I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 43: A Hand That Won’t Let Go

Softness.

That was the first thing Cherion felt. Not the kind of scratchy softness of the velvet couch, but a deep, luxurious, high-thread-count kind of comfort that made him want to burrow in and stay forever. He stirred, a languid sigh escaping his lips as he squeezed the pillow he was holding. Except, it wasn’t a pillow. It was firm and turdy. There was a faint, rhythmic thrumming beneath his cheek, and it was warm. Very, very warm.

Wait, he thought, his brain finally kicking into low gear. My pillows don’t have heartbeats.

Cherion’s eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw wasn’t the ceiling. It was the silver-threaded embroidery of a nightshirt, and the vast, muscular chest beneath it. His arms were wrapped quite contentedly around Zarius’s torso, and he realized with a jolt of pure electricity that he was essentially using the Duke as a giant, breathing bolster.

He recoiled as if he’d been burned, scrambling backward across the mattress until he almost tumbled off the edge. He sat up, his hair a bird’s nest, his breath coming in short, panicked puffs. "Oh god, oh god," he whispered, clutching his chest.

But then he felt a tug.

He glanced down and realized their hands were still tangled together. His right hand fit into Zarius’s left like it had found its place hours ago and refused to leave. Fingers woven tight. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

How? Cherion’s mind raced. He vividly remembered the couch. He remembered the distance between them.. He definitely did not remember a midnight stroll to the bed. Had he sleep-walked? Or had Zarius carried him here? The thought of the Duke lifting him up and tucking them both in was enough to make Cherion want to spontaneously combust.

"Ugh, no way," he muttered, dragging his hands down the front of his wrinkled robe like he could smooth the situation out with it.

He glanced toward the window. The sun was already up. Usually, this was the time Zarius started to look like he was made of grey wax and bad intentions. But as Cherion looked at him, the difference was staggering.

Zarius was still asleep, his features softened by rest. The hollow, skeletal look to his cheeks had filled out. The terrifying pallor was replaced by a faint, healthy flush. Even his breathing, which usually sounded like air being pulled through gravel, was steady and quiet.

The transfer, Cherion thought, a sense of awe washing over him. It actually worked.

He leaned in a bit closer, his curiosity getting the better of his shame. Up close, Zarius didn’t look like a villain at all. He had these absurdly long eyelashes that threw shadows over his cheekbones. His jawline was sharp enough to be a safety hazard, but there was something... peaceful about him.

"You’re actually so handsome," Cherion whispered, his voice barely a breath. "I mean, for a villain. If you weren’t so grumpy all the time, you’d probably have a fan club."

He let out a tiny, bitter snort as his mind drifted to the Palace. Cherion felt a surge of genuine annoyance on behalf of the world’s narrative.

"Why are you the villain?" he grumbled quietly to the sleeping Duke. "You’re so much better than that blonde-haired prince. Seriously. He is just... ugh. He’s like a gold-plated trash can."

In his previous life, Cherion hadn’t been much of a reader, but he knew enough about the "villain" tropes to find this whole setup suspicious. Why would an author put a curse like this on the supposed "bad guy"? It seemed like a massive oversight. If the "Male Lead" (Yerel) was so great, shouldn’t he be the one earning his keep? Putting a curse on the villain just made the hero’s journey feel like a participation trophy. It was too easy.

"Honestly, the author is kind of weird," Cherion mused, drifting back down until he was lying on his side, his face just inches from Zarius’s. He watched the sunlight slide through the strands of Zarius’s black hair, turning it glossy instead of silver. "Putting all the personality and the struggle on the guy who’s supposed to lose? That’s just bad writing. You should be the main lead. I’d definitely read it, and the manhwa adaptation too?"

He felt a strange, protective warmth blooming in his chest. It wasn’t just about healing anymore. It was about the unfairness of it all, the way the world had conspired to turn this man into a villain.

"Don’t worry," Cherion whispered, feeling brave in the silence. "I’ll scrub that curse right out of you. We’ll show that blonde prince what a real ’Monster’ looks like when he’s actually all healthy and strong."

He was so busy being the protagonist of his own internal drama that he didn’t notice the slight change in the room’s atmosphere. He didn’t notice the way the Duke’s fingers twitched against his palm.

"It is... exceptionally difficult," a deep, dry voice rumbled, "to continue my deep slumber with such an intense gaze burning holes into my face."

Cherion’s soul nearly left his body.

He bolted upright again, his face turning a shade of purple that probably wasn’t medically healthy. "You... you were awake, Your Grace?!"

Zarius slowly opened one eye. Then the other. There was no glare or scowl. Instead, a small, dangerously amused grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind of look that suggested he’d heard every single word about "blonde jerks" and "fan clubs."

"I was," Zarius murmured, his voice thick with sleep but filled with a terrifyingly clear intelligence.

Cherion’s brain shut down, then restarted. Before chose panic.

"Sure.. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re very good at... being conscious," he babbled.

He tugged his hand. Or at least, he attempted to, but it didn’t move.

Cherion blinked and looked down.

Zarius didn’t let go of Cherion’s hand. Instead, he tightened his grip, pulling Cherion just an inch closer as he looked up at him through those long, traitorous eyelashes.

"Tell me, Antel," Zarius said, the grin widening just a fraction. "Should I go back to sleep again... so you can stare a little longer?"