Page 84 of Hell's Secret Omega

The King’s hand begins to glow blood-bright.

“No!” Cyrus howls.

Hollows wink into existence around them and the temperature plummets.

“Stay back,” Mezor gasps.

“Don’t worry, little vergis. Your mate will not suffer when I take over his body.” Branok’s fangs flash red in the light. “You see, what no one understands is that corruption is power. With great sacrifice it can be harnessed. And Mezor knows sacrifice.” His claws jerk sickeningly inside Mezor’s body, drawing out his power, his very soul. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t…let him watch,” Mezor chokes. Fog curls at the edges of his mind.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen,” Cyrus cries.

The King’s laughter echoes around the chamber. Before Mezor’s eyes he seems to grow, while Mezor finds himself shrinking, slumping over the hand embedded in his chest.

“Is that what he told you to get you on his knot? Did you think you could change his destiny? Pathetic!”

“Let him go!” Cyrus snatches up Mezor’s bow and quiver. “You’re the one who’s pathetic. You may be a primus, but it’s no wonder you don’t have a mate!”

“Watch your step, Lieutenant.” The King pulls his claws out of Mezor with a jerk, and Mezor sinks into the wall.

Cyrus nocks an arrow, a fierce look on his narrow face. Mezor wills him to stand down. Pure terror flows through the bond—his or Cyrus’s, he can’t tell. But their connection is fading quicklyas his soul weakens. His mate becomes a silver streak against the shadows.

But he doesn’t lift the bow.

Mezor grabs the train of the King’s cape with his failing strength.

“Don’t…harm him,” he rasps.

“You’re empty inside,” Cyrus accuses. “You lie and cheat and steal, feasting off other peoples’ dreams and futures like a hollow. You have nothing—that’s why you have to take what’s mine.”

The cape wrenches out of Mezor’s grip.

“Mezor belongs to me,” the King snarls, striding toward Cyrus. “You? You’re a momentary distraction.”

Weak as he is, it’s pure instinct that drives Mezor to his feet. The blow meant for Cyrus rakes across his chest. He grunts at the fresh pain, and Cyrus gasps behind him.

“Leave him be,” he growls at Branok.

“Mezor—”

He turns, pushing the bow down. “Please—go, Cyrus.”

Cyrus’s eyes widen with shock. Mezor shudders as bright hurt reverberates through him.

“Mezor,” he says again, his voice falling to a bare whisper.

His name on Cyrus’s tongue burns. The thrall drags at him.

“Go,” he roars. “Before it’s too late.”

The hollows swarm, grabbing at Cyrus with their pale hands and pulling him away. He struggles at first, then with a cry that sounds like a sob he turns away and lets himself be swept into the back room, to the long tunnel that will take him back to the Court.

Branok’s hand lands on his shoulder like a burning brand.

“It’s almost time.”

Mezor’s legs give way and he collapses to his knees, then he’s spinning into unconsciousness.

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