Chapter 148: The One Who Stands Beside Him

Cherion’s eyes snapped open. The room was dark like usual, but instead of comforting, it just felt... off. Like it was closing in on him. The residual heat of that "ugly" smile was still burned into the back of Cherion’s retinas. It was a jolt of clarity so violent it made his teeth ache.

The "fragile saint." The "Soft, harmless sweetheart." What a load of absolute garbage.

That "ugly" smile from the memory was the missing piece of a very shitty puzzle. It was the exact same vibe Philia had on the balcony, you know, the day the "fragile angel" tried to shove him into his next life.. Looking back, Philia hadn’t looked horrified that he’d just attempted a little casual murder

And to think, he really had a moment where he went,

"Yeah, this is probably because I came into this novel and didn’t follow the script."

Amazing.

Seeking some semblance of reality, Cherion squeezed the "extra-firm, extra-warm" pillow he was currently death-gripping. It was solid. Grounding. He buried his face into it.

"What an absolute jerk," he muttered, his voice muffled by the warmth.

Then, the pillow vibrated.

A low chuckle rumbled right against Cherion’s cheek.

"I’d certainly hope," a dry, gravelly voice vibrated from somewhere just above his head, "that you’re not talking about the one currently keeping you nice and warm. Because, frankly, my hospitality deserves a higher rating than that."

Cherion’s soul nearly exited his body through his throat.

He yelped and tried to scramble backward, but his escape was cut short. A heavy, solid arm, wrapped in the kind of muscle that didn’t come from a gym but from swinging a broadsword for a decade, pinned him in place. He was trapped. And as the moonlight filtered through the high, arched windows of the Northern castle, Cherion realized he wasn’t looking at linen.

He was staring directly at Zarius’s bare chest.

Good god. With the cave lighting and all the chaos going on, it wasn’t like he could focus on anything properly.

But here... the lighting was doing the man too many favors. In the soft silver light, the Duke’s torso looked unfairly good. It was a topographical map of hard, chiseled perfection. It was what his modern, internet-poisoned brain immediately cataloged as "Freshly Baked Rolls". It was, by all definitions of the word, a forbidden snack. A whole meal, actually.

Cherion’s brain just... stopped working. He felt a thirst-induced panic rising in his chest, a frantic desire to either look away or stare until his eyes melted.

Stop it. Bad brain

.

Cherion, this is not the time

, he scolded himself, mentally "imaginary slapping" his own face to regain some dignity.

"Your Grace," Cherion croaked, his voice two octaves too high. "What, and I cannot stress this enough, the hell are you doing in my bed? Shirtless? In the middle of the night?"

Zarius didn’t move. He didn’t even look embarrassed. He just lay there, propped up on one elbow, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who had just been called a pillow.

"Every inch of this castle belongs to me, Cherion," Zarius reminded him. "Including this bed. Unless you lost your memory somewhere between sleeping and waking up, you might recall that my curse isn’t exactly a fan of distance."

Cherion’s face went from pale to a deep, agonizing crimson. "Huh? Right. But... Your Grace, after that... that ’lips-on-lips’ encounter back in the cave, surely we’ve hit the quota for a while. Maybe some distance wouldn’t hurt. I mean... you. Not me. You."

The banter, which had been light and fueled by Cherion’s frantic embarrassment, took a sharp turn. Zarius’s eyes, usually as cold as the frost on the battlements, sharpened. He leaned in, the heat from his body radiating in a way that made the room feel suddenly too small.

Cherion’s brain, already hanging on by a thread, chose that exact moment to spiral further.

Why is he shirtless?

Seriously. Of all the questions in the world, politics, impending death, fake saints, this was the one his mind latched onto.

Just why?

Did Zarius think they were still in the cave? Cherion swallowed hard, eyes very carefully trying to look anywhere else and failing spectacularly.

This is so unnecessary. There are clothes. I know there are clothes. This is a castle. Full of clothes.

Oh my god. Stop looking. Why are you looking?

"Who were you calling a jerk, Cherion?" Zarius suddenly asked.

Cherion stiffened. "No one. Just... rambling. You know how it is. Post-nightmare jitters."

"No one?" Zarius’s gaze was piercing. It felt like he was peeling back the layers of Cherion’s thoughts. "The Crown Prince’s fiancé, then? Philia?"

Cherion froze.

"It’s written all over your face," Zarius deadpanned. "You look at him like he’s poison. I’m the Duke of the North, Cherion. I’ve had that look directed at me more times than I care to count, I know it when I see it."

Cherion let out a frustrated, shaky breath, sinking back into the mattress. "Fine. If you already knew, why the hell did you ask? Just to see me squirm?"

Zarius’s expression softened, but not into something kind. It was something far more dangerous. It was protective. It was the look of a wolf watching the edge of the woods.

"I wanted you to say it out loud," Zarius whispered. "To acknowledge it. Then we can face it together."

"Together?" Cherion repeated the word like it was a foreign language. He looked at the vast, shirtless expanse of the man beside him and felt a strange, terrifying shift in the atmosphere.

Cherion bit his lip. The part of him that wanted to be fair, the part that didn’t want to drag this man into his messy drama, flared up. "Look," Cherion said, trying to sound casual despite his pulse thundering in his ears. "He’s my nightmare. My baggage. You don’t have to get your hands dirty just because of our animosity? You don’t have to dislike him just for my sake."

Zarius didn’t even blink. He dismissed the idea of "fairness" with a single, sharp look.

"He is the Crown Prince’s fiancé," Zarius replied. "And if you dislike him on ’some sort of level,’ as you put it, then that means you are already positioned against the throne. We are on opposite sides of a very lethal game, Cherion."

Zarius reached out.

His hand was large, calloused, and way warmer than it had any right to be. He settled his palm firmly against the side of Cherion’s neck. His thumb brushed over the pulse point there, feeling the frantic, rapid thrum of Cherion’s heart. It was a gesture of absolute possession, a promise wrapped in a warning.

Cherion’s breath hitched. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move.

Zarius looked him dead in the eye, his gaze as solid as the mountains that surrounded them.

"I told you I would protect you," Zarius said quietly, his voice steady in a way that left no room for doubt. "I meant it. I won’t let him touch a single hair on your head."

He didn’t look away, his gaze unwavering as the words settled between them.

"Your enemy is mine now too, Cherion. You don’t stand against him alone anymore."