I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 48: The Grip That Holds

The shadows in Zarius’s bedchamber were softer tonight. They didn’t feel like the encroaching walls of a tomb for once, but more like a heavy velvet curtain drawn against the biting Northern wind outside. Zarius leaned back against the headboard, his eyes tracing the carvings of the ceiling beams.

It was quiet. Not the suffocating, ringing silence of a fever dream, but a genuine, peaceful stillness.

He remembered taking a slow, deep breath earlier that day. No hitch in his lungs. No jagged cough threatening to tear through his throat, no heavy pressure blooming behind his eyes like some dark flower. For the first time in what felt like forever, he hadn’t spent daylight counting the seconds between waves of pain. A proper day of life. Honestly, it felt amazing.

He shifted his weight, his fingers brushing against the silk duvet. A part of him, the cynical, battle-hardened part that had ruled the North with an iron fist, waited for the other shoe to drop. He waited for the curse to realize it was being evicted and bite back. But for now? For now, the "disgusting rot," as he often thought of it, seemed to be receding into the corners of his soul.

A sharpknock vibrated against his door.

Zarius’s heart did a strange flutter, adrenaline, surely. "Enter," he said.

He straightened his posture, expecting a mop of silver hair and a look of flustered concern, but as the door creaked open, it was Flio who stepped into the amber glow of the lamps.

Zarius let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his shoulders dropping just an inch. "Oh. It’s you."

Flio paused, his hand still on the latch. He raised a single, expressive eyebrow, a faint, knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t say a word. The disappointment on the Duke’s face was probably visible from the battlements.

"Always a pleasure to be so warmly welcomed, Your Grace," Flio said, his voice dry as old parchment. He crossed the room with practiced ease, his boots silent on the thick rugs as he collected the dinner tray from the side table. He didn’t linger. "The kitchen staff will be pleased to see you actually finished your broth for once. Sleep well, Your Grace."

"Goodnight, Flio," Zarius replied.

The door shut with a soft thud, and Zarius found himself alone again. He sighed, sliding further down into the pillows until he was lying flat, one arm draped over his forehead as he stared at the door. He was waiting. It was pathetic, really, the Duke of Valtrane, the Iron Shield of the North, lying in wait like a fledgling knight awaiting his first command.

He didn’t have to wait much longer.

The second knock was different. Hesitant and soft.

The door opened just enough to let a sliver of light from the hallway hit the floor, and then Cherion was there. He looked a bit frayed at the edges, his hair a mess as if he’d been running his hands through it all evening.

"Good evening, Your Grace," Cherion said, hovering awkwardly by the entrance.

"You finally decided to show up," Zarius replied back. He didn’t look away from the door. Instead, he reached out and tapped the empty space on the mattress beside him, a clear, unmistakable invitation. "Come here. Let’s get started."

Cherion stopped mid-step, his face going a very interesting shade of pink. "You know, you’re really not helping the situation by saying things like that. And in that position? Seriously?"

Zarius blinked, a flicker of genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. "What? I’m merely being efficient. We have work to do, don’t we?"

Cherion let out a huff, crossing his arms over his chest as he stayed firmly planted by the foot of the bed. "Why can’t we just use the couch? I can sit on one edge, you can on the other, like last night. Normal, professional sitting. We don’t need to turn this into a slumber party."

Zarius shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, the silk of his nightshirt straining slightly over his shoulders. "And then what? You’ll inevitably fall asleep halfway through the session, your head will drop onto the table, and I’ll have to carry you back to your bed for the second night in a row because I know we both can’t sleep comfortably there? What’s the point in that? It’s an unnecessary waste of energy for a man who is supposed to be recovering."

Cherion froze. His eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open for a split second before he found his voice. "Wait. Hold on. Did you... did you carry me last night?"

Zarius let out a short, dry laugh. "No, Cherion. I asked the Gods to grant you the ability to not only heal people with your touch but to spontaneously fly while unconscious. Of course I carried you. You’re not exactly a feather, but you’re manageable."

Cherion’s face went from pink to a deep, alarming crimson. He looked down at his boots, suddenly fascinated by the stitching. "Oh. Right. I... I didn’t realize."

"You can be shy too, it seems," Zarius noted, his voice softening.

"I’m not shy," Cherion stuttered, his voice climbing an octave. "I’m just... caught off guard. You’re in a very weirdly good mood tonight. Joking around like this?"

"How could I not be?" Zarius countered, his gaze turning serious. "We finally found a way. Or rather..." He paused, his eyes tracing the line of Cherion’s jaw. "No. You found a way."

He then laid his hand flat on the silk duvet, palm up, waiting.

Cherion sat on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. He hesitated for a heartbeat before placing his hand over Zarius’s. It was a perfect fit. Zarius didn’t just leave it at that, he shifted his fingers, sliding them between Cherion’s, intertwining them until their palms were pressed firmly together.

"Goodnight, Your Grace," Cherion whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

"Goodnight, Cherion," Zarius replied.

He closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him. He expected the usual drift into sleep, but as his consciousness began to blur, he felt something he hadn’t expected. Cherion’s grip, usually so light, so careful, suddenly tightened. It wasn’t an accidental twitch. It was a firm, desperate clench, as if Cherion were holding onto him to keep from being swept away by a current.

Zarius didn’t pull back. He squeezed back, the weight of that shared hand the only thing anchoring him to the world.