Page 36 of Hell's Secret Omega

Mezor’s eyes darken. “Oh, yes.”

A rich flush spreads across Mezor’s collar and down his chest. Cyrus swallows. He doesn’t dare let his eyes travel further down. He needs to stay clear-headed.

Mezor doesn’t seem angry about the bond—if anything, he seems faintly smug. Of course, it doesn’t affect him. He won’t sicken and die if they’re apart.

Unfair, he thinks again, frustration wringing his stomach into knots. For him, it means that he’s once again curtailed by his unwanted designation.

How naive to think he could improve his situation by digging out something useful to Mezor. The scribbled diagram seems pathetic next to the leverage Mezor has over him now—the hook behind his ribs dragging him closer, the voice whispering togive in, submit, be a good vergis. Oh, how easy it would be. But Mezor wouldn’t want a bond—he’s just doing the honorable thing.

In the midst of his self pity, he remembers the diagram. He’d pressed the crumpled paper to Mezor’s chest—where is it? He scans the room. A seed of hope pokes through the chaos of his thoughts, and his mind begins to churn.

He’s not completely helpless. Mezor isn’t immune to him—even now, his dark eyes stroke Cyrus’s skin like a physical touch. He couldusethe thing he hates most, which also seems to be the part of himself Mezor is drawn to.

He could be a good vergis, sweet and easy and eager to learn. Couldn’t he?

And he has something else Mezor might want.

He scrambles to his feet.

Chapter 23

MEZOR

Cyrus dartsout of the room before Mezor can stop him. Mezor sits up, a sigh collecting in his throat. The little demon is jumpy and frightened—and he understands why.

A bond. It’s not what he would have chosen, either. Whether he likes it or not, now he’s responsible for Cyrus’s wellbeing. They’ll be able to break the bond once settled, but for now, Cyrus will need him constantly.

Cyrus isn’t lying about being accustomed to pain, which has his primus furious. The thought of leaving him to suffer knowingly is bitter on Mezor’s tongue. Yet that’s exactly what he’ll have to do. He must continue his work until all the world seeds are planted. He’ll have to hope that Cyrus is strong enough to weather the sickness while the Court turns around him like a wheel of thorny branches. His instinct is to protect. But he must rely on Cyrus’s ability to protect himself.

He’s done it for so many years, he tells himself.

But his primus whispers,he shouldn’t have to do it anymore. We should protect him.

He should have known his primus was steering the ship when he set the lover’s challenge. It was always going to end this way.

Cyrus reappears in the doorway holding the sheaf of papers Mezor rescued from his nest. “Here. Look at this. You wanted to know General Leuther’s plans? I found the map of the two tunnels in his headquarters.”

Cyrus shoves the topmost paper at him. Mezor smoothes the paper out carefully to avoid tearing it with his claws. “You took this?”

“I copied it,” Cyrus says proudly.

It’s a roughly drawn map of the Court’s lower levels, with Mount Hythe’s borders outlined more cautiously, two half-shaded lines pointing into the outlying lands of the Pit. It’s immediately obvious that Leuther’s knowledge of the lower levels is incomplete. The tunnel passes under the area the King dubbed the tournament of souls, where he forced human souls to fight each other for the dubious honor of entering the Hellspring and becoming demons. Under the tournament grounds, Mezor knows there’s a network of other tunnels not marked on the map.

He taps a spot below the eastern half of the tournament grounds. “This ground is unstable.”

“Exactly!” Cyrus points to another section, directly under the mountain. “So is this. The King ordered these passages to be blocked off ages ago. None of this was marked on the General’s original map. What I don’t understand is why you want to know?—”

He stops. Mezor can practically see the cogs turning in his head. He flicks a lock of dark hair out of his face quickly, a movement so laden with eagerness Mezor must tamp down the urge to pin him down and bite him.

“The place we’re in now,” Cyrus breathes, staring at the map. His eyes dart across it. “We’rebelow the mountain. We must be. You don’t want Leuther finding it.”

Mezor’s heart thunders strangely. Cyrus is smart—too smart for his own good. He points at a spot on the map right next to the planned excavation. “We’re here. Three levels deep.”

Cyrus nods impatiently. “Right. You have to stay abreast of the progress—even the cave-ins could cause trouble. So you need me, you see. To report on the tunnel.” A flicker of triumph crosses his eyes, but he looks down again and brings his claws together behind his back.Feigning shyness.“In between that, I can—I can be your vergis. There’s a lot I don’t know, so you’d have to teach me. But I’m good at pretending.”

“Pretending?” A growl builds in Mezor’s throat as he watches Cyrus sway between uncertainty and confidence. The bond stirs with the sheer strength of his conflicting emotions. It doesn’t take Mezor much effort to untangle the myriad threads of Cyrus’s thoughts:

He desires me.

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