Page 33 of Hell's Secret Omega

It’s him.

He wants to be angry, but he can’t muster the energy to even open his eyes.

He slides into unconsciousness.

When he wakes again, the world is still.

The first thing he notices is the lack of pain. The stabbing ache is almost completely gone—subsided to a prickle again. Tentatively he stretches his limbs. Something unimaginably soft slides across his skin. Is he naked?

To his dismay, a sigh of happiness escapes him. He rolls his cheek in the softness, heart fluttering.

He should be furious. Mezor made him sick, then abandoned him. Now he’s back to pretend he’s Cyrus’s savior.

But he can’t stir a single spark of anger to life. Everything feels so amazing. Every breath he draws is flush with Mezor’srich scent, and it makes him tingle from the tips of his horns all the way to his claws.

He shivers and rolls in the luxurious softness that surrounds him.

Maybe this is just a dream.

A deep chuckle rings out and the soft surface dips. Cyrus turns toward the dark, blurry figure instinctively.

“Typical vergis,” Mezor murmurs. “Softer is better.”

Cyrus’s fingers brush somethingverysoft indeed, warm and slightly heavy. Mezor’s sac twitches against the back of his hand. He strokes it, delighting at the crinkle of hair across his knuckles. His fingers drift upward. Heat flares in his gut at what he finds.

Mezor’s breath catches. A hand closes around Cyrus’s wrist before he can explore the delicious expanse of skin, where softness gives way to firm muscle and taut scars. He rises over Cyrus, a looming shadow.

“Just rest.”

“Why?” Cyrus mumbles as he’s tucked into a warm, spine-melting embrace.Yes, please.

Mezor doesn’t answer. His breath gusts across Cyrus’s ear, hot and gentle. Cyrus fights the fatigue that threatens to pull him under.

“The papers,” he suddenly remembers.

“I have them.” Mezor’s voice reverberates through him.

“They’re for you.” He struggles to pull the words free. “So you’ll help me.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Mezor’s tone is strange.

Afraid.He’safraid.

Cyrus grips the arm around his chest. What is he afraid of? Mezor’s hold on him tightens.

The pads of his fingers drift down Mezor’s arm to his rough-hewn hand. Those wicked claws are twice the length of his own,yet they hold him gently. He uncurls Mezor’s fingers and draws the hand to his mouth, brushing the tip of his nose across the palm, breathing deeply of the scent that lingers on his wrist.

Mezor rumbles. The other arm around him squeezes. His scent mellows, the sharpness smoothing out.

“Cyrus.”

Cyrus can’t help himself. His tongue darts out to taste the skin. Salty, musky, and pulsing with life. He laves it gently. Mezor makes a strangled noise and shifts around behind him. Suddenly his soft parts are not so soft, but thick and firm, nudging into Cyrus’s thighs. Cyrus hums with satisfaction. Instinct drives him to nip the tender skin of Mezor’s wrist, right where his scent is strongest. When Mezor swallows in his ear, he puts the tip of his tongue to the callused pad of Mezor’s thumb and traces the rough surface all the way to the hook of his claw.

Mezor growls.

“Darling.”

Cyrus squirms, the word going straight to the pit of his stomach.

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