I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”Goodnight, Lord Cherion.”

Soren’s voice had that practiced, oily sheen to it, the kind of polite tone that made Cherion want to check if his wallet was still in his pocket. The man was finally retreating, backing out of the bedchamber with a bow so deep it felt more like a mockery than a gesture of respect. When the heavy door finally clicked shut, the sound was the most beautiful thing Cherion had heard all day.

He collapsed backward onto the mattress, letting out a sigh that practically deflated his entire lungs. Finally, alone.

”No hate for the guy, really,” Cherion muttered to the ceiling, his voice muffled by the plush velvet pillows, ”but he is hovering like a literal human fly. A big, handsome, judgmental fruit fly.”

It was exhausting. Back at the palace, he’d had a little freedom. Sure, there were guards and the occasional gossiping maid, but he wasn’t being shadowed every single second. He wasn’t used to this level of scrutiny. In every online novel he’d ever scrolled through during his old life, the loyal ”attendant” trope was always a thing, but experiencing it firsthand was just... weird.

Only when Cherion performed his finest ”I am a very sleepy boy” routine, yawned so wide his jaw actually made a small pop sound, that Soren finally bid him goodnight and left.

The worst part? The bathing. Soren had actually insisted, with a straight face, on helping him scrub his back. Cherion had almost choked on his own spit. He’d made it incredibly, awkwardly clear that unless he suddenly lost the use of both his arms, he was perfectly capable of washing his own elbows in private. It’s a basic human right, isn’t it? Privacy while you’re naked?

Who in the world had made the rule that nobles, or anyone of high status, needed another person to help with even the most basic of tasks?

He lay there for a moment, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. He felt a phantom itch to reach for his phone, to scroll through TicTac for just five minutes of mindless brain rot, but then the reality of his situation hit him. No 5G. No memes. Just a looming death sentence and a grumpy Duke.

”Ten percent magic, ninety percent waiting around in the dark for something to happen,” he grumbled. ”Worst transmigration ever. Zero out of ten stars. I would not recommend it.”

He forced himself to sit up, his eyes darting to the ornate clock on the mantle. He needed to wait so he set a mental timer for thirty agonizing minutes. To pass the time, he practiced his ”stealth walk” across the rug, which was basically just him tiptoeing and looking like a confused flamingo.

When the clock finally chimed the half-hour, moving with the grace of a budget-bin ninja, he grabbed his heavy, fur-lined robe and wrapped it tight.

He patted the pocket of his tunic. The little notebook was there. It felt heavy with the weight of Zarius’s symptoms, every cough, every symptom, every dark mystery he’d managed to pry out of the Duke during their ”interview.”

He peeked into the hallway. Empty. The torches were dimmed to low flickers, making long, distorted shadows that looked way too much like reaching claws. He crept toward the Duke’s wing, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The plan was simple, meet Zarius at his room, then head to the library together. Safety in numbers, right? Plus, Zarius was the only one who could get them into the forbidden stacks without the guards tossing Cherion into the dungeon.

He reached the towering doors of the Duke’s private chamber. He took a deep breath, checked the hallway one last time, and raised his hand.

Knock. Knock.

No answer.

”Maybe he’s already left?” Cherion whispered to himself. He frowned, looking back toward the dark corridor. He didn’t want to stand out here like a sore thumb.

Still, he had to try again. He swung for a third knock, but instead of the solid, unforgiving thud of ancient oak, his knuckles met something... soft. Resilient. And warm.

Cherion’s eyes widened. He blinked, his gaze traveling from his own hand to the space directly in front of him. The door was open. It hadn’t made a sound.

He clearly wasn’t knocking on wood.

He was knocking on a chest. A very broad, very bare, and very damp chest.

Cherion’s head snapped up.

Standing there, framed by the amber glow of the fireplace behind him, was Zarius. He clearly hadn’t been ”waiting” in the way Cherion expected. The Duke’s hair was a wild, wet mess of dark strands, droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes and sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Hell, he was barely wearing anything, just a low-slung pair of trousers that looked like they were held up by sheer willpower.

The heat radiating off him was immense, smelling of cedar, rain, and some sharp Nothern soap. His skin was glistening, steam still rising from his shoulders as if he’d just stepped out of a boiling bath.

”You’re here,” Zarius said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that Cherion felt more in his teeth than in his ears.

Cherion stood frozen, his knuckles still practically resting against the Duke’s pectoral muscle. He stared at the water dripping down the center of Zarius’s torso, unable to find his voice. His brain, usually so full of snark and modern quips, had completely short-circuited.

”I... uh... I was...” Cherion stammered, his face erupting into a heat that could have melted the Northern ice caps.

Zarius didn’t move. He didn’t cover himself. He just stood there, his red eyes narrowed in the dim light, looking every bit the predatory Alpha Duke he was supposed to be. The ”sickly” man from this morning was nowhere to be seen.

In the shadows of the doorway, he just looked dangerous. And very, very naked. Well, half-naked.

”Are you planning on finishing that knock,” Zarius asked, a hint of dry amusement playing in his voice, ”or are you just going to keep touching me?”