Chapter 23: A Second Too Close

"Is the hallway too narrow, or do you plan to give me a surprise second attack again?"

Zarius didn’t even look back as he threw the words over his shoulder. His voice had that jagged, tectonic edge, but the sheer dry sarcasm of the question made Cherion stumble for a second. The Duke adjusted his cuff, though his hand still lingered suspiciously near the reddened skin of his jaw, the "battle scar" from Cherion’s forehead.

Cherion, trailing a few paces back, couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at his lips. "Attack you? Your Grace, please. I’m a lover of peaceful research, not a guerilla fighter," he chirped, his soft boots scuffing against the cold stone as he scrambled to keep up with the Duke’s deceptive, long-legged stride. "Ehehe, but you’re sure you’re okay? No bells ringing in your ears?"

"I have survived Northern blizzards and assassination attempts by men far more competent than you," Zarius stated, his tone flat but his pace never slackening. "I will not die from a collision with a brat’s forehead. Just... try to maintain a predictable trajectory."

Cherion hummed, a sound of skeptical amusement.

Poor guy

, he thought.

Sick as a dog all day, and now he’s got a bruised face to match.

They reached the library doors, and Zarius pushed the door open wide. Cherion didn’t wait for an invitation. He headed straight for the magic and history section, his mind already spinning with lore possibilities. He started at the bottom shelves, crouching down to yank out heavy, leather-bound tomes. He felt Zarius move behind him, not to help, of course, but to claim a high-backed chair. The Duke sat, his long legs crossed and his hands folded over his chest, his red eyes tracking Cherion’s every move like a silent, judgmental hawk.

Cherion glanced over his shoulder after pile-driving his fifth book onto the table. "Oh, so that’s the plan? You’re just gonna sit there and watch? How thoughtful. Very involved."

Zarius tilted his head back, a sliver of candlelight catching the sharp line of his throat. "I never said I came here to assist you, Cherion. I came to ensure you didn’t set my ancestral archives on fire."

"Ha. Hilarious. You’re a real riot tonight," Cherion rolled his eyes, turning back to the shelves. "Well, keep your seat. But don’t think you’re getting out of this completely. You’re definitely going to help me eventually. I’m persistent. It’s my best and worst quality."

His eyes traveled upward. High. Way, way up.

The books he actually needed, the ones with the dark, charcoal-colored spines, were perched on the very top tier. Cherion gulped. He wasn’t especially short, but this castle had a way of making him feel very, very small.

He found a wooden stepping stool that looked older than his grandfather and twice as rickety. He dragged it over, the wood scraping harshly against the stone, and began the ascent. Step one was fine. Step two was okay. On step three, the stool let out a treacherous creak. Cherion ignored it. He reached up, his fingertips just brushing the book’s spine.

"Just... one... more... inch..."

He stood on his tiptoes, his balance shifting precariously. He rose onto his tiptoes, wobbling as his balance shifted. He felt the terrifying, familiar pull of gravity as his foot slipped from the narrow top step. He didn’t even have time to yell, he just closed his eyes and braced for the hard, unforgiving floor.

Is this the part where he does the hero catch?

The usual ’save the clumsy protagonist’ trope?

But the impact never came.

He felt a pair of large, searingly hot hands clamp firmly onto his waist. The Duke caught him in time, steadying the wobbling stool with one foot while his hands anchored Cherion in place.

For a heartbeat, Cherion just dangled there, his heart hammering against his ribs. Then, instead of just letting go, he guided him. Using the strength in his arms, Zarius slowly lowered Cherion back down to the solid ground, his hands never leaving the Omega’s waist.

Cherion’s boots finally touched the stone, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was backed up against the Duke’s chest, the man’s palms still pressed firmly against his sides, radiating a heat that seemed to seep through his clothes and settle deep in his skin.

"Thank you," Cherion breathed, his voice coming out as a shaky squeak.

He waited for Zarius to let go. He expected the Duke to drop him, maybe make a snide comment, and return to his chair.

But the hands stayed.

If anything, the grip on his waist tightened. Cherion’s breath hitched. He could feel the Duke’s pulse through the back of his robe, or was that his own? Everything felt suddenly, terrifyingly close. The scent of Zarius, that intoxicating, dangerous mix of cedar and rain, enveloped him like a shroud.

Then, he felt it.

Zarius leaned in. He didn’t say a word. Instead, Cherion felt the Duke’s face hover just inches from the curve of his neck. The heat radiating off the man was immense. He felt a stray, wet lock of Zarius’s hair brush against his ear, and then a low, sharp intake of breath hissed against Cherion’s skin.

Cherion froze. The world narrowed down to the pressure of those hands on his waist and the terrifyingly intimate heat at his throat.

Suddenly, the pressure vanished.

Zarius recoiled. It was an abrupt, jagged movement, as if he’d just realized he was holding a handful of burning coals. Cherion stumbled forward, his boots finally hitting the floor properly, and he whirled around, his eyes wide.

Zarius was standing three paces back, his face a mask of cold, stark horror. He looked at his own hands for a split second before his gaze snapped to Cherion. His red eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide until the iris was almost gone.

Without another word, without even looking at the books they had come for, the Duke turned and walked away, leaving Cherion standing alone in the silence.

Cherion stood there, his hand slowly rising to touch his own neck, the skin there still tingling.

"What... was that?"