I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Oh la la.

That was the only thought, coherent or otherwise, that managed to crawl through the thick, syrupy fog of Cherion’s half-awake brain. Not exactly the deep, poetic inner monologue you’d expect from someone who had successfully dodged death for... some time now. But honestly, the view was doing him zero favors.

Cherion didn’t move. He didn’t even think he was breathing properly. He just lay there under the heavy charcoal-colored blankets, watching Zarius’s face. The Duke was close like, illegally close. It wasn’t like this was the first time they’d shared a breathing space.

But this morning? Yeah, it was different...

His mind, usually his most reliable weapon, decided to betray him by playing a highlight reel of the last few days. He remembered the lingering heat of Zarius’s hand on his back. He remembered the suffocating silence when they were half-naked in the cave, hearts hammering in a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear. And then, last night...

The ”blood.” The panic. The way his own soul had tried to exit his body the second he thought Zarius was fading.

Cherion wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. It was almost funny, really. He’d spent months slapping the ”business partner” label on everything. It’s a transaction, he’d told himself. Protection for presence. It was a tidy little lie that kept his heart behind a high, stone wall. But as he watched Zarius’s chest rise and fall, it hit him. While he’d been busy trying to survive the ”plot” of this world, his heart had quietly gone rogue and rewritten the script without his permission.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

”Your Grace? My Lord?”

His voice sounded like he was trying really hard to stay professional while also internally screaming. ”The Royal guests... They are preparing for departure. His Highness is demanding a final audience. He says he cannot leave the North in good conscience without ’verifying’ the Duke’s stability.”

Wow. Romance to survival mode in under three seconds. New record.

Blankets gone. Warmth gone. Reality back.

And somehow, here they were.

Cold air. Horses snorting clouds of frost. Fancy royal carriages sitting there like they owned the place.

Yerel and Philia were already there, draped in furs that probably cost more than a small village. They looked like walking portraits of fake concern.

Yerel stepped toward Zarius, who was currently leaning heavily on Cherion’s shoulder. The Prince’s voice went all low and sorrowful that made the hair on the back of Cherion’s neck stand up.

”Zarius... truly, my heart bleeds to see you in such a state,” Yerel said, his eyes scanning the Duke’s ”corpse-like” face with a hunger he couldn’t quite hide. ”You must prioritize your health. The Crown needs the North to be stable, but we cannot have you pushing yourself into an early grave for the sake of duty.”

It took everything in Cherion not to roll his eyes. Where was all this sympathy last night? What, did he wake up on the wrong side of the bed and suddenly grow a conscience? Ugh.

His performance was so shallow a toddler could have seen the bottom. The sigh? Overdone. The head tilt? Please. Amateur hour. Cherion glanced at Zarius, who was currently doing a masterful job of looking like he was about to faint, and thought, You should really take notes, Your Highness. You’re losing the lead role in your own drama, and you don’t even know it.

Zarius didn’t even blink, mostly because he looked like he lacked the physical strength to move an eyelid, but his voice came out as a fragile, papery rasp.

”Your Highness is too kind,” Zarius wheezed, the sound so pathetic it was practically a work of art. ”But please... don’t trouble your heart. This ’state’ is an old friend of mine. We’ve been acquainted for a while now. I’m quite used to the company.”

Cherion bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. Old friend? More like a bitter roommate.

Before stepping away, the ”Gentle Protagonist” turned to Cherion with that soft, saintly expression that screamed danger.

”It’s such a shame, Lord Cherion,” Philia murmured, stepping close enough that Cherion could smell the annoying, sweet scent of his perfume. Of course, he wasn’t going to stay quiet. ”We didn’t get nearly enough time to ’reconnect’ properly. The North is so... isolating. I truly hope you’ll be more social once you return to the Capital. Our old friends are all dying to see how much you’ve changed. They talk about you constantly, you know.”

It wasn’t a friendly invitation. It was a veiled threat. A sharp reminder that in the Capital, Cherion wouldn’t have the rugged walls of the North or the Duke’s private army to hide behind. He was telling him: I know who you were, and I can make you that person again.

Cherion didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He matched Philia’s fake sweetness with the same fake smile

”Oh, I’m sure they are, Lord Philia,” Cherion answered. ”And I simply can’t wait to see them too. I’ve learned so many new... skills... here in the North. It would be a tragedy not to share them at the upcoming royal parties.”

Polite. Friendly.

Also: Try me.

Zarius, who had been playing the ”dying” part to perfection, suddenly shifted. He didn’t speak, but his hand moved, resting on Cherion’s shoulder with a dark, heavy intensity. It was a silent, possessive gesture. It said, quite clearly: Touch him, and you won’t live to see the next season.

Philia’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, just for a second, before he climbed into his carriage.

The doors slammed shut. The drivers cracked their whips. The wheels began to churn through the slush and mud, and finally, the Royal procession began to crawl away from the manor gates.

The silence that followed was glorious.

Cherion let out a huge, genuine breath of relief that seemed to rattle his entire frame. He turned to Zarius, his face splitting into a bright, triumphant smile that he didn’t even try to hide.

”They’re gone,” Cherion laughed, feeling a surge of invincibility. ”Finally! We actually did it, Your Grace! We won this round!”

He leaned into Zarius’s side as they began to walk back toward the warmth of the manor, his mind already spinning with the next set of plans. He was feeling bold, reckless, and incredibly happy. He was already thinking about what they would do with the rest of the day, perhaps a real lunch, a quiet moment by the fire, a chance to explore this new ”partner” dynamic?

He was so caught up in the victory, so busy watching the snow-capped roof of his new home, that he didn’t look back.

He didn’t see the Royal carriage slow down as it reached the bend in the road. He didn’t see the heavy velvet curtain being pulled back just a fraction of an inch.

And he definitely didn’t see Yerel.

Inside the carriage, the Prince wasn’t resting. He wasn’t mourning his ”dying” friend. He was sitting in the shadows, his face cold and stripped of all its fake sorrow. His eyes were fixed intently on the window, watching the distant, tiny figure of Cherion, who was currently laughing and leaning into the Duke with a vibrant, glowing energy that Yerel had never seen before.

Yerel didn’t look angry. He looked... focused. He watched the way Cherion’s smile caught the morning light, his gaze a little too intense to be casual. He watched until the carriage rounded the corner and the manor disappeared from view, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t finished.

Not even close.