I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The velvet curtains of the bedchamber were drawn tight, sealing out the cool midnight air and trapping the room in a warm, suffocating dimness. The scent of heavy floral perfume mingled with the musk of sweat, a combination that usually grounded Yerel, pinning him to the present.

Right now, it was only making him sick.

Philia’s hands were in his hair, his strong fingers tugging gently at the dark strands as he pulled Yerel down for another kiss. Philia’s lips were firm, tasting faintly of the rich wine they had shared late into the evening. He was completely tangled in him, his breath hitching in a soft, low gasp against Yerel’s mouth as he arched his back, pressing his bare chest flush against Yerel’s.

By all accounts, Yerel should have been entirely consumed by him.

But as Yerel leaned over him in the dark, his hands gripping Philia’s waist to anchor himself, a sudden, violent jolt ran down his spine.

The shadows shifted across his vision. For a single, terrifying fraction of a second, the face beneath him didn’t have Philia’s eyes or his short, impeccably styled hair.

Instead, he saw a shock of ethereal silver hair splayed across the dark silk pillows, catching the faint glint of the dying hearth. He saw a pair of brilliant, mocking blue eyes looking up at him with absolute indifference, eyes that belonged to the one person who had completely slipped through his fingers.

Yerel choked on his own breath, his entire body locking up instantly. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal, a cold dread washing over him so fast it felt like ice water pumping through his veins.

”Your Highness?” Philia murmured, his voice laced with a lazy, midnight fog. He opened his eyes, blinking up at him in confusion when he felt the sudden rigidity in Yerel’s muscles.

Yerel didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was staring down at Philia’s face, his chest heaving as his mind frantically tried to scrub away the hallucination. It had been so vivid, so sickeningly real, that he could still feel the phantom ghost of silver hair brushing against his knuckles.

What is wrong with me? he thought, a wave of profound disgust rising in his throat.

”Your Highness?” Philia whispered, a seductive, knowing smile slowly returning to his lips as he traced a finger down Yerel’s bare shoulder, trying to draw his attention back down. ”Come back. The night is still young.”

The touch felt like a branding iron. Yerel pulled back abruptly, completely breaking the contact. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up with his back turned to the other man. The cool air of the room hit his bare skin, but it did nothing to stop the cold sweat pouring down his neck.

”I have to finish my work,” Yerel said, his voice flat, stripped of any warmth or passion.

Philia shifted behind him, the silk sheets rustling loudly in the quiet room. He sat up, his perfect composure cracking slightly into a frown of disbelief. ”Now? It’s past midnight.”

He reached out, wrapping his arms around Yerel’s waist from behind, pressing his broad chest against Yerel’s back as he rested his chin on his shoulder. ”Stay, Your Highness Whatever paperwork it is, it can wait until dawn. Let Karson handle it.”

Usually, Yerel would have indulged him. He liked Philia’s touch. But right now, the embrace felt suffocating. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to escape, to put as much distance between himself and this bed as humanly possible.

”I said I have to go, Philia,” Yerel barked, his voice sharper than he intended.

He pulled away from Philia’s grip with a harsh twist of his torso, standing up immediately. He didn’t look back as he reached for his trousers and linen shirt, pulling them on with hurried, tense movements in the dark. His hands were shaking slightly, a detail he desperately tried to hide by keeping his back turned.

Philia sat back against the headboard, the lazy warmth entirely vanishing from his face. His expression hardened into something cold and sharp.

He finished buttoning his shirt, threw his waistcoat over his arm, and finally turned to look at the man in his bed. His eyes were entirely void of the affection he usually faked so well.

”I have work to take care of, Philia,” he said quietly, the sheer coldness in his tone making the other man snap his mouth shut. ”Do not look for me for the rest of the night.”

Without waiting for a reply, Yerel turned on his heel and walked out of the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him with a firm click.

The hallway was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft moonlight filtering through the tall panes of glass. Yerel strode quickly down the corridor until he reached his private study.

He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and locked it securely behind him.

Yerel didn’t walk over to his desk. Instead, he walked straight toward the leather couch resting against the far wall. He let his waistcoat drop carelessly onto the floor, collapsing onto the cushions with a heavy, ragged exhale.

He threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the dim moonlight completely, and just lay there in the quiet.

His heart was finally slowing down, but his mind refused to give him peace. The image of the silver hair and those piercing blue eyes remained burned into the back of his eyelids.

It was a sick, humiliating joke. He had spent his entire life calculating his moves, ensuring he was always the one holding the strings. He had discarded Cherion because a broken, disgraced noble was useless to his ambitions.

So why, when he was holding the man he chose, was his subconscious forcing him to see the man he threw away?

It’s just because he changed, Yerel reasoned with himself, his fingers curling into tight fists against his chest. It’s because he dared to look down on me. Because he belongs to Zarius now.

Yes, that had to be it. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t regret. It was pure wounded pride. Cherion was supposed to be miserable, pining, and ruined. He wasn’t supposed to be walking around looking like a flawless, untouchable prince, shielded by the most dangerous man in the kingdom.

Yerel let out a bitter, humorless laugh into the empty room, the sound echoing faintly against the high ceiling.

His thoughts were slipping further and further, and the worst part was that he couldn’t stop it. The grand banquet for the subjugation success was approaching. The entire Capital nobility would be there. Zarius would be there. Cherion would be there.

Yerel closed his eyes tighter under the shadow of his arm, a resolve beginning to twist in his gut. He needed to see them. He needed to see Cherion break, to prove to himself that the silver-haired boy was still just a fragile, pathetic pawn. Only then would this sickening obsession finally leave his mind.

But as he lay there on the lonely couch in the dead of night, the memory of those cold, indifferent blue eyes flashed through his thoughts once more, leaving him with nothing but a lingering, hollow ache.