Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 260: Vindictive

Veyron POV

"Unhand me!" I snarl, my voice rough, hoarse from screaming. But it does nothing. No one listens. No one cares.

My body is weak—wrong. Every muscle, every tendon, every nerve refuses to obey me. I feel like I’m trapped in my own skin, weighed down by something foreign, something vile.

"Do you know who I am?!" My voice cracks, desperation curling at the edges. "I am Duke Veyron! I will have you all executed—!"

A sharp laugh cuts through the air, dismissive. The man holding my chains barely spares me a glance, speaking to the burly, bearded man standing before me like I’m nothing but chattel.

"He’s a little old, and ugly, but still, when else can you get an omega this cheap?"

Omega.

The word slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. My vision swims.

No. No, this is a nightmare. A hallucination. A lie.

I am not—I could never—

"Fine," the burly man grunts. "Is he really in heat?"

The first man smirks. "Of course. It’s just momentarily suppressed."

The weight of his words makes my stomach drop. The coins exchange hands, cold, metallic clinks sealing my fate. And then—just like that—I am sold.

My mouth opens, but no words come out. My throat is dry, my body trembling.

This isn’t happening.

But it is.

The burly man takes a step forward, and instinct kicks in—I try to run. I force my legs to move, to bolt, but the second I turn, my knees buckle.

A wave of unbearable heat slams into me, burns through my veins, turning my limbs into lead. My vision blurs, the room spinning in dizzying circles.

This scent.

It’s wrong.

It’s cloying, thick, pressing into my lungs like smoke, making it impossible to think.

I know this sensation.

I’ve witnessed it countless times—on others. Omegas in heat, their bodies desperate, pliant, betraying them in ways they couldn’t control.

But this isn’t me.

This can’t be me.

"No," I rasp, shaking, willing my body to obey. "No, no, NO!"

I try to crawl away, but my body trembles, collapsing in on itself. My breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps, and the heat—it’s consuming me. It coils around my gut, tightening, pulling, demanding—

I hate it.

I hate this.

I have always been in control. I have always been strong. Feared. Respected.

Now?

I am nothing.

A plaything. A commodity.

A pathetic, desperate omega, writhing on the ground.

"This isn’t real," I whisper, barely able to hear my own voice over the sound of my own pounding heartbeat. "This isn’t happening. This isn’t—"

A large shadow looms over me.

I look up.

And there he is.

The burly man—his shirt already discarded, his rough, calloused fingers working at his belt buckle, the hunger in his eyes unmistakable.

Panic claws up my throat, but my body—betrays me.

I can’t move.

I can’t fight back.

And I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate it—

And yet—

My body shudders, the heat forcing me to submit.

And in that moment—

I break.

***

Jonathan storms through the doors, his face twisted in disgust, his stomach roiling at the putrid scent of sweat, lust, and omega pheromones thick in the air. The closer he gets, the stronger it becomes, cloying and suffocating, making his skin crawl.

He has been the Duke’s butler and assistant for over a decade, trapped in that role against his will. He remembers the day it happened—the day he had to choose between his own dignity and the safety of his family.

His younger brother, an omega, was one of the Duke’s victims. The vile man had set his sights on him, sinking his claws in, ready to ruin him like he had ruined so many others. Jonathan had done the only thing he could. He had struck a deal.

His brother’s life, his nephew’s life, in exchange for Jonathan’s servitude. A lifetime at the Duke’s side, forced to obey, to cater to his whims, to stomach the man’s endless depravity.

And for ten long years, he had endured.

Until now.

Duke Veyron had been missing for three months. The moment they realized he was gone, Jonathan knew—someone had done this on purpose. Every lead, every attempt to track him down had been cut off, blocked.

Whoever had taken him had wanted to keep him hidden.

And today—today, they finally got a tip.

Jonathan ascends the stairs, his boots clicking against the worn wooden floor. The second floor is quiet—eerily so. The only sound is the heavy breathing of the guards behind him, their unease palpable.

Then, as they turn down the hall, it hits him.

The scent.

Thick, suffocating omega pheromones. Heat.

Jonathan stops, his breath hitching.

No.

No, it can’t be.

His eyes flicker toward the doors lining the hallway. One by one, they push them open, revealing empty rooms—until—

They find him.

The door swings open, and nothing—nothing—could have prepared them for the scene before them.

A group of men—filthy, ravenous—moving in a brutal, rhythmic tempo. And in the middle of it all—

Duke Veyron.

On his knees.

Moaning.

Begging.

Jonathan feels his stomach churn.

The room is silent for a beat, the sheer wrongness of what they’re seeing rendering them speechless.

Then, Veyron’s head jerks up, his gaze hazy but sharp enough to recognize him.

"Kill them."

His voice is hoarse, but the command is unmistakable.

Jonathan reacts without thinking.

"What are you standing there for?!" he barks, and the guards snap out of their stupor.

Steel sings as weapons are drawn, and within seconds, the room is filled with the sounds of screams and flesh being torn apart. The men who had defiled the Duke moments before are now nothing more than corpses littering the floor.

Blood pools around their bodies, soaking into the wooden boards, but Jonathan doesn’t look at them.

His gaze is locked on Veyron.

The once-mighty Duke is trembling, his naked, abused body barely able to support itself. He’s trying to gather the remnants of his pride, to pull together the shattered pieces of his dignity. But there’s nothing left.

Jonathan watches as he wavers, as his body betrays him yet again, wracked with the undeniable, humiliating truth—he is still in heat.

Still burning.

Still desperate.

Something deep and vicious rises inside Jonathan.

Hatred.

Revulsion.

And yet—beneath it, something darker.

Something vindictive.

For years, he had watched Veyron tear apart others, destroy lives, take without remorse.

He had seen the suffering he inflicted on young, naive omegas—how he broke them. How he left them as nothing but empty shells.

Now—

Now it is his turn.

Jonathan makes eye contact with one of the guards. A silent message passes between them.

Without a word, the guard steps forward and closes the door.

Locking them in.

"Jonathan!" One of the younger guards looks at him, alarmed, his face paling. "What are you doing?!"

Jonathan ignores him.

His hands move to his belt, the leather slipping through the loops with a quiet, menacing hiss.

He steps forward.

Veyron’s fevered gaze meets his, flickering between confusion and dawning horror.

Jonathan smirks.

"When else," he murmurs, voice chillingly soft, "will anyone ever get the chance to do this to you?"

He kneels, looming over the broken Duke, watching the way his breath stutters, the way his pupils dilate.

"You should be grateful, Your Grace." Jonathan tilts his head mockingly. "I’m just treating you the way you treated all those omegas before you."

He leans in closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

"I’m just giving you what you deserve."