Page 97 of Hell's Secret Omega

“Yes, please, yes,” he begs incoherently, needing itall, the pain, the ecstasy.

Mezor’s lips touch the top of his head. For a moment, they’re two souls sharing one space in the universe.

Mezor’s breath washes over him, and Cyrus’s heart starts again. He lets go of Mezor’s horns and falls to his hands, looking down at where they’re joined. His cock still drools onto the rock. His hole can’t even twitch around Mezor’s knot, it fills him so tightly. He shudders with aftershocks, his insides flexing as his hole tries to milk more seed from his mate. Mezor groans into his hair.

The knot lasts for what feels like eternity and not long enough. Cyrus hasn’t had a heat since the fateful heat that brought them together, and part of him is eager for the experience, knowing it means hours and hours trapped on Mezor’s knot, unable to stop the waves of pleasure. Once the thought would have terrified him. Now it makes him feel powerful.

When Mezor gives a last shudder and his cock kicks weakly inside, he knows it’s over. Mezor waits until his knot has softened enough to slip out of Cyrus with ease. The seed leaking out of his hole sends a thrum of satisfaction through his core, into the place he used to think of separate from the rest of him—his vergis. Mezor rolls him over with ease, kneeling to lick wide stripes up Cyrus’s thighs and scoop up his own seed with his tongue. He plunges his tongue inside. Cyrus groans, heat building as he stares down at Mezor’s face of concentration.

The stubborn part of him wants to protest at the gentle treatment. He’s not breakable. But the rest of him, the part that’s learning to let go, luxuriates in it. He lets the sensations roll over him gladly, filling his soul to the brim.

By the time Mezor lets his legs fall, Cyrus is boneless and spattered with his own seed. He slides to the grass as Mezor leans back on his elbows, a smug look on his face.

“My turn,” Cyrus breathes, fumbling forward.

He laps slick and seed from Mezor’s cock eagerly, losing himself to the task of servicing his mate. The eager shaft plumps under his attention. He milks Mezor’s thick proto-knot with his fists as his mouth closes over the tip, and his mate lets his head fall to the grass, exposing his beautiful, corded neck. The bond pulses with tenderness and affection as he lies utterly still and lets Cyrus do whatever he wills. Cyrus’s heart is full. He drinks Mezor’s seed like a medicine that will heal him.

Mine, he thinks, crawling up Mezor’s body to slide under his arm once more. Silence settles over the wood.

“Let’s help them,” Mezor says suddenly, after a long moment in which Cyrus thought he might have fallen asleep again. “Your demons.”

Cyrus pushes himself upright. “How?”

“Guide them into Hell. They can live in the wilds, or for those who are ready, take their last journey. I’m still a shepherd god,after all. And you’re exceedingly clever. Together, I’m sure we can find a way.”

Cyrus strokes his mate’s chest, bare of markings now that the gate is gone. His mind stirs.

“We can build a road. Something to guideallsouls, even the ones in the pit. At least until your brothers wake again.” He straightens suddenly. “We can use stones from the Court. There may be demons who’d help.”

“Give the stones new memories,” Mezor agrees, his eyes gleaming. Adoration fills Cyrus’s chest, and he falls on Mezor.

“Let’s do it,” he says as Mezor laughs at his enthusiasm. “And then we’ll look for the next journey.”

“Together.”

“Crah!” Ekko cries from above, and they both look up.

Mezor’s arms come around him as the forest’s glow rises in a crescendo.

Epilogue

MEZOR

Cyrus is uncertain about leaving.He doesn’t have to say it—every time his eyes go to the sea, a flicker of worry crosses his brow.

He’s healthy and whole, practically radiant now, his dark hair falling in long ripples down his back, his simple woven shirt open at the neck to show a slice of gleaming skin. The proud set of his shoulders makes him seem taller. Though he’s still soft in places Mezor treasures, he’s also grown stronger from the constant labor of carrying and laying rocks for the road. And he walks with confidence—not the spiky, sharp-edged anger he first carried with him, but something easier. It drives Mezor wild that his vergis can stride through Hell’s wilds like he owns them and then turn around and get to his knees so he can beg for Mezor’s cock.

But they’re running out of excuses to stay in Hell. Cyrus’s heat has passed. Sometimes, Mezor sniffs him subtly when he isn’t paying attention to see if his seed has taken root. He isn’t confident it’s even possible, and through unspoken agreement they haven’t yet discussed it. But something about Cyrus seems…ready. Perhaps not this heat, but the next.

Once, what seems like a lifetime ago, he had a vision of pups who grew up amid a twisted and corrupted Hell. That Hell is gone, yet Mezor harbors no lingering desire to bring his dream to life, even in this new, gentler world. They need a new start. Somewhere that holds no cruel memories for either of them.

He and Cyrus walk the road often, acting as protector and guide. The fruits of their labor grow abundant on either side of the path—remnants of the drowned garden he retrieved from the grotto and carefully raised from seed. Their riotous glow can be seen from the mountain.

Less souls are left in the pit now—of the demons who stayed, many found purpose in leading their once-kin through the wilds. Mezor taught them as best he could. At first it felt like the blind leading the blind. But when the first demons reached the shore and he saw the look in their eyes, he knew he’d done the right thing.

Now there are demons walking the road every week, and trickles of souls following behind, all finding their way to the sea.

The sea is what Cyrus worries about.

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