Page 38 of Hell's Secret Omega

“This way.”

He takes Cyrus around the back of the cottage. There, a stone plinth rises out of the earth, and atop it, a pillar that comes to his chest. On its plateau is a golden sphere.

The gate is old—even older than him. The plinth, the pillar, and the sphere itself were all gifts. Long ago Hell had open borders, sharing knowledge and craft with angels—and even sometimes humans. The gate is angel-crafted, like the world seeds. It’s attuned to Mezor alone. Not even angel-craft lasts forever, though, and its power is running dry.

“This is a gate into the rest of Hell,” he tells Cyrus. “The grotto is precious, but it’s not what I care most about protecting. Without the gate my task would be nearly impossible. It cannot be damaged or destroyed.”

Cyrus’s eyes widen. “Can you go anywhere?”

“There are gateposts across Hell—I can reach any of them.”

“Will you show me?” he asks eagerly.

Mezor shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be safe. Neither the gate nor the wilds are what they once were.”

He doesn’t miss how Cyrus’s face falls. “Of course.”

If things were different…

Mezor bites back the words. If things were different, what? Would he take Cyrus through the gate and show him the wonders of the land of eternal midnight? There’s little left that’s wondrous about it.

He puts a hand on Cyrus’s slim shoulder. “Come. You should rest.”

Back inside the cottage Cyrus falls asleep quickly, still engulfed in Mezor’s shirt and nestled in his long-unused bed. White linen and silver skin gleam in the luminescence of theindoor garden. Cyrus’s dark lashes flutter as he dreams. Mezor hasn’t used this room to sleep in since…well, since he stopped sleeping. Instead it serves as his garden. Here, he hoards slivers of life away from Hell’s corruption. He tends to them as Cyrus sleeps, reluctant to leave his side just yet.

Cyrus looks deceptively sweet among his rescued flora. Only a hint of his waking fire shows, a furrow of his brow as something goes awry in his dream. It isn’t long before Mezor gives up pretending he’s not checking on Cyrus constantly. He gives in and draws his chair up next to the bed. What he wants is to climb in and draw Cyrus into his chest, skin to skin. But he’s loathe to disturb Cyrus—he needs to rest. Their closeness alone will ease the bond sickness.

Feasting his eyes is one thing he can indulge in, and he does.

When he met Branok for the first time inside Mount Hythe, when he was a mere human soul with eyes that burned, he looked upon Mezor’s form with greed. Branok saw what many did—a creature of power and strength. Branok needed that power. He stepped into the Hellspring and shaped himself in Mezor’s image: a tall, strong primus with deadly claws and teeth, and horns sprouting out of his head. He called himself a demon, and he wanted to create an army of others like him.

But his control over the Hellspring is still limited. In the end, it gives each soul what it wants the most.

The Hellspring gave Cyrus the body of a vergis. What that means about him…the knowledge makes Mezor ache. His soul wants be protected. To be treasured. To be loved like no other love, to become two souls living as one. A life that’s impossible in this broken world.

His claws dig into the straw tick.

What games the King likes to play with us all.

Cyrus stirs, the bond flickering with awareness. He rolls over, eyes still shut, and his horns catch on the bedding and send a puff of fur into the air. His foot stretches toward Mezor.

“You’re awake,” he mumbles.

A shiver drifts over him as Cyrus’s claws brush his arm. “I don’t sleep.”

“Hmm.” Cyrus peeks at him, silver eyes hazy with sleep. His brow furrows. “‘M going to be a good vergis. But you could be a better primus.”

A spark flares deep inside him. “Is that so?”

“Want to be covered in your scent.” Cyrus rubs his cheek against the bedding. His eyes darken. “All over.”

Mezor gives in to his urges and climbs onto the bed with him, his blood already thickening with desire. “Are you saying I’m neglecting your needs?”

“Maybe.” A playful smirk dances across Cyrus’s mouth, and he arches into Mezor. His scent rises headily into the air, mixing with Mezor’s own scent and the rich sweetness of the buds surrounding them. A rumble of satisfaction spills from his chest as Mezor gathers him close.

Mezor strokes his flank. Cyrus goes limp in his arms soon after, sinking back into dreams, and his ardor banks to a gentle warmth.

Against all intelligent thought, Mezor brushes his lips over Cyrus’s forehead.

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