Page 14 of Hell's Secret Omega

The lover’s challenge has always kept him from becoming attached to the demons he fucks. Four brief meetings are enough to satisfy him. Like he told Cyrianus, no one has ever found their way to a fifth meeting—he never expected them to try. Maybe it’s because it’s been a long time since he took a lover, or maybe he’s losing the plot, but he’s never given the challenge to someone he actually liked.

Does he like Cyrianus?

Yes, he realizes. It’s not mere curiosity. The little demon fascinates him.

When the door shuts behind him, his primus growls in dissatisfaction. Instinct demands he stay, melting into the shadows to watch Cyrianus fumble about. Instead he forces himself to head toward the grotto.

His primus scoffs at the demons he normally takes as lovers—nulls, of course, all of them, as he’d never physically be able to get into bed with another primus. Yet he’s reacting to Cyrianus as if the demon is a vergis.

It’s impossible. He’d be able to scent a vergis immediately. Cyrianus’s scent is all wrong—bitter, acrid and repellant.

Too wrong, his primus snarls.Like a false scent.

It can’t be.

But he can’t deny something about Cyrianus draws him in. His prickliness hides a damaged soul, yet beneath it all is a surprising strength. His boldness isn’t just a show. If Cyrianus found his way into Mezor’s lair, he’s not sure he’d be able to resist putting the little demon underneath him. Seducing him with sweet words, not all of them false.

Chapter 10

CYRUS

Two more meetings.

Two more chances to act like a fool in front of the Hunter.

He called it thelover’schallenge, and the word makes Cyrus shudder. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s lover—does he? His blurted proposition was a mistake. Only during heat does his desire ever eclipse his hatred of other demons, making him ache to be touched.

He’s never been drawn to someone before. Never had flashes of broad shoulders appear in his dreams. Never fallen asleep imagining impossibly huge hands on his waist. Never heard a phantom voice in his ear, deep, firm, and commanding.

He’s never felt this hunger to prove himself. It drives him out of the barracks every night. But every night his search yields nothing—no secret door in the lower levels, no crack in the wall big enough for a giant like the Hunter to squeeze through, no yet-undiscovered tunnel.

He has other things to worry about, too. Rumours race through the Court that another hunting company has disappeared. Their stores dwindle and his belly goes empty more often than not. He’s escaped the tunnel excavation, but only because General Leuther has decided counting and re-countingthe stock will make more grain magically appear. It seems like every day more demons weaken and collapse—from corruption sickness, from hunger, from cave-ins. The abysmal morale takes a toll even on him, and so does the lack of food.

Cyrus goes to their second meeting empty-handed, a stone the size of a fist lodged where his courage should be. His future depends on Mezor’s whim. He hates that he wants so badly to show he’s worthy of it.

The Hunter’s potent scent makes his head spin and his throat dry up the instant he sets foot in the room, and his chest twists up with thorny frustration.

“There can’t be a passage!” he blurts as soon as the door closes behind him. “It’s a trick. It must be.”

“It’s not a trick,” Mezor rumbles. Weariness blossoms on his rough-hewn face, made harsh by the cool moonlight.

Cyrus swallows further hot accusations that rise on his tongue. “I’ve walked the lower levels hundreds of times. I know all the exits.”

“All but one.”

He passes on pitiful scraps of information and Mezor nods, not bothering to tell Cyrus they’re useless. “And the tunnel?”

“I—I don’t know,” he stammers, cursing himself for not thinking of it. “I’ll find reports. What do you want to know?”

“Never mind.” Mezor frowns. “It’s not important. Just a whim.”

He bites his tongue as Mezor hands him the arrow again and turns away without another word. He must think Cyrus is incompetent as well as pitiful.

He sits there a long time after the Hunter leaves. The moon seems to laugh at him, a long, slow, mocking blink. Exhaustion creeps over him and he falls into a restless sleep, slumped against the stone wall.

Cyrus wakes slowly,the foggy dream weighing him down. Pikes clash in his dream as indistinct figures battle. Ichor puddles at his feet, so much that his shoes are soaked. He tries to raise his own weapon, but it’s just an empty bow. A jarring blow sends it flying from his hands and he ducks, but a sword slides past his guard and between his ribs—deeper and deeper, until it touches his heart. Flame spreads from the tip of the blade into his body. He welcomes the heat.

“Hey!”

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