Chapter 27: Where in the World Is My Omega?
Lucien stood tall, wiping the blood from his forehead with the last remaining tissue. A slow, dramatic inhale. Then—
"Now," he snarled, voice low and unhinged, "WHERE. IS. MY. CUSTARD?"
The baker, sprawled on the floor with crushed tarts in his hair and sheer terror in his eyes, let out a trembling squeak.
"I—I dropped them!"
Lucien narrowed his eyes so hard it looked like he was trying to laser through the man’s soul.
"You. Dropped. The. Custard?"
The room trembled—not from magic, but from disappointment so thick it became an atmospheric event. Somewhere, a god sighed. Somewhere else, a dessert cried.
There are moments in life when a man realizes he has truly, catastrophically fucked up. This was one of them.
Lucien, with the cold grace of a pregnant panther in Gucci heels, strutted over and sat on the baker’s back like divine punishment. Then, without pause, he yanked the man’s hair like he was ringing a service bell at the gates of hell and slammed his fist into the floor beside his head with a thud that echoed like a judgment day drumroll.
"YOU FUCKING ROTTING PIECE OF SOURDOUGH-LOOKING BASTARD!!" he screeched, wild-eyed. "DO YOU—DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT A CUSTARD TART MEANS TO A PREGNANT OMEGA?!"
The baker sobbed. "N-no?"