shifts behind me, drawing attention to himself like the absolute roach he is.

"You’re here," he breathes, eyes locking onto Noelle like he’s seen salvation.

My blood runs cold.

No. Absolutely not.

My mood, already shaky, plummets. I take a slow, deliberate breath and turn back toward him.

"I see you still haven’t learned how to shut up," I say flatly.

Noelle doesn’t even look at him. His attention is on me.

"You were going to kill him?"

"No," I say, smiling faintly. "I was deciding whether I wanted to break his mind or his body first."

Noelle raises a brow.

He shifts his gaze to the man chained in the center of the room, his expression unreadable.

"Remember when I told you my alpha was insane and possessive?" he says lightly, tilting his head just enough for the light to catch the gem at his collar.

"Well... you should have listened.."

The smallest smile tugs at his lips, sharp and amused, and just like that, my mood lifts again. That’s my husband.

Noelle steps forward slowly, hands folded behind his back like a scholar inspecting a particularly grotesque specimen.

"You could’ve avoided this, you know," he says with a soft click of his tongue, eyes cold and distant.

"Had you let me and my daughter go, you might still be sitting on your little stolen throne. But you were too greedy."

The man chained before us—no, the ex-king—snaps his head up.

"You are mine!" he spits, eyes wild, feverish.

I take a step forward, vision narrowing. My fingers twitch, jaw locking as fury burns in my chest. But before I can act, Noelle’s hand lifts and rests gently on my forearm.

It’s enough. I stop. But I don’t relax.

I look down at him. His face is calm, too calm.

"What makes you think that?" he asks, voice low.

"I’ve always been curious about your strange obsession with my mother."

The man begins to shake, breath heaving in short gasps, the veins in his neck bulging as he stares up at Noelle with something twisted in his eyes—madness, delusion, ownership.

"You don’t understand," he growls.

"Tarian had everything—adoration, the throne, father’s love, the people’s loyalty... everything."

His voice cracks.

"I had nothing. Nothing but her. Mirelle was mine. Mine to keep. Mine to use. Mine to punish. Nothing can take that from me. Mirelle is mine."

Each word comes out more unhinged than the last.

The bile rises in my throat. I feel my skin crawl just being in the same space as him.

And then he says it.

"You were born from her. That makes you mine too. That’s why she was born. For me. For this."

Noelle doesn’t flinch.

But I do.

My hand tightens into a fist at my side, breath thick with fury. I’ve had enough.

"Okay," I say, voice low, trembling with suppressed violence. "That’s enough."

But Noelle only tilts his head, curious. Detached. Like he’s speaking to a mad dog in a cage.

"Oh my," he says softly. "You truly believe that?"

He doesn’t look angry. Not really.

Just... tired. Like something in him has quieted in the worst way.

"When you’re done with him," Noelle says, voice low and heavy with finality, "let me at him."

And with that, he turns and walks out of the cell, his robe trailing behind him like the tail of some elegant beast. The heavy door shuts softly in his wake, leaving the air colder.

I stare after him for a moment, then turn to the shackled man at the center of the dungeon.

"Well," I drawl, stepping forward with deliberate slowness, a cruel smile curving my lips. "Looks like it’s just you and me now."

His breathing quickens. Good.

Truth be told, my methods aren’t as poetic as my husband’s. I deal in the visceral. In blood and bone. I believe in pain as a language, one everyone understands eventually.

Noelle, though—he breaks people in quieter ways.

Subtle. Psychological. Precise.

Look at what happened to Duke Veyron—once the most arrogant alpha in the kingdom. After a single misstep and some carefully arranged interference... turned into the very thing he despised most. An omega. Pregnant. Hiding. Ashamed.

Not to mention the king of Aspen and my former master....that happened.

I wonder what Noelle’s got planned for this one. For the man who called him mine like he had any claim at all.

The thought alone makes my jaw tighten.

But I’ll be careful. I won’t break him too much. After all, I need him intact—for my beloved’s plans. It’s not mercy. It’s logistics.

And until then?

I have time.

And he has skin.