I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 40: The Night Too Long

"Honestly, Cherion, I’m beginning to lose track of which one of us is supposed to be the dying patient."

The voice was like grinding stones, cutting through the heavy silence in that library. Zarius slammed his own book shut and just sat there. The Duke was staring at him. It wasn’t that predatory, wolf-like gaze he usually leveled at the world, it was something else. Something twisted with a grudging, grumpy sort of concern that he clearly didn’t know how to wear properly.

Cherion blinked, his vision swimming for a second as he pulled his focus away from the book. "Huh?"

"You heard me," Zarius muttered, leaning back until his chair groaned in protest. He gestured vaguely toward Cherion’s face with his hand. "You look like a walking corpse. I’ve seen men in the middle of a plague ward who had more color in their cheeks than you do right now. Do you even remember what sunlight looks like, or have you decided to become a library bat?"

Cherion snorted, the sound echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings. He wanted to offer a witty retort, something about how Northern ’sunlight’ was just a different shade of grey anyway, but he didn’t have the energy. He caught his reflection in the polished silver inkwell on the table.

God, he really did look like a cold mess. The bruised shadows under his eyes were already halfway to full panda status. All he needed now was a couple of smudges on his eyelids to complete the look.

It had been ten days. Ten whole days since he’d stepped into the home of the man who was supposedly the future villain of this story. Technically speaking, everything was going smoothly.

He’d accidentally won over the kitchen staff with "tacos," when all he’d really wanted was to cook himself something tasty and nostalgic from his old world. And somehow, he’d also built a good reputation with the soldiers and staff he healed, despite the fact that he’d only been trying to practice his magic.

Of course, not everyone appreciated it. Some refused his help outright, muttering all kinds of accusations about his motives. But honestly? He didn’t give a damn.

But the cost was starting to show.

Sleep had basically become something he was too broke to afford. He read from sunset to midnight, and even when he finally could lie down, he still couldn’t actually sleep thanks to this whole ridiculous "hospitality" thing.

He thought about his bedroom, beautiful, spacious, almost as grand as the one he’d had back at the Royal Palace. Every evening, a fresh bundle of firewood was delivered. And every evening, it was the same disaster. The logs were damp. Not just slightly wet, but completely soggy, like someone had deliberately soaked them in sleet before dropping them off. They never caught fire. They only hissed and spat, filling the room with thick, bitter smoke that burned his eyes and scraped his throat raw. It smelled like a swamp trying to cosplay as a campfire, and it produced absolutely no warmth.

He’d spend hours curled up under thin blankets that felt emotionally supportive at best, physically useless at worst, shivering like a wet cat until he eventually passed out for a short, miserable nap after feeding paper scraps into a sad little flame an hour before Soren came knocking. He was always awake before the attendant arrived anyway. The cold wouldn’t let him do anything else.

"I’m fine," Cherion lied, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. "There’s nothing to worry about."

Suddenly, the air beside him shifted. One second Zarius was across the table, and the next he was just... there. Apparently, the man moved like a very large, very intimidating house cat.

With one hand on the table, Zarius leaned in at a pace that should’ve come with suspense music. His other hand lifted, slowly and very illegally to Cherion’s personal space, and next thing he knew, Zarius was casually holding his cheek like it belonged to him.

For a heartbeat, Cherion almost leaned into it. He was so tired, so devastatingly cold, that the simple human warmth of a hand felt like a miracle. But then, reality snapped back.

Cherion’s face went bright red, and definitely not from any magic. "Ahaha... no! Seriously, Your Grace!" He shoved at the hand, arms flailing, and tipped dangerously in his chair. "I’m trying to focus! On... on reading! Not on... whatever you’re doing with that giant hand of yours!"

He shoved his face back into the book, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His eyes blurred over the text, but he forced himself to read. Transferal. Magic. Energy.

Cherion’s eyes went wide, like he’d just spotted a puppy in a pile of laundry. A small, guilty smile crept onto his face. Oh... this was about transferring healing energy.

But then he read the next line.

THUMP

Cherion snapped the book shut like it had personally offended him. He clutched it to his chest, knuckles so white he could’ve passed for a porcelain doll. His breathing came in shallow, panicked bursts, and for a second, he half-expected the book to bite back.

Zarius’s hand hovered in midair like it had been caught in a spider web, brow furrowed, watching Cherion like a cat judging a failed mouse. Cherion didn’t know whether to apologize, explain, or just curl into a fetal position behind the book. Probably all three at once.

"Chreion?" Zarius asked, his voice low and laced with a confusion that was rapidly turning into suspicion. "What did you just find? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a death warrant."

Cherion froze for a moment, his eyes flicking up at Zarius, wide and guilty. He caught himself staring longer than he intended and immediately felt the unmistakable heat of shame creep up his neck. He snapped his gaze back down to the book in his hands, pretending it was the most absorbing thing in the world.

Ha! You have no idea. It’s way worse than a ghost or a death warrant. Definitely worse. Probably... catastrophically worse. Yeah...