I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 121: A Frost-Gnat Did It

"Morning, Lord Cherion. The frost is thick enough to snap a spear today, isn’t it?"

Cherion didn’t even look up from the medicinal bandage he was currently strangling. His brain was operating on a five-second delay, stuck in a buffering loop that involved entirely too much sensory recall. "Is it? I hadn’t noticed. I was busy questioning why my lips have decided to stop working like normal body parts."

The knight blinked. He stood there, breath hitching in the frigid air, looking deeply concerned for the mental health of the man responsible for his stitches. "Right. Normal body parts. The knight scratched his head. "Uh... I’ll just leave you to it, yeah?"

"Yeah, please do. And if anyone asks, tell them the potatoes are going through something." Cherion muttered, waving a hand dismissively and ignoring the man’s bewildered retreat.

He made a beeline for the medical tent, or at least the corner of the camp where the crates were stacked in a way that vaguely resembled a workspace. He plopped down on a crate and zoned out, thumb brushing over his lip like he was trying to figure out what life choices led him here.

It was a goddamn catastrophe.

Behind his eyelids, the previous night was playing in a vivid, high-definition loop that refused to be deleted. The staggering weight of Zarius pressing him into the furs. The guy was supposed to feel like ice, but nope, his mouth was basically a whole bonfire. What the hell. And then, the "thread." That devastatingly messy, silvery thread of saliva that had stretched between them when they finally broke apart, a very unfortunate reminder that he, a normal modern person, had just been involved in... whatever that was with the human iceberg on a level that should not exist.

Cherion felt a wave of pure, personal injustice hit him. This was unfair. On every level. Emotionally, logically, spiritually, just a big no. Cherion was out here mentally fried, the guy responsible was forty feet away acting like nothing happened.

There he was. The Great Duke of the North. Zarius was currently barking orders at a group of shivering scouts, his posture as rigid as a glacier, obsessing over map coordinates with the chilling composure of a man who hadn’t spent the small hours of the morning devouring Cherion’s lips.

How? How did he just function? Cherion felt like a blushing, fumbling idiot, utterly convinced that the lingering puffiness of his lip was a neon sign, a glowing billboard flashing his "sins" to the entire Northern army.

Why didn’t I push him? the thought nagged at him, sharp and annoying. Why did I just... accept it? Like it was the most natural thing in the world to be kissed senseless by a man who communicates primarily through grunts and glowering?

"Ok, Cherion, ok. It was just a heating method," Cherion whispered to the crates, his voice a frantic, low rasp. "Body heat redistribution. It’s a thing. Very normal. Just... applied with enthusiasm."

Yeah... that lie tasted like it was going to come back and bite him hard.

"Lord Cherion! You’re awake! I thought the cold might’ve turned you into a popsicle!"

The voice was like a physical blow to his eardrums. Reiner bounced into the medical perimeter, carrying that "Golden Retriever" energy that always seemed to ignore the fact that they were in a literal death-trap of a wasteland. He didn’t have a concept of personal boundaries and he immediately leaned in, squinting at Cherion with a level of scrutiny that made Cherion’s heart perform a frantic, rib-cracking drum solo.

"I see that you keep touching your lips," Reiner noted, tilting his head like a curious bird. "Is there a rash? You look... shiny. And red. Mostly red."

Cherion yanked his hand away from his mouth as if he’d been burned. "Nothing. It’s nothing, Reiner. Just checking for frostbite. Move along."

Desperate to break the interrogation, Cherion grabbed his canteen and took a shaky, deep gulp. He needed to drown the panic. He needed to look like a normal, functioning human being who hadn’t been compromised by a Duke.

Reiner leaned in closer. Entirely too close. He smelled like woodsmoke and youthful enthusiasm. "Wait. Hold on. Did you get bit?"

Pffft.... Cough!

The water didn’t go down, it went everywhere. Cherion exploded into a violent, undignified spray, water flying out of his nose and mouth as he bent over double, hacking like he was trying to eject a lung. His brain was screaming.

He saw. The kid saw the tent. He saw the Duke. He saw the saliva thread. I’m dead. We’re all dead.

"Whoa! Easy!" Reiner slapped him on the back with enough force to actually dislodge the water. "I knew it. Those things are vicious this time of year."

Cherion gasped for air, his eyes watering, his face now a shade of purple that probably signaled a stroke. "Things? What... what things?"

Reiner shrugged innocently, looking completely unfazed by the near-death experience he’d just witnessed. "A frost-gnat. They love the heat. They usually go for the softest skin they can find. Nasty little buggers. Targeted your mouth while you were sleeping, huh?"

The relief hit Cherion like a physical weight being lifted off his chest.

"Yes!" Cherion wheezed, nodding frantically, his voice an octave too high. "Yes... the frost-gnat. The huge, evil, uninvited... predatory... frost-gnat. It was massive. Vicious. Truly next-level behavior."

"I knew it," Reiner said with absolute, terrifying sincerity. "They target you because your blood is probably sweeter or something. I heard they leave a mark that sticks around. You should probably put some ointment on that so it doesn’t get infected."

Cherion grabbed onto the lie like his life depended on it, mentally cursing the "Duke-sized insect" ignoring him across the camp. But the humor died instantly when Reiner turned toward the command center.

"I should go tell the Duke," Reiner said, his face lighting up with helpfulness. "If the gnats are this bad, he’ll want to fumigate the tents before we march. He hates pests."

"No!"

Cherion lunged forward, his fingers snagging the back of Reiner’s cloak and jerking him backward with enough force to make the boy stumble. His voice cracked, sounding like a rusted hinge. "You are not telling him. You are not telling anyone. Reiner, I am dead serious, if you mention my ’lips’ and ’the Duke’ in the same sentence to anyone, ever, I will ignore you for a week. Minimum. Do you understand me?"

The air in the tent suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

From behind the towering stack of supply crates, a shadow stretched across the packed snow. It was a long, sharp shadow. Cherion froze, his hand still white-knuckled on Reiner’s cloak, as a very tall, very dangerous-looking woman stepped into the pale light.

Marielle didn’t look like she was enjoying a morning stroll. Her hand was resting casually on the hilt of her dagger, and her eyes were narrowed with a terrifyingly focused curiosity. She had clearly heard the tail end of the conversation.

Her gaze dropped to Cherion’s reddened, puffy lower lip, then flicked toward Zarius across the clearing, and then settled back on Cherion with a slow realization that made the hair on his arms stand up.

She took a slow step into their personal space, her eyes never leaving Cherion’s face. "Care to tell me what exactly you were saying about my brother?"