The Villain Alpha's Cursed Mate

Acheron had made it to his chamber. and washed off the filthy from his body before changing into fresh linen. But as he glanced down, his gaze settled on the claw marks etched across his chest, still raw and slow to mend. The memory of being dragged beneath the sea returned raw and unbidden. The surface being so far from reach had been a different kind of nightmare for him.

Not to mention the black water.

It had spawned from nowhere. It hadn't been part of the sea, or at least, nowhere near this sea for all he knew. It appeared like a curse, thick and vile.

Disgust twisted in his gut at the memory of him helplessly swallowing it. He'd been so frantic to purge it, he'd driven his fist into his own stomach, hoping to wrench it out. Whatever the siren was, it wasn't of any legend he'd heard.

Gods, it had been grotesque.

An abomination that bore no beauty, just rot and teeth. If he hadn't had a dagger in his belt, he wouldn't have been able to free himself from the monstrosity that seized him.

"Wait… what are the symptoms again?" Murmured Acheron.

A quiet knock on the cabin door startled him, drawing his attention, and he turned sharply toward the sound. "Who is it?"

"It's me, open up," came Althea's voice through the wood.

The tension in his shoulders eased upon hearing her voice, whilst a rare spark lit his green eyes. When he crossed the narrow cabin without delay, he unlatched the door, and there she stood on the threshold.

The sun rays caught her brownish hair, and in her hand was a small earthen jar. Her gaze fell to the angry slashes across his chest, and she gave a quiet shake of her head before meeting his twinkling gaze.

"What brings–"

"And you told me it was nothing serious," she interrupted, stepping past him and into the cabin without pause. "Esme sent this. Said it'll help the wound mend faster." She lifted the jar. "Sit. Let me tend to it before the salt air festers it worse."

Acheron blinked.

He was still reeling from the way she had embraced him earlier. He'd thought– no, hoped that it meant something this time. That perhaps, she felt a flicker of what he did. But maybe he'd been a fool, caught in one of his usual fantasies. This was Althea, after all. She cared for everyone equally, and he was no exception.

He said nothing as he sat down at the edge of his bed, quiet and obedient for once. His gaze followed her hand as she unstoppered the jar, her movements efficient but graceful. She dipped her fingers into the thick paste, then leaned toward him, the scent of herbs sharp and bitter between them.

Her touch was gentle as she spread the balm across his chest, but the wound flared at her touch. He gritted his teeth as the pain spread through him, determined not to flinch. She moved on to the next mark, rubbing the paste carefully.

"How sharp were those claws?" she murmured, more to herself than to him. "These are deeper than I expected. How are you not writhing in pain?"

She looked up at him only to see him shrug it off. "I've experienced worse," he said, like it wasn't a big deal to him. "This is barely a scratch— ow! Gods!"

He recoiled when she pressed her fingers down, hard, on the rawest part of his wound.

"What was that for?" he snapped, glaring at her, and she looked equally annoyed with him too.

"To prove you're lying," she said coolly. "You're in pain. Stop pretending like you're made of iron. If Don hears this, he'll think you're really fine and make you work for the entire day. You won't get the amount of rest needed to heal. Worse, it could get seriously infected if you move around too much. That's not what we need right now."

"If Don or Lothar had said so, you'd be admiring their pain resistance, but when I say it, you act like I've wounded you," he grumbled, narrowing his eyes. "You're always cruelest to me."

Her expression didn't waver, but there was a flicker in her eyes– concern, guilt or something else entirely. "Is that how it is? If I applaud them for leaping into flames, would you go ahead and do the same?"

"Yes." He said, locking gaze with her.

The seriousness in his voice struck her like a slap, and for a fleeting moment, her mask faltered.

This man had gone ahead and lost his mind.

Acheron looked away first, his gaze wavering at her silence. He reached for the bandages nearby before exhaling softly. "I would do anything for you, Althea. Call it madness, I won't deny it. But you've no idea just how far I'd go for you."

He then gave a soft, humorless laugh. "But listen to me– talking like a lovestruck fool. We're just friends, right? I shouldn't even be saying this must be what you plan on saying to me. But don't worry, I don't want to ruin what little we have. So I'll continue to do things the way you want."

He paused, his hands frozen mid-wrap. "But the least you can do… is not add to my delusions."

Althea didn't respond. Her fingers clenched at her side at his words but even at that, she unclenched her fist and stepped closer, taking the bandage from his grip since he was busy tangling it.

He flinched when her fingers brushed his skin, but she didn't look at his face. Not even once.

The silence between them thickened as she began wrapping the bandage around his chest, tight, but not unkind. Each motion was precise and practiced, yet, something trembled beneath her composure, barely visible, but obvious enough for Acheron to notice.

He kept still. His chest rose and fell with slow, careful breaths. He didn't dare speak– at least not yet. He watched her instead, noticing the way her brows drew together, the way she refused to meet his gaze. If it was from concentration or not, he couldn't really tell. A part of him didn't seem like it was ready to know the answer to that either, but if she was upset, he certainly messed up again.

When she tied the final knot and began to pull away, he reached out and caught her wrist, gentle but firm.

"Althea… I didn't mean to–"

But she pulled her hand free before he could finish. She rose to her feet and kept the remaining balm at the table near his bed. "I'll leave this here."

"Althea–"

He was already rising to his feet, but she had turned and exited the cabin. The door closing behind her hit him like thunder, and he ran his fingers through his hair. He resisted the urge to punch himself in the face, knowing he had complicated matters despite promising he wouldn't do that to her anymore.

When he leaned back on the bed, a sudden fit seized him. A sharp cough clawed its way up his throat before he could brace himself. Instinctively, he clutched his chest, suspecting the bandage may have accidentally shifted or tightened, but the tightness came from within.

He pressed a hand over his mouth as the cough worsened, violent and gut-deep. It racked his body until he thought his lungs might tear loose. Unable to control it, he trembled through the fit until, at last, it passed.

Breathing heavily, Acheron lowered his hand and froze.

"Blood?"

His brows furrowed in shock at the red stain on his palm. His voice was hoarse as he muttered. "Am I… falling ill?"

—--

Esme stepped out of the small cabin, breathing in the sharp tang of sea air. The ship was moving again, to her relief. It was a clear sign that the helmsman had found a safer course to take, likely steering clear of the sirens that lurked beneath the waves.

She had been fortunate to collect a vial of dark water during the brief encounter with the creatures. It was proof enough they'd pass close to danger.

Currently, she was waiting– impatiently for Donovan to finish his grotesque experimentation, so she could examine the siren's remains herself. The place was too crowded for her to properly focus now, but one thing she was certain of was that there might be answers hidden within the siren's twisted anatomy.

Her mind was already drifting toward what she needed to ask Acheron when her thoughts were interrupted.

Althea walked by. But she didn't wear her usual bright expression. There was no bounce in her steps, and Esme almost called out to her out of concern, but stopped herself.

Earlier, she had come asking for ointment for Acheron. She looked so worried that Esme had to give her the most effective ointment she had brought.

Her brows tensed. Had they argued again?