I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The doors of the King’s private study shut with a soft click, cutting off the low hum of the monarch’s voice. Cherion let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the rigid tension in his shoulders dropping an inch.

”Well, that went better than expected,” Cherion murmured, turning around. He began walking down the wide corridor, looking back over his shoulder at Marielle, who followed just a half-step behind. Her chin was held high, her posture a perfect mirror of northern discipline, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. ”I honestly thought he would make us jump through a few more administrative hoops before granting the permission.”

”His Majesty knows better than to stall when the North makes a reasonable request,” Marielle replied, her voice cool and steady. ”Besides, we were just simply...”

THUD

Cherion’s shoulder collided directly into something incredibly solid. The unexpected impact broke his stride, sending him stumbling backward on the slick floor. His arms flailed slightly as gravity threatened to pull him down, but before he could make a very ungraceful acquaintance with the ground, a firm, heavy hand shot out.

The grip clamped around his upper arm, bracing his weight with effortless strength. Another hand caught his waist, pulling him forward just enough to stabilize his footing.

”Careful there,” a smooth, distinctly familiar voice drawled above him. ”It would be a pity to ruin such a fine outfit on the palace floors.”

Cherion blinked, his breath hitching as he looked up. Staring down at him, with a thoroughly amused smirk playing on his lips, was Yerel. Of all the corridors in the massive royal palace, and of all the people to run into, it had to be him.

How utterly unfortunate, Cherion thought, his stomach doing a small, uncomfortable flip.

”Oh. Your Highness,” Cherion managed, quickly trying to restore his balance.

He expected the hands to drop immediately. They didn’t. Yerel remained standing entirely too close, his eyes locked onto Cherion’s face, analyzing his expression with a strange, intense scrutiny. The grip on Cherion’s arm didn’t loosen; if anything, the fingers tightened just a fraction, anchoring him in place.

Cherion shifted his weight, trying to subtly squirm backward to create some distance. ”Your Highness, if you could...”

Yerel didn’t move. He just kept staring, his gaze lingering on Cherion’s face in a way that made the quiet hallway feel suddenly suffocating. The silence stretched a second too long, thick with an unspoken friction that made Cherion’s pulse quicken with a mix of annoyance and unease.

Before the moment could get any weirder, a sharp, icy presence stepped between them.

Marielle reached out, her gloved hand gripping Cherion’s free shoulder and firmly pulling him backward. The movement forced Yerel to let go of his grip, his hands dropping back to his sides as Cherion was safely hauled into Marielle’s protective orbit.

”Your Highness,” Marielle said, her voice dropping a few degrees below freezing. She stepped slightly in front of Cherion, using her own stature as a physical shield. She offered a textbook, flawless noble bow, though her eyes remained entirely dead. ”Thank you for saving my brother-in-law from an embarrassing fall. Your reflexes are as sharp as ever.”

The gratitude was wrapped in a layer of frost so thick it could have preserved meat.

Yerel smoothed down the front of his doublet, entirely unfazed by her hostility. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face as he looked at her. ”Marielle. I see the crisp northern air hasn’t softened your legendary tongue. You haven’t changed a bit since our last encounter.”

”And you, Prince Yerel, remain exactly as I remember,” Marielle replied instantly, her tone perfectly polite but dripping with a quiet disdain. Everyone in the court knew she had a fierce, unyielding protective streak when it came to her brother, Zarius. Since Yerel was Zarius’s primary rival, Marielle treated him with the exact same warmth one might extend to a cobra in a garden.

Yerel chuckled, a low, humorless sound. He tilted his head, his eyes shifting past Marielle’s shoulder to land back on Cherion, who was now standing quietly, his expression carefully wiped of all emotion.

”So,” Yerel said, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced at the heavy oak doors down the hall. ”What exactly brings the two of you to my father’s private study? I was under the impression the Duke handled all official northern business personally.”

The question was casual, but the underlying trap was obvious. He was digging for information, trying to figure out what kind of chess pieces Zarius was moving behind the scenes.

Cherion didn’t flinch. He offered a polite, shallow bow, stepping up to stand beside Marielle so she didn’t have to carry the entire conversational burden. ”It was nothing, but a boring administrative work, truly. Nothing that would interest someone of your stature.”

”Is that so?” Yerel asked, his brow twitching upward in clear skepticism.

”Incredibly,” Marielle cut in, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. ”And since our business here is concluded, we must go. My brother will be looking for us, and I have no desire to keep hin waiting. If you will excuse us, Your Highness.”

She made a motion to step past him, and Cherion immediately followed her lead, eager to put as many walls between himself and Yerel as humanly possible.

But as Cherion stepped away from he prince, Yerel’s hand shot out again.

This time, his fingers wrapped firmly around Cherion’s wrist.

The contact was sudden and entirely inappropriate for the middle of a palace corridor. Cherion stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at the hand clamping his wrist, before slowly raising his eyes to meet Yerel’s gaze. The sheer boldness of the move made Cherion’s jaw tighten.

”Your Highness,” Cherion said, his voice dropping its polite facade, becoming clipped and direct. ”Is there something else you require from me?”

Yerel didn’t answer right away. He stared at Cherion, then his gaze drifted down to his own hand, which was still tightly gripping Cherion’s wrist. For a split second, the prince’s confident, arrogant expression faltered. A look of genuine shock crossed Yerel’s features, as if he himself hadn’t realized he was going to reach out until he had already done it. He looked startled by his own impulsiveness, his own sudden, inexplicable need to stop Cherion from walking away.

The arrogant prince looked entirely caught off guard by his own hands.

Yerel abruptly let go, drawing his hand back as if he had just touched hot iron. He cleared his throat, his mask slamming back into place, though a faint, dark flush crept up the back of his neck.

”No,” Yerel said stiffly, looking away toward the end of the hall. ”Nothing. See to it that you don’t get lost in here, Cherion.”

Cherion didn’t wait for a formal dismissal, nor did he care about the warning. The moment the pressure left his wrist, he grabbed Marielle’s arm and practically dragged her down the corridor.