Page 55 of Hell's Secret Omega

“But you don’t wear these.”

“I also don’t practice five times a day.”

“I don’t need them,” Cyrus says immediately, but he doesn’t pull his arm away.

“Take them anyway,” Mezor replies firmly. He pulls the ties snug and Cyrus hisses as his bruised muscles are squeezed. Mezor strokes his wrist in apology.

Yet the ache isn’t satisfied. Mezor can protect Cyrus from the bowstring—he can even protect Cyrus from the Court, at least for now. But he can’t protect Cyrus from himself. From his own guards, the ones around his mind that have kept him safe for so many years.

The only place Cyrus could truly be himself was his nest. Now that sanctuary has been tainted by ugly violence.

Mezor considers this for a whole week. He watches Cyrus battle the ghost of his burdens in the fierce way he throws himself into life in the grotto. Cyrus learns to put the guards on himself, one-handed, his eyes going to Mezor every time he does it. It makes Mezor’s blood run hot with the desire to smother him in gifts.

Slowly, Cyrus’s aim becomes truer and his draw stronger.

“I will need to return to my task,” Mezor says eventually, when he can no longer pretend otherwise. Cyrus lies on the moss next to him, taking a break, slowly tying and untying the armguards with meditative movements. He looks like he belongs in the grotto. Like he’s part of Mezor’s life.

“How many seeds do you have left?” Cyrus’s silver eyes are sharp.

“Five.”

Five feels like an eternity. Five feels like not enough time.

Cyrus shuts his eyes. He lets his arms fall to the moss, wide open. His scent saysuncertainandexhausted.Mezor wants nothing more than to reassure him. But he can’t take every worry away. It’s not his right.

Chapter 32

MEZOR

While Cyrus practices laterthat day, Mezor disappears into the cottage to rearrange the room Cyrus sleeps in. He’s so caught up in the work he doesn’t notice Cyrus enter, only the sharp intake of breath alerts him. He straightens. Cyrus stands in the doorway fresh and clean from bathing in the stream, dressed in a silky shirt that barely falls to the tops of his thighs. His bright scent eddies through the space.

Mezor stands aside. He’s pushed the bed into a corner and strung tapestries over it like a tent. Plants drip from the walls and spill across the floor, giving the space a gentle, concentrated glow. A path runs between the greenery from the door to the bedside. Rugs laid next to the bed create a soft place to exit. A flap of fabric is pulled back, suggesting a tired vergis of just the right size could crawl in without snagging his horns. Inside he would find the space lush with furs and pillows and woven blankets, each rubbed carefully over Mezor’s scent gland.

He straightens as Cyrus makes his way between the plants. A strange hunger to hear Cyrus’s verdict renders him uncharacteristically mute.

Cyrus brushes past him and pauses at the bedside, looking back. His eyes are dark and huge.

Mezor jerks his chin. “Go on.”

Cyrus sheds his clothes, dropping them in a pile next to the bed.

“I want your scent on my skin,” he mumbles, cheeks darkening.

Mezor’s heart thumps.

Cyrus puts one knee the bed, unwittingly flashing Mezor the dark softness between his thighs. He looks over his shoulder.

“One thing,” he says, shifting back to both feet. He reaches for the tapestry and pulls it back until the opening is twice as big, rising on his toes to pin it in place.

Then he bends over, this time giving Mezor afull,intentional view. His hole winks and his smooth sac sways as he crawls inside. He disappears from view one limb at a time. Mezor’s mouth waters. But he holds back.

“It’s a nest,” his voice comes, disembodied and breathless.

“Your nest,” Mezor rumbles.

There’s quiet rustling. Small noises of satisfaction emerge from the enclosure as Cyrus examines it. Then his horns peek out, followed by gleaming eyes.

“You may enter.”

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