Chapter 167: Little mistress
The carriage ride was steeped in heavy, awkward silence, the weight of the night pressing on each of them. The events they had witnessed—the violence, Thorne’s raw fury, and the upending of the social order—had left them each with their own tangled thoughts.
Celia, unable to bear the silence any longer, spoke up, her voice low and hesitant. "Your son, huh?" She tried to sound casual, but the question carried a tremble, betraying her conflicted emotions.
Duke Remiro glanced at his wife, then let out a soft, almost tired chuckle. He reached over and took her hands in his, the warmth of his touch a grounding presence. "If Callan is your son," he said, voice gentle yet resolute, "then Thorne is mine, too."
Seated across from them, Callan leaned forward, his own expression solemn. "He’s right, Celia," he said, his tone filled with sincerity. "I feel guilty, too. You were with me when Thorne needed someone... but maybe now we can make it up to him." His words were a quiet reassurance, a small offering to mend the unspoken wounds they all carried.
Celia’s lips quivered, and she swallowed back the rising lump in her throat. The woman who had raised Callan and come to love him as her own felt the sting of past mistakes. Yet here he was, the boy she had given so much of her heart to, comforting her. Callan had never called her "mother," but she knew it didn’t make her any less of one. The bond they shared had been built over years of love, care, and sacrifice.
Tears welled in Celia’s eyes, and she gripped Callan’s hand. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking. The weight of her emotions, of the years spent trying to hold their fractured family together, spilled out in those two simple words.
Callan exhaled deeply, his fingers raking through his hair as he tried to process the whirlwind of events. "I’m just... stunned," he murmured. "Who would have thought Thorne’s omega had been taken by the king himself?" His mind raced with the implications, the sheer audacity of the situation, and the chaos it was bound to unleash.
Celia’s face darkened, memories of the past flashing through her mind. "The king’s obsession is dangerous," she said, her voice steady but filled with unease. "He doesn’t let go easily. I remember how he was back when Princess Mirelle fled the kingdom... his wrath was unrelenting."
Duke Remiro listened to his wife and son with a grave expression, then leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "That’s where we come in," he said, his tone heavy with responsibility. "Or rather, where I come in." His gaze flickered to Callan and Celia. "I have to. Blood has already been spilled today, and knowing Thorne’s temper, more will follow if we don’t act."
He paused, his jaw tightening. "I’ll do whatever I can to smooth things over with the king. The last thing I want is for our home to turn into a battlefield." He glanced meaningfully at Celia, and then at Callan, the unspoken weight of his words sinking in. It had been a close call tonight. Had he not intervened, the banquet hall would have descended into a civil war, a catastrophic clash between power and rage.
No one spoke for a moment, the enormity of it all settling around them like a suffocating fog. They knew Remiro was right. The fragile peace they had clung to would have shattered if he hadn’t stepped in, and the kingdom itself would have been drenched in blood.