Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 37: Muse

Chapter 36

In the kingdom of Solre, an island nation with a monarchy whose lineage stretches back centuries, the capital city of Sol rises like a jewel on the northern coast.

It is a place of contradictions—ancient castles looming beside sleek glass skyscrapers, centuries-old stone streets swallowed up by highways, tradition locked in a constant duel with modernity. The elite and royal families reside in the glittering oceanfront district, where the waves crash against engineered sea walls and mansions glitter with imported marble. The crown itself rules from a castle rebuilt dozens of tis over the ages—its foundations older than the city, its towers now wired with fiber optics and security drones.

It is here, in this gleaming tropolis, that one of the Four Dukes throws a tantrum that rattles through marble halls.

Duke Laurent Duvall stands barefoot in a cavernous studio, the sharp scent of turpentine clinging to the air. Canvases tower around him like silent witnesses, most splashed with the haunting strokes of his obsession—faces, half-faces, fragnts of scarlet hair and golden eyes. A hundred versions of one oga.

Always the sa.

His dark purple hair spills loose over his shoulders, his slate-gray eyes glimring with unsteady fury. His white shirt is unbuttoned to mid-chest, sared with streaks of cobalt and crimson paint. The slacks he wears are stained at the knees, like he’s knelt too often before his own canvas altar.

In front of him, a cluster of trembling n kneel, their foreheads nearly pressed to the paint-streaked floor.

"You are telling ..." Laurent’s voice is soft, deceptively calm, his paint-stained fingers tightening around a brush that has already snapped once under the strain of his grip.

"...that he fucking vanished out of thin air?"

The brush clatters to the ground. His voice explodes like glass shattering.

The n flinch, sweat dripping down their temples. None dare answer.

Laurent’s laugh is sharp, unhinged. The sound ricochets off the stone walls, bouncing back like the shriek of tal dragged across glass.

"You’re telling ..." his voice dips, low and poisonous, "that an oga vanished. Escaped under the eyes of you."

He tilts his head, gray eyes flashing, paint still dripping from his fingers. "Trained n. Paid n. n hired for one task. And now?" His voice crescendos into a roar.

"You return empty-handed."

The group of guards trembles as he paces closer, barefoot on marble spattered with dried pignt.

"Find Ciel Rosengarde." His words drip like acid.

"I don’t care how. Tear apart every street, every port, every rat-hole tavern on this island if you must. Bring him back to . Bring him back before they get to him."

His eyes narrow to slits. "If you fail, you’ll join the predecessors I hired before you. Their ashes and blood beca my last pignt." He smiles, cold and vicious.

"Perhaps you’ll make a finer red."

"Now go."

The n scatter, scrambling out of the studio like startled prey. The heavy doors slam shut, leaving Laurent alone in the cavernous room.

Alone with his obsession.

Thousands of canvases loom in the shadows, each bearing the sa face. Scarlet hair. Golden eyes. A beauty immortalized and mutilated across oils and sketches—sotis robed, sotis bare, sotis carved into the backdrop of violent fantasy.

Laurent drifts through the room like a phantom, finally stopping before one particular painting. A nude. Skin rendered with aching detail. But the painted man’s eyes do not et his, forever staring sowhere else. Untouchable.

Laurent lifts a trembling hand, caressing the painted cheek.

"My sweet muse..." he whispers, his voice breaking with hunger. "...I will have you back. And this ti, you won’t escape."

His thumb sars fresh red pignt across the canvas like a bloodstain.

***

Ciel

I’m halfway through a bite of avocado toast when I hear it—the sharp click of a cara shutter.

I freeze. Slowly turn.

"Can you not?" I grumble, glaring at Jack standing by the counter, cara in hand, grinning like he’s just caught in the middle of a magazine spread.

"I’m just trying to eat."

He chuckles, utterly unrepentant, and sets the cara down on the kitchen counter.

"What can I do?" he says, walking toward . "You’re so beautiful."

My heart skips. Not like before—not like panic. Like a stumble, a catch, sothing quick and dizzy in my chest. I don’t flinch this ti.

"I’m a giant waterlon," I mutter, glaring down at my rounded belly as if it betrayed .

Jack’s grin softens, turns warr. He leans down, thumb brushing my cheek.

"An attractive giant waterlon," he corrects, his voice low and sure.

I blink at him. My lips part to reply, but he tilts his head.

"You’ve got sothing here," he murmurs, brushing his thumb along the corner of my mouth.

"Where?" I ask, instinctively leaning forward.

Jack’s eyes glint. His lips curve with mischief.

And then he leans down—closer, closer—and instead of wiping it away, he licks the corner of my mouth.

I gasp, shocked.

And he takes that single second, that little breach, and presses his mouth to mine, tongue sliding past my lips in one smooth, deliberate motion.

How sneaky.

I can’t help it—I smile against his lips, the corners of my mouth curving even as his tongue brushes mine.

His hand shifts from my cheek to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling lightly in my hair as though I’ll bolt if he’s not careful. But I don’t move away. I lean in.

The kiss deepens—slow, deliberate, nothing frantic. He tastes like coffee and sothing faintly sweet, sothing distinctly him. He doesn’t crowd , doesn’t push. He just coaxes, tilting his head, brushing his lips against mine like he has all the ti in the world.