I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 158: The Choice Not to Heal

A cough tore through the heavy silence of the guest wing. It was the kind of sound that would usually earn some sympathy, or at least a small wince, but Zarius only felt his annoyance growing. He stood with his back to the wardrobe in Philia’s bedchamber, his arms locked across his chest, watching the physician flutter about like a moth caught in a draft.

The evening had been going fine, actually, better than fine, if he thought about what had just happened in the study, until Flio had appeared at dinner. He had looked almost apologetic as he dropped the news: the one the King sent had succumbed to the Northern damp. Apparently, Philia had been found huddled in a heap of damp silks, shivering so violently he’d nearly rattled his teeth out of his skull. That was why he couldn’t enjoy dinner.

Zarius stared at the lump under the furs on the bed. Philia looked smaller, his usual composure gone, his face pale and tired. The physician, a grizzled man who looked like he’d spent the last thirty years stitching up stab wounds and frostbitten toes, finally straightened his spine. He wiped his hands on a medicinal cloth that smelled pungently of vinegar and old roots before trudging over to the Duke.

"It’s a fever, Your Grace," the doctor droned, his voice as dry as autumn leaves. "The shock of the water, the sudden drop in temperature... his body gave up almost immediately. I’ll brew a tonic, something bitter to break the heat, but he’ll need a night or two to recover."

Zarius didn’t lean in to check. He didn’t offer a single word of divine concern. He simply gave a short nod that was more of a dismissal than a gesture of understanding.

"Will he be able to sit upright in a carriage by the end of the week?" Zarius asked. His voice was flat, devoid of the soft, holy reverence most people saved for Philia. To him, the man in the bed wasn’t a miracle, he was a logistical hurdle.

The physician blinked, clearly taken aback by the sheer pragmatism. "I... yes, as long as his breathing doesn’t get worse. He should be stable enough for transport."

"Then keep him alive long enough for that," Zarius commanded. "Beyond that, I don’t care if he sneezes himself into the next life. Get the prescription written and leave."

The physician bowed, walking out as if the Duke’s coldness was more infectious than the fever. Zarius turned his gaze toward Cherion. The boy was standing at the foot of the bed, his head tilted, watching Philia without saying anything. There was no malice there, exactly, but no warmth either. It was the look of someone watching a piece of theater that had gone slightly off-script.

"Let’s go," Zarius growled, stepping forward and placing a hand on the small of Cherion’s back. He could feel the heat radiating from Cherion even through the layers of his tunic, a stark, vivid contrast to the damp, deathly chill of the room. "Come on, before you end up infected with whatever fragile bug he’s brought with him."

He guided Cherion out of the room, the door closed behind him, and things immediately felt calmer. The hallway was long, and blissfully empty. They walked in silence, the only sounds Zarius’s heavy steps and the softer ones beside him.

"Your Grace?" Cherion’s voice was soft, barely a whisper against the stone walls.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think... I’m evil?" Cherion stopped, looking down at his own palms as if they were stained with something invisible. "For not helping him. I’m a healer. I could have reached out. I could have burned that fever away in a heartbeat. But I just stood there and watched. I didn’t feel the urge to move at all."

Zarius stopped in his tracks, turning fully toward him. He felt a sudden, fierce flare of protectiveness against Cherion’s own conscience. He stepped into Cherion’s personal space, looming over him until the boy was forced to look up.

"Listen to me," Zarius began. "That power is yours. It’s not a public well where every thirsty fool gets to drink. You use it on who you please, when you please. And no one will dare to judge you for it. Not while I’m breathing."

He reached out, his thumb grazing Cherion’s jawline with a tenderness that felt almost out of place on a man built for war. "It’s just a fever, Cherion. He’ll be fine unless he’s truly made of glass. And if he is, he had no business coming to my lands to begin with."

Cherion looked at him for a long, quiet beat. A tiny smile finally cracked through the gloom on his face. "Wow. You’re really good at justifying things, aren’t you, Your Grace?"

"I’m a Duke," Zarius countered with a smirk. "I don’t justify. I decide."

They started walking again, heading further down the hall. But then Zarius noticed something peculiar. The proximity they had shared moments ago was gone. Cherion was walking nearly five feet away, practically hugging the opposite wall of the corridor. It was a hilarious, desperate attempt at a "safe gap," as if he were trying to maintain some invisible boundary that had been breached earlier.

Zarius stopped abruptly, standing in the middle of the hall, his shadow stretching long under the moonlight.

"Why are you walking over there?"

Cherion jumped, his shoulders hitching. "What? Oh. The hallway is... it’s quite wide, isn’t it? I didn’t want to crowd you, Your Grace. You take really big steps."

He didn’t buy the nonsense for a second. He took two slow steps toward the opposite wall, closing the distance until Cherion was almost pinned against the wall. "Are you afraid of me? Or is it that you’re afraid of what happens when we aren’t separated by five feet of air?"

Cherion flushes a deep, agonizing crimson, a color so vivid it seemed to glow in the dim light. He began to stammer something about "proper etiquette" and "Northern traditions," but his eyes were darting everywhere except Zarius’s face.

Zarius looked down at him, a realization dawning in his mind. Now that he thought about it, Cherion hadn’t met his eyes once since what happened in the study. He was fidgeting, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his sleeves, his gaze fixed firmly on Zarius’s chin or the stone floor.

Is he shy? The thought hit Zarius with a strange, unexpected jolt. This is how he looks when he’s shy? Since when did the sharp-tongued, defiant healer get shy? It was... incredibly adorable. A dangerous, intoxicating kind of adorable that made Zarius want to reach out and close that "safe gap" permanently.

He leaned in, his breath warm against Cherion’s temple, relishing the way the boy’s heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his ribs.

"Next time," Zarius whispered, "I’ll make sure there isn’t a wall for you to hide behind."

He straightened up, letting out a low chuckle at the strangled sound Cherion made. He started walking again, leaving a stunned, bright-red Cherion in his wake. After a few paces, Zarius stopped and turned back, his expression shifting back to something more serious, though the spark of mischief remained in his eyes.

"Tomorrow, we’re going out."

Cherion blinked, finally looking up, though his face was still flushed. "Out? Where are we going?"

Zarius turned back around, continuing his walk toward their private quarters without looking back. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips as he felt Cherion’s confused, curious gaze boring into his back.

"You’ll know soon enough, little Omega."