I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 77: A Choice to Make

The ceiling of the Duke’s bedchamber was, frankly, far more intricate than Cherion remembered. He lay there, tracing the dark grain of the heavy oak beams with his eyes, was that a carved wolf or just a very aggressive knot in the wood?, and felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

And there they were, holding hands again. Cherion could practically feel his energy flowing straight into Zarius.

It had been what? Weeks? Centuries? Time had a funny way of melting when you were busy trying not to die in a foreign dimension. He took a breath, intending to shift onto his side to find a pocket of mattress that didn’t feel like it was made of judgmental granite, and immediately regretted every life choice he’d ever made.

"Hnnn-gh."

"You sound like a man who has seen a century of winters," Zarius’s voice cutting through the quiet. Cherion seriously debated: throw a pillow? Faint dramatically? Maybe both at the same time.

"Yeah, and that thanks to the training you insisted on. My body is currently sixty percent bruises and forty percent pure spite. I sound like a man whose hamstrings have officially filed for divorce," Cherion retorted, his eyes still glued to the ceiling.

Zarius shifted beside him, the mattress dipping under his superior, infuriatingly healthy weight. "And yet, you did it. If it was such an ordeal, why continue? You could have simply said no."

"I did say no. Multiple times. Usually while eating dirt," Cherion grunted, finally managing to roll his head to the side to look at the Duke. "But a guy’s gotta be able to defend himself, right? I figured if I’m going to survive the North, I should at least have some thorns. Or at least know how to trip someone before they kidnap me. Again."

Zarius stared in silence, face unreadable as ever. Okay, maybe not entirely unreadable, there was a tiny softness around his lips now, which was new since the "Soren incident." "And how is the training with Elios actually going? Aside from the anatomical protests?"

Cherion let out a short, hysterical puff of a laugh. "Oh, it’s a masterpiece of comedy, Your Grace. Truly. I’ve successfully mastered the art of ’Advanced Dust Tasting.’ My primary combat maneuver currently involves distracting the enemy by complaining so loudly and so frequently that they eventually just stab themselves to stop the noise. I’m a tactical genius."

He paused, letting a dramatic beat hang in the air. "Seriously, though? Elios is a saint. A literal martyr. I’m pretty sure he spends his evenings meditating just so he doesn’t accidentally-on-purpose impale me out of sheer professional frustration. If your goal was to turn me into a knight, you should probably just pivot the strategy and let me be a very decorative shield. I’m much better at that."

Cherion narrowed his eyes at the Duke. "And why are you even asking me? Shouldn’t Elios be giving you daily briefings on my pathetic progress?"

Zarius actually smiled. It wasn’t one of those terrifying, "I’m about to execute a traitor" smiles, but something small and genuine that made Cherion’s stomach do a weird, uncoordinated flip-flop. "He does. But he tends to leave out the part where you tell the practice dummies that their mothers were poorly constructed cabinets."

Cherion snorted. "They were. The craftsmanship was appalling."

This warmth... it almost made you forget you were trapped in a novel and that the villain was literally right there.

Let’s hope that’s not going to be a problem anymore.

He cleared his throat, switching from "complaining, dramatic mess" to something that sounded like a grown-up.

"So," Cherion began, his voice dropping an octave. "I heard about the Subjugation. The real one. Not the ’let’s go for a stroll in the woods’ version."

He watched Zarius’s jaw tighten. The Duke didn’t pull his hand away, but suddenly his whole body went from relaxed to tense in an instant.. Cherion pressed on, asking about the monsters, the beasts, the things that shouldn’t exist. Zarius answered, though his explanations were clipped, missing the visceral details Cherion knew were hiding behind those obsidian eyes. He went on about how long it would take, how brutal the terrain was. Yep. Not fun at all.

"Okay," Cherion said, taking a deep, fortifying breath. "So... when are we departing?"

The silence that followed was so cold it could have flash-frozen the wine on the nightstand. Zarius stiffened, his protective instincts flaring up like a localized blizzard. "What do you mean by ’we’?"

"I mean ’we.’ As in you, me, the army, and hopefully a very large supply of things we need," Cherion said, gesturing vaguely between the two of them.

"No." The word was flat. Final. It had the weight of a falling guillotine. "You are not coming. What on earth would make you think I would allow you on this Subjugation? This is not a picnic."

Instead of snapping back, which was his usual instinct, Cherion forced himself to stay calm. He sat up, his lower back screaming a protest that he ignored through sheer force of will. He didn’t let go of Zarius’s hand. In fact, he anchored himself to the man, his thumb tracing the back of the Duke’s knuckles like it had a mind of its own. Didn’t even realize he was doing it..

"Look at me, Your Grace," Cherion said. "I’m not suggesting this because I have some weird desire to go camping in the snow. I hate the cold. I hate the dirt. I especially hate the idea of being eaten by something with too many teeth. This isn’t about adventure."

He leaned in, his gaze locking onto Zarius’s, refusing to let him look away. "You need me. And don’t give me that look. If you go out there and the curse flares up, if that disgusting curse starts eating you from the inside out while you’re trying to lead a charge, you won’t be a hero. You’ll be a liability. You’ll be a ticking time bomb that’s going to get your own men killed because their leader can’t stand up straight."

Zarius opened his mouth to protest, but Cherion held up his free hand.

"And let’s talk strategy," Cherion continued, his professional pride as a healer bubbling to the surface. "Your army certainly has field medics who think ’healing’ is a handful of moss and a prayer. I can actually stitch a wound without tools. I can manage infections that would normally rot a man’s leg off in three days. I am a strategic necessity, Your Grace. You can’t afford to lose me, and your men can’t afford to go without me."

The moon was higher now, spilling silvery light over the bed. Cherion could see the conflict in Zarius’s eyes, the battle between the wolf wanting to freak out and the reasonable commander who knew Cherion was right.

Cherion leaned in closer, drawn in by the warmth of Zarius’s skin, and his smell... it smelled good. He let a deceptively sweet, slightly terrifying smile spread across his face, the kind of look that suggested he’d already packed the bags and bought the horses, and Zarius was simply the last person to find out.

He reached up, his hand cupping the side of Zarius’s neck, his thumb resting just below the Duke’s ear. He could feel the heavy, thudding pulse there.

"I’m a package deal, Your Grace," he whispered, his voice a silken thread in the dark. "You wanted a partner? Well, here I am. And honestly? I think we both know you don’t actually want to go into that dark alone."

He waited for a beat, letting the weight of his logic and the warmth of his proximity do the work.

"So... the choice is yours, Your Grace. Either you let your partner in, or you lose this fight before we even begin."