I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”Oh my god, Mr. Henster,” Cherion mumbled into the fabric, his voice thick and distorted with sleep. ”I swear... go to the doctor. The walls are paper thin, man. Some of us have a double shift.”

Sleep was a heavy, suffocating blanket that Cherion wasn’t ready to throw off. He groaned, instinctively burying his face deeper into the plush silk of the pillow, trying to muffle the violent, repetitive sound rattling through the room. It was a wet, jagged noise, the kind that makes your own throat ache just hearing it.

”Khu-hak! Hak-ugh... wheeze...”

He waited for the silence of his old apartment to return. But the sound didn’t stop. It grew more frantic, a rhythmic convulsing that made the very mattress beneath him tremble.

Cherion’s eyes snapped open. The light of a Northern morning filtered through heavy drapes. He wasn’t in his polyester uniform, he was tangled in sheets that cost more than his old life.

He bolted upright. Beside him, sitting on the edge of the massive bed, was Zarius. The Alpha was hunched over, his broad shoulders heaving, his face buried in a trembling hand as he tried to stifle a cough that sounded like it was trying to tear his lungs out through his throat.

Right. Not the apartment. The novel. The curse.

”Alpha?” Cherion gasped, scooting across the mattress. The transition from the powerful, moonlit beast of the previous night to this shattered, gray version of a man was enough to give anyone whiplash. ”Are you... are you okay?”

Zarius didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. Between two agonizing, racking heaves, ”Ugh-hak! Kkhh!”, his voice came out as a strangled, bitter rasp. ”Do I... hack... look like I am... wheeze... okay to you?”

Cherion winced. Stupid question. Right. Zarius clearly wasn’t in the mood for bedside pleasantries, and frankly, who could blame him

Cherion scrambled out of the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a slap that made him hiss. He navigated the room, finding the heavy ceramic pitcher and a silver cup on the side table. His hands shook slightly as he poured the water.

”Don’t bother,” Zarius managed to choke out, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the bed. ”I have... grown accustomed... to this.”

”Well, I haven’t,” Cherion countered, hurrying back and pressing the cup into Zarius’s hand. ”Just drink. I’ll be back in a second. Don’t go anywhere.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He bolted.

Stepping into the hallway, Cherion realized he had the navigational skills of a blindfolded hamster in a maze. He felt like an absolute idiot running in his sleepwear, but his luck held out, he nearly collided with a maid carrying a basket of linens.

”Excuse me! Miss! Yes, you!” Cherion blurted out, startling the poor girl. ”Quick, show me the way to the kitchen.”

She nodded frantically, her eyes wide, and led him through a series of turns that Cherion knew he’d never remember. The kitchen was already so busy, smelling of baking bread and roasting fat. The sudden appearance of the Lord Consort sent a ripple of shocked silence through the room.

”Hi, everyone! Don’t mind me! Carry on with the... breakfasting!” Cherion chirped, scanning the tables. He spotted a bewildered cook and marched over. ”Is there warm water? And lemons? I need honey too. A lot of it.”

The cook pointed toward where a kettle was steaming. Cherion worked fast, hands flying as he cut the lemon with a speed born of his old drive-thru days. He dumped a big spoonful of honey into a mug, filledit in warm water, and squeezed the lemon until his fingers stung.

Okay, room. Room. Left at the big scary painting, right at the sword rack. He thanked the staff over his shoulder and sprinted back

When he burst back into Zarius’s chamber, he didn’t even bother to close the door. The Duke was still there, looking even paler, his breathing a shallow, whistling thing.

”Here,” Cherion panted, thrusting the mug toward him. ”Drink it.”

Zarius looked at the murky, yellow liquid with deep suspicion. His red eyes, though dimmed by pain, still had enough edge to cut glass. ”What is... hack... this? Is this how... you Southern spies... finish the job?”

”Oh my god. If I wanted to kill you, I’d use something that tastes better than hot lemonade,” Cherion snapped, his patience wearing thin. To prove his point, he took a quick, aggressive sip. The sourness hit the back of his throat, making him wince. ”See? No foam. No dying. Just citrus. Drink it.”

Zarius finally took the mug, drinking it slowly. The warmth and the honey seemed to coat the raw lining of his throat, and the violent spasms finally began to subside into a heavy, exhausted silence.

Cherion let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and sat down on the mattress beside him. He looked at his broad, heaving chest, visible through the gaps in his loose nightshirt. If only I had some Vapo-Bub. Man, some minty, medicinal rub would be a godsend right now. I’d pay an arm and a leg for some menthol.

Since he didn’t have it, he did the only thing he could think of. As Zarius set the glass down, Cherion reached out and placed his palm firmly against his chest.

He started to rub in slow circles. He could feel the heat radiating off Zarius’s skin, a strange, feverish warmth that seemed to thrum beneath his touch. Cherion focused, trying to channel that weird glow he’d felt before, even though it didn’t ignite. He just wanted to provide some kind of comfort.

He kept rubbing, his fingers tracing the hard muscle of the Duke’s chest. He knew he was crossing a line, but at that moment, the ”Villain” didn’t feel like a threat. He felt like a puzzle that Cherion was desperate to solve.

”What are you... doing?” Zarius asked, his body stiffening under the touch.

Cherion froze.

His hand stilled, palm still warm against Zarius’s chest, fingers spread like he’d been caught reaching for something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. Slowly, he looked up.

They were looking at each other when a sharp, dry cough from the doorway shattered the moment.

”Uumm, Lord?”

Cherion jumped so violently he nearly fell off the bed. He pulled his hand away as if Zarius’s skin had turned to white-hot iron.

Elios was standing in the open doorway, his hand on the hilt of his sword, looking caught between a military report and a hasty retreat. His expression was a masterpiece of ”I did not see that, and I would like to continue not seeing that.”

”I... I was just...” Cherion scrambled to his feet, smoothing down his rumpled clothes, his face turning a shade of red that probably glowed in the dark.

Zarius didn’t say a word, though his gaze remained fixed on Cherion. He looked entirely too calm for someone who had just been getting a chest massage from his ”spy” fiancé.