Chapter 146: Living the dream
Chapter 145
Nolan
"Okay, doggy?" Jack asks.
His voice is softer now.
I nod slowly.
Okay.
I think I am.
"This is the part where you guys kiss now," Ciel announces brightly, completely shattering the weight of the moment.
I choke out a laugh—
And it gets swallowed by Jack’s lips pressing against mine.
His hand is still at the back of my neck, but instead of holding me in place, his thumb strokes gently against my skin, I melt before I can stop myself.
There’s something different about this kiss.
It isn’t charged with our normal tension.
I kiss him back, slower this time, more deliberate. My hands slide up to his shoulders, grounding myself in the solid warmth of him, in the reality of this — of us.
When he pulls back slightly, our foreheads brush again, breath mingling, the moment unhurried.
"You good?" he murmurs again, like he needs to hear it twice to believe it.
I nod.
"Yeah."
And I mean it.
Ciel shifts beside us, tugging lightly at Jack’s sleeve.
"What about me?" he asks, lips pursed in an exaggerated pout, golden eyes wide and expectant.
Jack huffs a quiet laugh and turns immediately, cupping Ciel’s face with a gentleness that still surprises me sometimes.
He kisses him differently ,softer at first then Ciel melts into it, fingers fisting into Jack’s shirt as if he’s been waiting all night for that exact contact.
I instinctively make space for them, sliding back on the bed. Their kiss deepens, slow and unguarded, the kind of intimacy I feel like I shouldn’t be witnessing.
To give them privacy, I start to shift off the bed, I barely make it halfway upright before a firm hand wraps around my wrist.
"Oh no," Jack murmurs.
The next second I’m pulled back down onto the mattress between them.
"Hey—" I start, laughing.
But I don’t get to finish.
Ciel is suddenly at my left, Jack at my right, and they descend on me like coordinated chaos.
Both place warm, deliberate kisses along my neck, one after the other, as if they planned it. Any thought of escaping dissolves instantly.
I give up.
My hands, which had been half-prepared to push them away in mock protest, instead settle against them — one in Ciel’s hair, the other gripping Jack’s sleeve.
I remember at the beach house, I always wanted to be in this exact position sandwiched between them.
Now I’m here.
Ciel’s lips are soft and warm against the curve of my neck, lingering, unhurried. Jack’s mouth presses against the other side, slower, firmer, like he’s grounding me instead of overwhelming me.
I don’t move.
I don’t even pretend to.
I’m living my dream after all.
***
Ciel
Apparently, being a prince’s lover means I don’t get to drift through my days the way I used to.
There are schedules now.
Timetables.
Expectations that stretch from dawn to late afternoon.
Etiquette lessons. Public decorum training. The precise way I am supposed to incline my head depending on rank. How far I stand from Jack in official photographs. Which side I occupy when the Queen is present. The angle of my shoulders. The way I fold my hands when seated.
It’s exhausting.
Not because it’s difficult.
But because it’s constant.
Every movement feels measured.
Every blink feels observed.
Still, it only takes a few days before my body falls back into rhythm. My father made sure of that long ago. Long before I ever imagined standing beside a prince, he trained me like I was already something to be presented.
How to smile without showing too much teeth.
How to laugh softly, never loudly.
How to sit in a way that suggested grace but not dominance.
He always said I had potential.
Potential to be valuable.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
Today, I’m attending a charity function with the Queen. It’s meant to be gentle ;children, scholarships, cultural preservation — the sort of event designed to soften public perception.
Photos will be taken.
Statements will be published.
And inevitably, he will see them.
My father.
The man who has always looked at me and calculated return on investment.
I stare at myself in the mirror a second longer than necessary.
The tailoring is impeccable. The fabric drapes like it was poured over me. The insignia at my collar is subtle but unmistakable, proximity to power stitched into thread.
From the outside, it must look like he’s won.
His carefully raised, meticulously trained omega has indeed been "acquired" by the highest bidder.
A prince.
I inhale slowly.
Exhale.
I turn away from the mirror before I can convince myself otherwise and step back into the gala.
The room is a living organism — glittering chandeliers, low orchestral music, silk and jewels shifting under golden light. Conversations hum like distant static.
And the gazes.
I pretend not to notice them.
Envy.
Jealousy.
Disdain.
Admiration.
Curiosity.
Speculation.
They land on my skin like invisible fingerprints, but I refuse to flinch. My spine remains straight, my chin level, my expression composed.
I move through the room until I take my place beside the Queen, she acknowledges me with a small nod.
I smile when spoken to. I answer concisely. I laugh softly at the appropriate intervals. I allow photographs without shrinking, positioning myself exactly as instructed during rehearsals.
Perfect angle.
Perfect posture.
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
Somewhere, someday, Baron Rosengarde will see these images printed in ink and spread across society pages.
He will feel proud.
Satisfied.
Vindicated.
And I hate how that thought cheapens what Jack and I have.
I force my thoughts away from him. I refuse to let him occupy space here.
"The rumors certainly do not accurately describe your beauty."
The voice is old. Smooth with entitlement.
An elderly nobleman takes my hand before I can withdraw it and presses a dry kiss to my knuckles.
I smile politely.
"Stop looking at my son-in-law with those eyes," the Queen says lightly, her tone teasing.
But beneath it, I hear steel.
"Your Grace," the man replies, eyes lingering on me far too long, "I was merely appreciating beauty."
I’ve been looked at like this before.Since I was 14, it doesn’t bother me anymore.
"Now, dear uncle," the Queen continues, stepping ever so subtly in front of me, her body creating a barrier, "sometimes it’s best to admire art from behind glass."
The shift is small, but unmistakable.
She shields me....I thought she didn’t like me.
"Understood," he says with a shallow bow before retreating.
As he turns, I notice his hand slide around the waist of a young omega with dark hair.
The omega’s expression is distant, detached and out of body. I know that look.
Such is the life of an omega in Solmere.