I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The morning cold was straight-up vicious. It was that specific brand of Northern cold that turned a man’s lungs into a lattice of glass shards with every inhale. Usually, Zarius met this hour with a face carved from the very glaciers he commanded, stony, unyielding, and perpetually radiating a ”do not speak unless the world is ending” energy. But today? Today, the Great Duke of the North looked like a man who had secretly discovered a second sun and tucked it into his breast pocket.

He was standing by the primary supply wagon, hands clasped behind his back, firing off logistical coordinates to the vanguard knights. His voice was steady, yes, but there was a certain... buoyancy to it. Something about the way he spoke felt different today, lighter, more in sync.. He even paused to offer a curt, approving nod to a junior scout who had tripped over his own scabbard, an act of mercy so rare it nearly caused a secondary pile-up of confused knights.

Elios, leaning against a frost-rimed fence post with a mug of something steaming and smelling vaguely of burnt grain, watched this display with narrowing eyes. He’d known Zarius since they were knee-high to a warhorse. He knew every twitch of the Duke’s jaw.

”You’re unusually spirited this morning, Your Grace,” Elios drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice cutting through the crisp air. He took a slow sip from his mug. ”Almost looks like a smile. If the men see that, they’ll think we’ve already won the war and start breaking out the celebratory ale.”

Zarius didn’t immediately snap back. He didn’t even offer the customary ”get back to work” glare. He tightened the leather strap on his gauntlet without looking away from the mountains. But his mind? His mind was miles away, trapped in the suffocatingly small space of a dark tent, replaying the friction of a lower lip against his own.

He meant for it to be just practical. He’d insisted it was nothing but a way to keep the cold out. To keep the little Omega warm. But the moment his mouth had actually met Cherion’s, the logic had evaporated like mist over a bonfire. The little Omega was... intriguing. He’d been an enigma since the first day he’d stepped into the snow with those ridiculous Southern silks and that sharp, defensive wit. But now? Now, Zarius found himself wondering if ”intrigue” was a strong enough word for the way his pulse spiked whenever he saw a certain head of silver hair in the distance.

”Instructions are clear. Move the heavy infantry to the flank by sunrise,” Zarius said, finally acknowledging Elios with a look that was far too calm to be natural.

Elios didn’t let him off the hook. He pushed off the fence, falling into step beside the Duke as they began the morning rounds. ”You’re sleeping with your mind elsewhere, Your Grace. Or perhaps you didn’t sleep at all? You have the look of a man who’s been... enlightened.”

Zarius allowed a small, barely noticeable smile tugged at his lips. It was there for perhaps half a second, a tiny crack in the glacier, before it vanished. But Elios saw it. The knight’s smirk widened into something knowing, something dangerously amused.

”The weather must be rubbing off on me,” Zarius muttered, his tone remarkably light. ”Though I suspect the ’enlightenment’ is just the lack of oxygen at this altitude.”

”Right. The altitude,” Elios echoed, his voice dripping with mock-sincerity. ”Nothing to do with a certain sharp-tongued healer, I’m sure.”

They made their way toward the cooking field, where the smell of woodsmoke and dicing salt-pork began to dominate the wind. And there they were.

They stood by the well together, working in silence that felt a bit too peaceful.. Marielle chopped the turnip with sharp, precise movements, while Cherion was carefully dicing something with a focused, furrowed brow.

For a moment, everything felt... calm.

Until Marielle lifted her knife. Zarius’s gaze snapped to it instantly.

The blade caught the morning light as she raised it, but from where he stood, the angle was all wrong. Too close. Far too close to Cherion.

Zarius’s protective instincts flared with the suddenness of a lightning strike. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his sister, well, not her temper, but the sight of Cherion there, smaller, unguarded beside her, set something off in him. He walked over, his boots crunching on the frozen ground.

In one fluid, possessive motion, Zarius looped an arm around Cherion from behind. It wasn’t a hug, not really, there was something more intentional in the way he held him. A subtle, ”I’ve got you” stance that forced Cherion to lean back slightly into the Duke’s solid, armored chest.

”Are you alright?” Zarius asked.

Marielle didn’t even look up from her turnip, though her blade paused for a micro-second. ”Relax, Brother. I’m not going to eat him. He’s actually quite useful when he isn’t shrieking about the cold. We’re just having a bit of ’quality culinary bonding,’ as he calls it. Oh, right. Good morning to you, too.”

Cherion, caught completely off-guard by the sudden physical contact, let out a laugh that was about three octaves too high. He tried to wiggle slightly, his face flushing a shade of pink that put the sunrise to shame. ”Yeah! Totally fine! Nothing happened. Just... you know, chopping veggies builds character. It’s very therapeutic. Really.”

Zarius didn’t let go. He leaned over Cherion’s shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the scene until it landed squarely on Cherion’s face. And there it was. In the bright, unforgiving light of the morning, he could see the slight, tell-tale puffiness of Cherion’s lower lip. Those lips, usually so ready with a sharp retort, looked impossibly soft, red, and, gods, plump.

The thought hit him fast and hard, enough to make him forget where they were.

I want it again.

The thought wasn’t a suggestion, it was a demand from his own blood. He wanted to drag him back to the tent, away from the prying eyes of Elios and the sharp tongue of his sister, and finish what they’d started.

Cherion was still rambling, something about the ”structural integrity of root vegetables,” but the words were white noise. Zarius leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of Cherion’s ear, his breath hot against the freezing morning air. The motion was so intimate, so blatantly scandalous, that Marielle actually stopped cutting her turnip and looked up, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.

”Next time,” Zarius whispered, his voice a dark, teasing rasp that only Cherion could hear, ”I’ll try to tone it down. Just a little.”

He felt Cherion go absolutely rigid beneath his arm, a soft, strangled sound escaping the healer’s throat. Zarius pulled back just enough to see the look of utter, wide-eyed shock on Cherion’s face, gave him a final, lingering squeeze on the shoulder, and turned to walk away as if he hadn’t just dropped a metaphorical bomb on the poor man’s dignity.

Behind him, he could hear Elios’s delighted, booming laughter and Marielle’s dry, contemplative ”Hmm.”

Zarius didn’t look back. The subjugation still came first, but for once, something else was starting to matter.