Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 115: Orders

Chapter 113

Jack

I stare at him, stunned.

Why is he so angry?

...

Oh.

Right.

I’m a prince now.

I’m royalty.

The realization settles into my bones, and a very evil little smile curls onto my lips before I rearrange my face into a picture of tragic innocence.

Ti for my Oscar-winning performance.

"...They didn’t exactly touch , touch ," I say quietly, voice thin, wavering—

even though they literally tried to kill .

"But... yeah. They... tried."

The king’s expression darkens even further, like soone dialed his fury from "angry father" to "I’m about to execute four nobles at dawn."

Excellent.

I sigh. Soft. Pitiful.

"I just think..." I whisper, clutching my own arm for added effect, "had you not intervened... what would have happened to ?"

His jaw clenches so hard I hear it crack.

"Send word," the king says, voice low and lethal. "Solre does not tolerate treason. If the dukes lay a single finger on my blood again—"

"Your Majesty," I interrupt, quick and frantic, injecting just the right amount of heartbreak.

He stops mid-sentence.

I lower my eyes, let my shoulders droop, let the silence tremble between us like I’m struggling to breathe.

"They only reacted that way..." I say softly, "because they didn’t know."

"Even I didn’t know," I continue, voice trembling.

"So please... don’t intervene."

He inhales sharply.

"I’ll..." I swallow, letting my gaze fall to the floor.

"I’ll deal with this matter."

"You want to handle it yourself?" he asks slowly.

I nod once.

He stares at , long, assessing, like he’s weighing gold versus steel.

Then—

"...Very well."

"I will respect your decision," he says.

"But Jackson—"

His gaze turns razor sharp.

"If they attempt to harm you again..."

*

I finally get to rest.

Or at least I’m told to rest.

Nothing about this feels restful.

They escort to a room so luxurious it borders on obscene. Tall windows, silk curtains, carved crown moldings, and a bed the size of a small continent easily large enough for , Ciel, Nolan, and Lanny, with room to roll around.

With room left over for Lanny’s crib.

Maybe a dog.

Maybe a small farm.

I shake my head.

No thinking about them right now.

I eat lunch — so fancy palace al I absolutely cannot pronounce — then wander around my "assigned section" of the palace, trying to map it out so I don’t get lost and end up in a broom closet.

I greet staff.

Smile politely.

Through all of it, I have a tail.

Peter.

The living statue.

After a few hallways of pretending this is normal, I give up.

I exhale sharply, turn around, and head back into my new room.

"I need to speak to you," I say, walking in first.

He follows imdiately, like a shadow that learned how to open doors.

I take a seat on one of the fancy chairs, spine loosening, mask dropping, looking at him directly.

"Are you going to be everywhere?"

He answers without hesitation. "Indeed. I am your personal guard, Your Highness."

He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture so straight it probably violates human anatomy. He has the aura of soone who has never once sat on a soft surface in his entire life.

At least the n in my old life had personalities — humor, anger, pettiness, sothing. This man is... a statue with a pulse.

"Understood," I say after a mont. "Do your duties only amount to guard duties?"

"No," he replies, "but guarding is my primary task."

"Are you trustworthy?" I ask.

A beat.

He blinks, like the question didn’t compute.

"...I do not understand, Your Highness."

"I’m new here," I say, gripping the ridiculously expensive fountain pen in my hands heavy, cold, stupidly ornate. When did I even get this?

"This is all too much. I don’t know who to trust. Or what to expect."

His expression doesn’t shift, not even a blink — but sothing settles in his stance, like he understands more than he lets on.

"I will do my best," he says quietly, "to make you comfortable."

***

Peter

His Highness does not look at at first.

He toys with the fountain pen between his fingers, turning it slowly, almost absent-mindedly, like a man deciding whether a tool is sharp enough for use — or ready to be discarded. For a mont I think he hasn’t heard at all. Then his voice cos, low and even:

"I did not ask if you could make comfortable," he says.

"I asked if you are trustworthy."

Sothing cold moves down my spine.It is as if the man I’ve been following all day the polite, awkward, overwheld man, evaporates in an instant.

What remains is soone else entirely.

In his place sits soone...empty. His eyes are emotionless, and dark.

"I do not understand, Your Highness," I repeat, but this ti my mouth is suddenly dry.

He motions lazily with two fingers. "Co closer."

I obey, stepping forward, and just as my boot ets the rug—

He hooked my leg. I didn’t even see him move.

I hit the floor hard. The impact knocks the air out of , and before my lungs can refill, before I can even lift my chin, tal glints.

A fountain pen is braced against my cheekbone, so close the tip nearly touches my eyelashes. One wrong breath, one twitch, one startled flinch and it will go straight into my eye.

My throat tightens.

"What I don’t need," he says quietly, almost conversational, "is the king’s little spy glued to my back."

The pen shifts a fraction. My skin tingles where the nib almost pierces it.

"I’ll ask only one more ti," he continues, and every syllable drops like a weight, heavy and deliberate.

"Are you trustworthy? Or shall we find out how much leeway the king grants his prodigal son?"

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears; I cannot hear his breathing at all. He is too still. Too controlled. Too accustod to violence.

He clicks the pen softly.

The sound is louder than a gunshot.

"I—" My voice fails. I swallow. "Understood, Your Highness."

His eyes linger on a mont longer. Assessing. Deciding.

Then he exhales, taps the pen once against my cheekbone, and shoves back on my heels.

"I don’t know what notion what preconceived you had of ," he says. His voice is still quiet.

"But whatever it was... it was wrong."

"I know you’ll go running to the king," he continues, pacing a slow half-circle around .

"Tattling is part of your job. I expect nothing less."

My blood freezes.

"But you’re not stupid, Peter. So don’t disappoint ."

He pockets the pen.

"There’s nothing as easily replaceable as labor."

My stomach twists.

My senior had warned over and over:Royals of high alpha blood are the most unpredictable of all.

They smile with knives behind their teeth.

Bow twice, trust never.

I had never truly believed him — until now.

I always assud he was exaggerating.

He was not.

I almost lost an eye today. And I nearly lost my post along with it.

I will not make such a stupid mistake again.

For all the generous pay and prestige that co with serving the monarchy, today is the first ti I have truly felt the weight of the risk.

"I need you to go to my ho at the beach and sort things out," he says, flicking his wrist in a lazy dismissal — as if the last two minutes weren’t the most harrowing of my career.

"In my room, closet, left side. Hidden compartnt. You’ll find a burner phone. Bring it to ."

The ease in his tone makes it worse.

It’s the voice of a man who knows his orders will be followed because the alternative is unthinkable.

I lower myself into a bow so deep my spine protests.

"Of course," I manage.

I leave the room quickly, closing the door behind with more care than I intend.

The mont the latch clicks, my chest collapses inward and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been trapping sowhere under my ribs.

For a long mont, I simply stand there in the silent corridor, palms clammy, heart beating far too loudly in my ears.

I drag a hand down my face, gathering myself.

I should upgrade my insurance.

A higher payout would be good for my family when, not if , I eventually die on the job.

Yes.

That seems wise.

I straighten my back, correct my posture, recompose the unreadable mask every royal guard must wear, and begin moving with brisk purpose.

I adjust my gloves, ensuring not a single tremor remains in my fingers before stepping back into the wider hallway. Every instinct screams at to stay far, far away from the prince, but it is my job. I cannot.

Each step away from his chamber feels like stepping out of a predator’s den.

Orders are orders.

This is what all that harsh training was for.