I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 44: The Hand That Comforts

Cherion cleared his throat, the sound echoing a bit too sharply in the silence of the Duke’s bedchamber. He felt the heat crawling up his neck, that traitorous, creeping flush that always betrayed him when he was flustered.

"Please," he began, his voice wavering only a fraction before he steadied it with a dose of his old hospitality-manager steel. "Don’t flatter yourself too much, Your Grace. I’ll admit you’ve got a... decent enough face, I suppose. Admirable. But that’s hardly the reason I was looking at you like that."

He prayed to whatever gods governed this ridiculous world that Zarius hadn’t caught his muddled mumblings from moments ago. Something about eyelashes? God, he hoped not.

"I was merely... assessing," Cherion added quickly, his hands fluttering in a vague, clinical gesture. "Gathering data. A professional diagnostic, if you will. I needed to see if the overnight contact had produced any tangible physiological shifts."

Zarius didn’t mock him. He didn’t even offer one of those infuriatingly knowing smirks. Instead, he simply sat up, the heavy silk sheets sliding down a chest that looked significantly less waxy and skeletal than it had the day before. He rolled his shoulders, a slow, predatory movement that lacked the usual wince of a man whose bones were turning to lead.

"Actually," Zarius murmured, his voice sounding deeper, resonant with a vitality that had been missing for years. "I feel... remarkably improved. Better than yesterday, certainly. The constriction in my lungs? Gone. The persistent, pounding pressure behind my eyes? It’s vanished. No cough. No wheeze. It’s as if the air itself has stopped trying to drown me."

Cherion couldn’t help it. He let out a sharp, spontaneous clap of his hands. "Oh, that’s so great! Truly." A grin broke across his face, genuine and wide, before he caught himself and tried to reel the enthusiasm back to sound more serious. "But, ah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A single night of hand-holding, while surprisingly effective, I’ll grant you, isn’t going to scrub a long-standing curse out in one go. We’re talking about a deep clean. We have to keep at this until we’re absolutely certain the last dregs of that Agony variant have evaporated."

Zarius nodded, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. He looked down at his own hand, the one Cherion had been gripping for hours, and flexed his fingers. "I understand. A war isn’t won in a single skirmish."

"Exactly," Cherion said, feeling a strange surge of pride. "Now that we’ve confirmed the transfer healing energy theory actually works in practice and isn’t just some dusty library theory, we’ve got the upper hand. But..." He paused, his brow furrowing as he chewed on his lower lip. "Getting rid of the symptoms is one thing. Dealing with the source is another. It’s all well and good to mop up the spill, but we really need to find out who the hell threw the bucket of poison at you in the first place."

Zarius’s eyes darkened, that cold Northern steel returning to his gaze. "I couldn’t agree more. Ever since you said that it’s a curse, I’ve been... re-evaluating certain histories. I’ve had my men quietly narrowing down the names on my list of enemies."

Wow, Cherion thought, a mental image of a scroll unraveling across the floor popping into his head. That’s gotta be a long-ass list. He thought of the Palace, of the poisonous court culture, and specifically of a certain Crown Prince who had looked at Cherion like he was a broken toy and at Zarius like he was a rival to be dissected.

"Well," Cherion said, abruptly moving to the edge of the bed. "Research for another time. For now, duty calls, and I really ought to get back to my own quarters before the rumor mill decides we’ve eloped."

He scrambled off the high mattress, his boots hitting the rug with a muffled thump. He felt a bit like a Victorian heroine escaping a scandal, which was a ridiculous thought for a man who used to handle 2 AM drive-thru complaints, but here he was. He smoothed down his robe, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

Zarius followed suit, rising from the bed with a grace that was honestly a bit rude for someone who had been ’critically ill’ twelve hours ago.

Cherion turned toward the door, his hand already on the heavy iron latch. But then...

"Cherion."

The name stopped him. It wasn’t ’Antel’ or ’Omega’ or ’Healer.’ It was just his name, spoken with a weight that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned back, his hand still on the door handle. "Yes?"

Zarius was standing by the foot of the bed, the morning light catching the sharp angles of his face. He looked... vulnerable, almost, in a way that had nothing to do with the curse and everything to do with the man standing in front of him.

"Thank you," Zarius said. He paused, as if the words were unfamiliar on his tongue, but he didn’t pull them back. "For your hard work. Good job, Cherion."

Then Zarius smiled.

Not the half-smirk that meant mischief. Not the polite, controlled noble smile that said I’m in command here. This was... something else entirely. Warm, open, almost reckless in its honesty. It lit up his eyes, softened the sharp planes of his face, and made the shadows in the room feel smaller.

Cherion felt his heart do a weird, stuttering little flip, the kind of thing that usually preceded a panic attack or a crush, and he was really hoping it was the former. He gave a jerky, awkward nod, his face heating up for the third time that morning.

"Right. Yeah. No problem. It’s what I’m here for," he blurted out, before practically diving through the door and into the hallway, shutting it behind him with a bit more force than necessary.

He stood in the corridor for a long moment, leaning his back against the wall, his chest heaving. Good job? He’d been told ’good job’ plenty of times before by regional managers and customers in rare good moods, but never in a way that made him smile from the inside out.

Somehow, it hit differently this time.