I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The heavy iron gates of the Avery estate swung open with a quiet, oiled glide as the carriage turned into the cobblestone driveway. The estate was imposing, surrounded by manicured hedges and tall, ancient oaks that caught the golden light of the late afternoon sun.

”I’m not letting you go back like this,” Derrick insisted firmly as the carriage ground to a halt before the front portico. He smoothed down his wrinkled coat, though his hair was still slightly tousled from lying unconscious on a stall floor. ”We had a miserable end to our afternoon, Cherion. The least I can do is host you for a proper dinner so we can shake off the stench of that theater washroom.”

Cherion offered a faint, tired smile as Ezek opened the carriage door. ”Derrick, really, you don’t have to entertain me. You should rest.”

”Nonsense,” Derrick scoffed, stepping down first and holding out a hand to help Cherion. ”My mother would skin me alive if she found out I let you leave after everything that happened. Besides, I’m feeling alright already.”

Reiner stepped out behind Cherion, adjusting his tunic with a precise, professional flick of his wrists. He gave Ezek a brief, grateful glance, which the guard met with a subtle nod, before both fell into step behind Cherion as they walked up the grand marble steps.

The front oak doors were thrown open by two liveried footmen. The interior of the Avery townhouse was breathtaking, warm mahogany paneling, soaring ceilings decorated with delicate frescoes, and massive crystal chandeliers that threw soft, dancing light across polished marble floors.

Standing near the base of the sweeping staircase was Marchioness Avery. She was an elegant woman in her late nineties by noble standards, dressed in a sweeping gown of dark violet silk with a high lace collar. Her hair was styled neatly atop her head, and her face bore a gentle, welcoming expression the moment her eyes landed on Cherion.

”Lord Cherion, dear!” the Marchioness called out, her voice bright and melodious as she stepped forward, extending both hands. ”What a wonderful surprise! Derrick mentioned he was taking you on an outing, but I didn’t expect to have the pleasure of your company for dinner!”

Cherion took her hands gently, bowing his head with practiced, easy grace. ”Marchioness Avery. It’s always a privilege to see you. I hope I’m not intruding on your evening.”

”Intruding? Never!” She beamed, clasping his hands warmly before her gaze shifted over to her son. Her smile faltered slightly as she took in Derrick’s slightly disheveled appearance. ”Derrick... why do you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge? And why are your guards standing near the door with such stiff expressions?”

Derrick let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck. ”Mother... we had a bit of a situation at the theater.”

The Marchioness’s eyebrows pulled together instantly. ”A situation?”

In a quick, breathless five minutes, Derrick recounted the entire ordeal, the knockout powder in the washroom, Heinrich Bramwell’s unhinged vendetta, Cherion’s surprising hand-to-hand beatdown of the attacker, and Heinrich being dragged off to the imperial dungeons by their guards.

As Derrick spoke, the Marchioness’s face went through a terrifying transformation. The warm, maternal glow evaporated completely, replaced by a cold, sharp fury that belonged strictly to a high-ranking noble matriarch. Her pale eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening into pale knuckles against her silk skirt.

”Such a horrid, disgusting thing,” Marchioness Avery whispered, her voice laced with venomous quiet. ”A ruined, common fraud sneaking into a high-society playhouse to assault my son and Lord Cherion?”

”Thankfully, Cherion handled him before he could do real damage,” Derrick added hastily.

”That does not excuse the sheer audacity of that filth,” Marchioness Avery spat, turning her gaze back to Cherion with profound, protective sympathy. She reached out, gently patting Cherion’s cheek with a soft, trembling hand. ”You poor boy... to think you had to deal with such trash on what was supposed to be a pleasant day out. Thank the heavens you are safe, Lord Cherion.”

”I’m quite alright, Marchioness,” Cherion reassured her softly, gesturing slightly with his bruised right hand, which was now neatly bandaged under his sleeve. ”Just a bit rattled, but nothing more.”

”Well, I can assure you that creature will not see the light of day ever again,” the Marchioness declared coldly, her tone leaving zero room for doubt. ”Heinrich Bramwell did not merely attack the fiancé of Duke Valtrane. He dared to lay a hand on the future Marquess of House Avery. My husband will personally ensure the Ministry of Justice processes his execution or permanent exile to the northern penal mines by tomorrow morning. He will not escape punishment this time.”

Cherion bowed his head politely. ”I appreciate your family’s firm hand in this, Lady Avery.”

”Think nothing of it, dear. It is our duty,” she replied, her warm smile returning as she patted his arm. ”Now, come into the drawing room. Rest your feet, have some tea, and relax. My husband should be returning shortly, and dinner will be served as soon as he arrives.”

They moved into the grand drawing room, settling into plush velvet armchairs surrounding a crackling hearth. Servants quickly brought out silver trays of piping hot tea, buttered biscuits, and small crystal glasses of sweet plum liqueur. For the next hour, the mood lifted considerably. Derrick rattled on about the earlier parts of their shopping trip, Reiner sat comfortably on a settee near Cherion, enjoying a cup of chamomile, and the Marchioness proved to be an engaging, witty host who kept the conversation light and easy.

As the tall grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the outer hallway.

”Ah, that will be my husband,” Marchioness Avery said pleasantly, setting her teacup down onto its saucer with a delicate clink.

The double doors of the drawing room opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties stepped inside. He wore a crisp, dark navy coat trimmed with gold embroidery. His hair was silvering at the temples, and his face possessed the sharp, angular lines that Derrick had clearly inherited.

Marquess Avery paused at the doorway, taking off his leather gloves and handing them to an attending valet. His sharp gray eyes swept the room, instantly locking onto Cherion sitting by the fire.

”Well, well,” Marquess Avery spoke, his deep, resonant voice carrying easily across the spacious room. A subtle smile curled the corners of his lips as he stepped forward. ”I didn’t realize we had such an honored guest this evening. Lord Cherion Antel.”

Cherion immediately set his cup down and stood up, offering a polite, flawless aristocratic bow. ”Lord Avery. Good evening. Forgive us for dropping in so unexpectedly.”

”Nonsense, Lord Cherion,” the Marquess replied smoothly, coming to a stop near the hearth. He smiled down at Cherion, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. ”You are always welcome in the Avery household. Derrick talks about you constantly.”

”Father!” Derrick groaned, blushing slightly, though his father merely chuckled.

”I hear there was quite a commotion at the theater today,” Marquess Avery continued, his gray eyes fixed entirely on Cherion’s face. His smile remained perfectly in place, polite, warm, and appropriate for a host greeting his son’s noble friend.

Yet, as Cherion raised his head and met the older lord’s gaze, an unexpected, cold shiver ran down the back of his neck.

Cherion smiled back, keeping his expression pleasant and relaxed on the outside, but underneath the polished surface, his strategic instincts immediately flared into high alert.

There was something off. Something subtle, buried deep behind the Marquess’s eyes, a flicker of something cold, measuring, and calculating that didn’t match the warmth of his lips.

Is it just my imagination? Cherion thought, his stomach tightening into a subtle knot as he maintained eye contact with the head of House Avery.