I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The weight of Zarius’s hand on his shoulder felt like a brand, hot, heavy, and far too permanent. Cherion could feel the warmth seeping through his cloak, steady and distracting, making his own blood buzz in a way that was, honestly, kind of annoying. He needed air. Or space. Or a very big distraction before he forgot how to breathe like a normal person.

”Oh! Look at those!” Cherion blurted out, a bit too loud. He practically lunged toward a stall draped in strange, shimmering netting, effectively shaking off Zarius’s grip.

He didn’t look back to see the expression on the Duke’s face. He couldn’t. Instead, he threw himself into examining a merchant’s collection of things that crawled, fluttered, and glowed. Back in his world, bugs were just... bugs. Here, they were apparently useful.

There were ”Rain-Crays”, translucent blue beetles that hummed like a cello when the air got humid. The seller, a man whose skin looked like crumpled parchment, happily explained that if the hum turned into a sharp whistle, you had exactly ten minutes to find shelter before it started pouring.

”And this one?” Cherion asked, pointing to a moth the size of a dinner plate, its wings patterned like a stained-glass window.

”A Cinder-Moth, lad,” the seller said cheerfully. ”Keep ’em near the hearth, and they’ll eat the soot right out of the chimney. Cleanest flues in the North, guaranteed.”

Cherion hovered there, pretending to be deeply invested in the soot-eating habits of oversized moths, but his attention was split. He could hear Zarius nearby asking about trade taxes and feeding costs.

Feeling a bit restless, Cherion drifted. He figured Zarius would be occupied for at least a few minutes, and there was a stall just a few paces down that caught the light in an interesting way. Bone carvings. Tiny handmade stuff. Nothing suspicious. He didn’t think twice about the distance. Ten feet. Fifteen. What could possibly go wrong in the middle of a busy market in broad daylight?

But the ”thud” happened first.

Cherion walked right into a wall of muscle that reeked of cheap alcohol. He stumbled back, boots slipping a little on the slushy cobblestones, and looked up. He wasn’t looking at a merchant. He was looking at three men who looked like they’d just crawled out of a bar fight. They smelled of sour tobacco and the kind of desperation that usually ended in a knife in the dark.

”Well, now,” the leader sneered. Big guy. Scar through one eyebrow. ”Look at this little flower. Lost your way, have you, sweetheart?”

”Please move,” Cherion replied flatly, voice dropping into that cold tone he’d mastered back in the Capital.

He tried to slip past them, but they closed in, stepping together without missing a beat.

”So cold,” another one mocked, stepping closer. ”A delicate thing like you shouldn’t be out in the frost without a proper fire to keep you warm. We’ve got plenty of heat to share.”

Cherion’s patience snapped the second someone grabbed his wrist. Not just a grab, a squeeze, meant to intimidate.

And then it got worse.

But then, the third one, a skinny rat-faced man slid a hand firmly onto Cherion’s waist. His hand slipped lower, brushing where it absolutely shouldn’t, like he had every right to be there.

Everything went still in an instant before...

SMACK

His fist connected squarely with the man’s eye socket. It wasn’t a ”noble” punch, just pure desperate strike that used every ounce of his frustration. The sound was sickeningly satisfying, a wet thud followed by the man’s guttural howl of pain.

The disgusting grip on Cherion’s waist vanished instantly as the man recoiled, his hands flying up to clutch his face in panic. Cherion didn’t wait. He ripped his wrist free from the leader’s now-loosened hold, stepping back into a defensive crouch as the other one finally let his grin die.

The other two froze for a heartbeat, stunned that the ”flower” had thorns. The leader didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even check on his friend. ”You little snake... I’ll peel the skin off your...”

They reached for the hilts at their belts. Steel flashed. But they never got the chance to draw.

The light got cut off as a shadow fell over the alley. Cherion didn’t even have to look. He felt the shift in the air, the way the ambient noise of the market seemed to die in terror.

Zarius was there.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t roar. He simply moved. Before anyone could react, Zarius already caught the leader’s wrist. There was no struggle. There was only the sound of Zarius’s grip tightening, like dry wood snapping under too much weight.

”Was the punch from him not enough?” Zarius asked quietly. ”Or are you looking for a more permanent way to lose that hand?”

The man’s scream ripped through the air, high-pitched and jagged. The other two backed off immediately, knives forgotten, faces going pale.

Zarius didn’t look at them. He looked at Cherion. ”Where,” Zarius rumbled, ”did they touch you?”

Cherion was still riding the adrenaline, knuckles throbbing. He pointed without hesitation. Wrist. Then waist. ”Here. And here.”

Zarius didn’t hesitate. He didn’t offer a lecture on mercy. He simply applied a fraction more pressure.

A distinct, sharp crack echoed off the stone walls. The man slumped to his knees, his hand dangling at an angle that was physically impossible for a healthy limb.

The noise finally pulled in the guards. They charged in, weapons already up, ready to deal with what they probably assumed was a normal street fight. The lead guard opened his mouth to bark an order, but the words died in his throat. He looked at Zarius.

”Your Gra...!”

Zarius cut him off with a single, sharp shake of his head. The guard choked on the title, eyes going wide as it hit him, this wasn’t just anyone. This was the man who owned the very ground they stood on.

”Take them,” Zarius ordered. ”Ensure they never harass another soul ever again. If I see them on these streets tomorrow, I will hold you accountable.”

The guards didn’t argue. They practically fell over themselves to drag the whimpering, broken men away, and just like that, everything went quiet.

Cherion stood in silence for a second, then started clapping. ”Bravo,” he chirped, though his voice had a slight tremor he couldn’t quite hide. ”That was... impressive. Truly. I wish I could break bones like that.”

Zarius turned to him, the dangerous edge fading back into that usual stoic expression. He looked at Cherion’s hand, the one he’d used to punch the man. ”If you tried that, you’d likely break your own fingers instead of their ribs. You’re lucky you didn’t shatter your knuckles.”

”Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

”It worked,” Zarius admitted, but his tone shifted. He stepped closer, reaching out to tap Cherion’s forehead with his finger. ”This is what happens when you wander off.”

”I was ten feet away!”

”Ten feet is too far,” Zarius countered. He didn’t move back. If anything, he moved into Cherion’s space, reclaiming the space Cherion had slipped out of earlier. ”From now on, you stay within arm’s reach.”

Cherion opened his mouth to argue, but the words died as Zarius’s hand settled. It didn’t go back to his shoulder.

Zarius slid his arm around Cherion’s waist, pulling him firmly against his side as he led them away from there.