I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 54: The Loyal Servant’s Wrath

The iron bolt on the door might as well have laughed at him.

Locking the door did absolutely nothing when Soren had been carrying the master’s spare keys for who knows how long.

Tch. Amateur mistake. He should have shoved a heavy wardrobe against the frame, or better yet, ran to Zarius’s side in the first place. But regret wasn’t helpful when you were sharing oxygen with a man who looked like his sanity had just logged out without warning.

Soren stood perfectly still in the firelight.

"I thought you’d been kicked out," Cherion said, trying to sound calm even though his heart was doing cardio. He kept his hands flat on the desk, feeling the cold wood like a lifeline. "Flio made it sound pretty clear. So... unless you’re here to drop off your uniform, I honestly don’t see what you’re doing here."

Soren didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl. He just leaned forward, bowing so slowly it looked like he’d rehearsed it for a wedding. Cherion’s skin crawled.

"I came to serve you one last time," Soren replied. "Before I vanish from these hallowed halls. It wouldn’t be right to leave without saying goodbye properly."

"Save the theatrics, Soren. Seriously." Cherion rolled his eyes. "You’re not in the mood for service, and I’m definitely not in the mood for a staged goodbye. Just turn around, walk out that door, and maybe I wouldn’t tell His Grace about your rudeness for barging into my room like this."

The silence that followed was brittle. Then, it shattered.

The "I’m nice and harmless" vibe? Gone. Poof. Soren’s back stiffened, and the fake politeness peeled off like sunburned skin, leaving something that looked like it belonged in a horror movie. Then came the laugh. Low, dry, like someone rattling a jar of skeletons.

"Stop it," Soren spat, the politeness gone from his tone. "Stop acting so high and mighty. You think you’re special? You think a fancy title and a pretty face make you worthy of him?"

He stepped closer, and for the first time, Cherion actually saw it. That pure, concentrated rage in Soren’s eyes. Like years of bad vibes had been filtered into a single, "don’t mess with me" glare.

"I have spent years here!" Soren’s voice rose, cracking with a desperate, possessive edge. "I was the one who watched over the Duke. I have breathed the same air as him, anticipated his every need, lived for the slight nod of his head. I am from the North."

He moved closer, his shadows stretching long and distorted across the rug. "And then you arrive. A parasite. A nuisance. You walk in here and you think you deserve to stand beside him?"

Cherion’s heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. And no, this wasn’t the sweet, servant-is-devoted kind of love. This was an obsession that had finally reached its boiling point.

His eyes darted to the side. If he could just lunge for it, pull hard enough to trigger the chime in the hallway...

Schink. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

The sound of steel being unsheathed was quiet, but it stopped Cherion mid-thought. Soren was holding a thin, wicked-looking paring knife, the blade catching the firelight.

"Don’t you dare," Soren whispered. "Don’t even twitch toward that rope."

"Okay, okay. Easy with the cutlery." Cherion held up his hands, his mind racing. He needed to talk. He needed to find the logic, even if Soren was light-years beyond it. "Look, if you love HIs Grace this much, and clearly, you’ve got it bad, then why are you here? Tell him! Go to the Duke, pour your heart out, do the whole grand confession. Why are you wasting your breath on the ’nuisance’?"

Soren’s face twisted like someone had just dropped a lemon in his eye. "You think I haven’t tried enough? He never looked at anyone. Not the ladies of the court, not the soldiers, not me. He was ice. Perfect, untouchable ice. I accepted that. I could live with that." He took another step, the knife trembling in his grip. "But then he looked at you. Why? Why did the ice break for a disgraced pawn like you?"

Cherion looked at him and... wow. Just... wow. This guy had basically handed over his whole personality to a master who probably didn’t even know his middle name. Pathetic. Tragic. And nope, there was no way he could just have a "nice little chat" with this level of crazy.

"Maybe," Cherion said flatly, "it’s because I’m not a total psychopath who breaks into people’s rooms with a knife. Just a thought."

Soren roared, less human, more like a really angry raccoon with a vendetta.

Probably shouldn’t have said that, Cherion’s brain provided helpfully, but honestly, there was no ’proper’ way to negotiate with a man who was currently hallucinating a decade of romantic tension with a Duke who was more interested in war than romance.

And then Soren moved.

Cherion didn’t expect the speed. Soren vaulted it like it was a gym prop. Cherion scrambled, boots slipping, silks tangling.

Cherion lunged backward, his hip catching the corner of the desk. With a grunt of effort, he shoved the massive piece of furniture toward Soren, the wood screeching across the stone floor. It bought him a second, maybe two.

Soren didn’t care. He leapt over it like a parkour instructor with rage issues. Cherion scrambled toward the bed, his fingers clawing at the silks, but his boots slipped on the floor.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder and he was wrenched backward.

"You need to go," Soren hissed into his ear, his breath hot and smelling of sour wine and desperation.

"Get... off!" Cherion thrashed, flailing like a cat that just realized it was in a bathtub.

On impulse, he grabbed a fistful of Soren’s hair and yanked hard. Maybe enough to push him back.

Except Soren didn’t even flinch.

Cherion cursed under his breath. Okay, magic.

He stretched his hands, ready to unleash... and then remembered. Healing magic. Not explosive "get-the-hell-away-from-me" magic.

Cherion shoved again, more desperation than strategy, and Soren just leaned in closer, smiling, or whatever that was, a smile that belonged in a horror show.

He saw the cloth in Soren’s other hand, a damp, grey handkerchief. As it moved toward his face, a sharp, cloying scent hit him. The thing smelled like bitter roots and synthetic chemicals that really, really shouldn’t exist in this century.

Cherion squeezed his eyes shut, trying to turn his head, but Soren’s weight was crushing. The damp fabric pressed over his nose and mouth, cold and suffocating.

Breath. Don’t breathe. Just...

He took an involuntary gasp. The world immediately began to tilt.

The world spins. The fireplace turns into what looks like psychedelic spaghetti. Soren’s breathing? Distant. Ear drums? Pulsing. Limbs? Absolutely useless.

Cherion tried to look at the door. Tried to think of Zarius. Literally everything.

But the darkness was faster. It hugged him like a very aggressive blanket. Then everything went black.