Chapter 11: A Body on the Floor
Cherion’s first thought was absurdly unhelpful.
That’s too much blood.
His stomach turned.
Cherion barely had time to register the burn in his throat before he was on his knees, retching violently onto the marble floor. Again and again until there was nothing left but bile and the humiliating sound of his own gagging breaths.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, chest heaving, and told himself that fainting would be deeply unhelpful right now. He forced his legs to move, to push him upright, even as the room tilted slightly.
Voices cut through the haze.
"...outside the east corridor. Took longer than expected."
Cherion froze.
He turned, only to see Flio step into view, looking mildly annoyed rather than alarmed, followed by a man in dark armor trimmed with silver. A knight, from the look of him. Not one Cherion recognized, which, given his life lately, wasn’t saying much.
"All have been taken care of, Sir," Flio said, glancing briefly at the corpse near Cherion’s feet before inclined his head toward the wolf.
The wolf let out one last, low vibration that rattled Cherion’s teeth. Then, with a sickeningly fluid ripple of muscle and bone, the beast began to shrink. The fur receded into skin, the snout shortened, the claws softened into human fingers. Within seconds, the predatory monster was gone, replaced by the very human, very naked form of Zarius Valtrane.
Cherion’s brain, which had been screaming run for your life, suddenly tripped over its own feet.
Blood streaked his shoulder and thigh, drying in uneven smears that only emphasized what Cherion’s brain stubbornly refused not to notice, the broad span of his chest, the hard cut of muscle along his abdomen, the unapologetic weight of his body, solid and real and...
"Oh," Cherion said faintly.
Wow.
He’d known Zarius was the "Villain Alpha." He’d known the man was supposed to be a specimen of peak masculine fantasy. But seeing it in the flesh? It was... well, it was a lot.
Damn you, author, Cherion thought, his eyes inadvertently tracing the line of a particularly impressive abdominal muscle. You made the villain look so freaking delicious. Is it a crime to stare? Probably. Is it worth it? Maybe. For a fleeting, shameful second, the heap of dead assassins didn’t seem nearly as interesting as the living, breathing statue in front of him.
Zarius’s head snapped toward him. His red eyes locked onto Cherion’s face.
"Are you finished?" Zarius asked with his low voice. "I feel quite violated, having the Emperor’s little spy stare so intently at my naked form. Tell me, does the crown pay extra for a visual inventory of my scars?"
Cherion nodded automatically. "Yeah, that’s a good body... wait. No. No, I wasn’t staring intently." He flailed a little, hands rising as if his eyes might burn. "Gods, my eyes. My eyes. Who are you calling a spy?"
The room seemed to shrink as Zarius took a step forward. The knight and Flio remained in their place, watching everything unfold.
"Drop the act, little Omega," Zarius sneered, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that made him look even more like the wolf he’d just been. "We both know why you’re here. What did he offer you?" Zarius asked lightly. "Jewelry? Gold? A title? Or..." His eyes gleamed. "...did he promise to tuck you back into Crown Prince Yerel’s arms?"
The mention of Yerel acted like a bucket of ice water. Cherion’s stomach did another somersault, but this time out of pure disgust.
"Ugh, please," Cherion groaned, his shoulders hiking up in a visible shudder. "Don’t mention that name again. The blonde menace makes my skin crawl."
Zarius tilted his head. "Oh? Or perhaps you’re working with the Crown Prince directly? A secret mission to earn your way back to his side? He promises you the title of Empress in exchange for my head?"
Cherion rolled his eyes so hard he actually saw stars for a second. "I really admire your imagination, Zarius. Truly. You should write a serial for the capital’s tabloids. But sorry to disappoint you, I’m not that dedicated to anyone, least of all a man who has the personality of a wet paper bag and the ego of a small sun."
Still, his nerves buzzed unpleasantly. He refused to look directly at Zarius now, an act of self-preservation more than modesty. It was hard enough to think when the man was this close. Their bodies nearly brushed. Heat radiated from him, alive and distracting.
The knight cleared his throat.
"My lord," he said carefully, "perhaps... clothing?"
The fine knight, bless him, moved fast. A robe appeared, thrown over Zarius’s shoulders. Zarius allowed it, though his eyes never left Cherion.
Cherion exhaled in relief. "Thank you," he told the knight sincerely. "You’re a fine knight whose name I do not know."
"Elios, My Lord," the man replied.
Cherion smiled at him before the smile vanished as Zarius stepped forward again, this time with a discarded sword in hand that he got from the floor.
The blade’s tip stopped inches from Cherion’s face.
"Now," Zarius whispered, his eyes narrowing into golden slits. "What are you doing here, Cherion? Come to make sure your friends did a good job finishing me off? Too bad they’re low-class gutter trash. They barely put up a good fight."
"Oh my god," Cherion huffed, though his voice cracked at the end. He tried to push the blade away with two fingers, but his hand was shaking. "How many times do I have to tell you? I am not a spy! I’m not an assassin! I have no idea who in the seven hells these dead people are! I’ve never seen them before in my life!"
He reached out to push the sword away and yelped as pain sliced through his finger. A thin, bright line of crimson appeared on his fingertip. The sword was so unnaturally sharp that even a feather-light touch had sliced right through the skin.
Zarius chuckled. "Do you hear that?" he asked the others. "He says he isn’t a spy or an assassin."
His face went stone-cold serious again, the sword tip pressing just a fraction closer against Cherion. "Tell me the truth, or I might decide you’re more useful as a matching set for the bodies on the floor."
Cherion looked at his bleeding finger, then back at the man who seemed determined to play the role of the tragic, paranoid villain to the bitter end. He was tired. He was nauseous. And he was over it.
"Look," Cherion snapped, his sharp tongue finally overriding his fear. "For your information, I was also forced into this mess! The Crown Prince tossed me aside for his lovely Philia like I was yesterday’s garbage. The King felt bad and set this up as ’compensation.’ Do you think I wanted this? Who refuses the King? His ’suggestions’ are basically execution orders if you say no. Believe me, I’d much rather have asked for a nice plot of land far, far away from here!"
Zarius didn’t move. "Very touching. But do you think I’ll just believe you every word?."
Cherion groaned, a sound of pure frustration. He needed a leverage point. He needed something that wasn’t just words, because Zarius was a man who only believed in things he could touch or kill.
He looked down at his bleeding finger. A strange, warm sensation began to hum in the back of his mind. It was a tug, a soft pull toward the man standing in front of him.
He looked at Zarius and forced a sweet, entirely calculated smile. "Well, I have a proposal for you, Alpha."
He stepped toward the sword. He leaned in, close enough to see the flecks of red in Zarius’s eyes.
"What if I told you," Cherion whispered, "that I can cure you?"