Page 29 of Hell's Secret Omega
No one has asked so earnestly about his state of mind for three hundred years.
“You were the last,” he tells the mountainside, where the sleeping form of his brother is just a shape within a shape.
There’s no reply, though he’s come to stop expecting one. His brothers are gone, their work left half-finished, their voices silenced.
He drops the world seed into the hole he’s made and pushes the dirt back over it. Like before, he tips a vial of water from the Hellspring over the seed. How it works, he doesn’t want to know.It will work, was all the King said.
Behind the words the meaning runs deep—Branok has been playing in the Hellspring again, twisting and shaping it into something he can use. Mezor tries not to pay his toys any attention. The Hellspring is a powerful thing, once the source ofYden’s eternal life. But it’s corrupted beyond all comprehension. The way Branok uses it to shape the world as though it’s his personal universe makes Mezor’s skin itch.
In the aftermath of Cyrus’s heat, Mezor throws himself through the gate and into the far corners of Hell in search of distraction. His brothers are scattered across the realm, not all of them within easy reach of the gateposts. He treks up mountainsides, through bogs and over poisoned rivers. Somehow, the little demon stays on his mind.
Then distraction finds him in the form of bootprints in the mud.
Near the sleeping form of his eldest brother, who lies close to the Pit, he stumbles across evidence of demon companies. He kneels in the mud and traces the drying outline of bootprints, feeling a frown gather on his brow.
Leuther’s soldiers.
It shouldn’t matter. Hell is dead—General Leuther is welcome to indulge in his ambition, playing king until his castle collapses. And it will. There’s nothing Mezor can or will do to stop him in the meantime. Still, Leuther’s demons could run across a seedling during their patrol and trample it—or even take it, if they have an inkling of what it represents.
He follows the tracks back to the Pit, where he loses them amid the shale. Retreating to the wilds, he has to admit it’s just a residual instinct driving him. That, and the desire to avoid returning to his cottage.
His loneliness was lifted for the few brief moments he possessed Cyrus’s flame. There’s no doubt it’s more bitter now for having tasted companionship. He let Cyrus’s sweetness melt on his tongue like a fool.
He hadn’t expected to find pleasure in life again. Especially not in a clever, knife-tongued little demon who treated him like the enemy from the first day.
He certainly didn’t think you were his enemy while your cock was buried in him, the voice in his head points out smugly. Loudly.
No. Cyrus yielded beautifully. He let his fear give way to need, and it was glorious.
Mezor has lived a long life and met many creatures of power, grace, and skill. The actions of one minor demon shouldn’t impress him. But he is impressed. Fear takes everyone differently, but Cyrus faces it clear-eyed and defiant.
Picturing Cyrus in the Court again, hiding his true nature, makes his primus snarl with protectiveness. He already feels ownership over Cyrus’s secret. Instinct tells him to cement their fleeting connection and bind Cyrus to him forever.
To bond.
To mate.
A future flashes before his eyes. A vergis mate, heavy with pups, cocooned by the gentle darkness of Hell, and Mezor on his knees before him. His vergis glows and his eyes are bright and proud, free of fear. They’re surrounded by the scents of dark blooms and new leaves unfurling. Then, the pups being born into a new Hell—a realm that’s healing. He sees Cyrus in their sweet smiles, their tiny nubs of horn.
But even looking past the obvious barriers—and Cyrus’s own bargain with the King—that dream could never be. Pups would arrive into a world sick with corruption. An empty world, with him as a distant parent, torn between his duty to them and the realm. They would grow into bitter, resentful creatures. Cyrus would learn to hate him, too. Around them Hell would slowly rot away to nothing, and they’d rot with it.
Mezor shakes his head. He could never subject anyone to that.
He returns to the gate and lets it bring him home.Homeis claustrophobic today, his grove walled in by Mount Hythe’soppressive weight above it. In the spring next to his cottage the fish hide from the sound of the forge hammer, banging and clamoring through the ceiling to shake the surface of the water. Inside the cottage, his vines have closed up their flowers in shyness.
A prickle in the back of his mind makes him think of Cyrus again, reminding him of the way their souls connected during his heat. His grotto hides directly below the mountain, yet he’s always thought of the Court as distant. Now instinct informs him Cyrus is just a handful of steps away. He could walk out of the grotto, bind himself in shadows, and stride through the Court just to lay eyes on him. To slake his thirst.
He can’t deny he craves more, now that he’s had a taste. It’s harder than he thought it would be to resist.
He could make Cyrus depend on him, in turn. The little demon is responsive, eager to please in spite of his sharp edges. It would be cruel. Cyrus needs things Mezor can’t give him, and Mezor must complete his work alone. The possessiveness he already feels over Cyrus reveals the truth: one of them would be left behind, sooner than later. Then what?
Grief. Heartbreak.
No force in the world would make him a suitable mate for someone like Cyrus. He must stay away, for both their sakes.
There will be no fourth meeting. He will sever the tie before it can take hold.
Chapter 19
