Page 11

CYRUS

The day spins quickly from discomfort to misery. Deep inside he knows his heat is coming on faster than he expected. He’s weak, exhausted, and it’s all he can do to stay on his feet. By the time the moon peeks around the rim of the Pit, the drive to hide becomes urgent. He’s hot and aching all over, longing to disappear so he can ride out the coming wave of agony in privacy. But he has to meet Mezor as agreed.

His logical brain screams at him not to get into an enclosed room with such a powerful primus when he’s mere hours from his heat. But the other part of him, the part that longs to breathe Mezor’s sizzling essence one more time before he retreats to suffer alone, is elated at the idea.

He’ll take care of us, it whispers. He tries his best to ignore the voice.

More importantly, his pride refuses to let him forfeit by not showing up.

By the time he makes it to the room, his legs are weak with early cramps. His nest is only one level above them, and the proximity is making his head spin with confusion.

The nest is his secret haven, a place he can be safe. Whereas Mezor is dangerous, an uncaring brute and the King’s lackey.

For some reason, the two thoughts are becoming tangled up in his head.

Safe in those strong arms. His body in my nest.

Cyrus shudders. No, no, no.

He fishes the arrow out of his coat with unsteady hands. It leaves his grip and is gone in a flash.

He takes out his scent suppressor, nearly depleted now, and slathers the remainder of it under his jaw and across his wrists. His heart beats his ribs like the wings of a frightened bird. Except he’s not scared—he can’t be.

It’s just one meeting.

The suppressor will protect him from discovery. All he needs to do is act normal.

Too weak to stand any longer, Cyrus sinks to the cold stone. He’ll just rest for a bit.

He’s not sure what wakes him this time. It’s dark, the haze of the Pit obscuring the moon. A soft light flares in the corner of his eye and he turns, but the light is gone. Goosebumps run across his arms.

“Hello?”

A heady, familiar scent trickles into his lungs. A burst of heat explodes through him. Cyrus struggles to his feet. Oh no.

“Hunter?”

“You smell different.” The deep, rich timbre of Mezor’s growl washes over him like a balm. He sucks back a breath, inadvertently drawing more of that ozone-rich scent into himself. He wants to bathe in it, wrap it around himself.

Cyrus grips the wall. “I should go.”

“You’re not well.”

“It’s nothing,” he manages, taking a trembling step. In the dark, he’s completely disoriented. Where is the door?

“It’s not nothing.”

The scrape of Mezor’s boot coming closer sends a shiver down his spine. He fumbles in his coat for the flint, striking it clumsily. Sparks fly.

A brief intake of breath comes from behind. Close, too close. “Your scent…it’s powerful. But wrong.”

Cyrus lights the nearest torch and struggles to unlatch it from its sconce. Brandishing it, he finally turns.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Mezor commands, his eyes blazing. The look on his face makes Cyrus’s whole body explode with chills.

Cyrus’s knees wobble. Heat bursts in his belly. He gasps. “I—I can’t?—”

His legs give out. His horn hits the stone with a crack that reverberates through his skull painfully. Mezor lets out a roar that shakes the walls and he lunges forward. Cyrus curls instinctively, bracing for a blow. He’s figured it out. He’s going to kill me.

Boots land next to him and he flinches. He’s being lifted into the air like he weighs nothing. He struggles weakly against the Hunter’s strength, but his arms are iron bars around Cyrus.

“You’re a vergis,” Mezor growls. Cyrus’s heart pounds like a forge hammer with a terrible combination of fear and arousal. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he can’t stop Mezor from landing the final blow. “And you’re in heat.”

It’s pointless to beg a creature who can lift him like he weighs no more than a feather, but he has no choice. “Don’t tell anyone. Please. They’d kill me.”

“I would never.” The sheer fury in Mezor’s voice shocks him. “If anyone knowingly harmed a vergis I’d rip them to pieces and scatter their body across Hell.”

Cyrus opens his eyes.

“You—what?”

Mezor’s markings are glowing, silver flickers lighting his face from below. He looks every inch the god he is, and Cyrus is lightheaded. “Vergis are more precious than gold. Any primus would burn the world down for a vergis in heat.”

He has to remember to breathe. “But vergis are weak—and weakness is pathetic?—”

“Vergis are not weak.” Mezor’s eyes flash, as if he’s stating the obvious instead of shaking Cyrus’s world on its foundation. “Hush now, Save your strength. You’ll need it.”

He sets Cyrus down carefully, and Cyrus clings to the bench while Mezor picks up the fallen torch. His chest is tight. Everything is distant and muffled until Mezor crouches before him and grasps Cyrus’s chin, tilting his head, and his touch comes into sharp focus.

“Does it hurt?”

Cyrus can’t help the needy whine that escapes him. He tries to reign in his longing. “I’m fine.”

Mezor takes hold of his horn. His fingers burn. The touch makes Cyrus gasp.

“I heard a crack.”

“It’s nothing. You have to—to stop.” He buries his flaming face in his hands. This is wrong. All wrong. But I want it.

Mezor’s hands are gone immediately, leaving him cold.

“Ah.”

The knowing in his voice makes Cyrus ache. Slick gathers between his legs, and Mezor can surely scent it. Fire consumes him. He’s shaking. “I can’t help it.”

He struggles to remember what his book said about primus. In heat, they protect their mate with their life. But what about a random vergis they barely know? What about a vergis who doesn’t want to be a vergis, who doesn’t want heats, who will never have a mate?

“Cyrianus. Look at me.” His false name falling from Mezor’s lips makes him want to howl. Mezor’s tone is somber, hooking the tiny part of him that isn’t totally muddled by heat.

Reluctantly, lets his hands fall from his face. There’s tension in Mezor’s stern face as he grips the bench on either side of Cyrus, his shoulders tight.

“You’ve had heats before.”

Cyrus nods.

Mezor grimaces like it pains him. “Who did you go to?” he manages through gritted teeth.

He’s not my mate. Why would he care?

“No one,” Cyrus says shortly, digging his claws into his thighs. “I get through them on my own.”

The stone bench lets out a crack . He jumps. Fractures spiderweb out from under Mezor’s fingers.

“Alone.” Mezor grunts, his nostrils flaring. “I see. And this time? What do you need?”

“I need…”

…to be safe. The words are on the tip of his tongue.

What does it mean to be safe? In heat, he can’t even be safe from himself and his own desires.

Only one thing is clear. He can’t stand that Mezor isn’t touching him. It might be dangerous, it might be foolish, and he might regret it. But he needs those hands on him again, more than anything.

His throat closes up and he clenches his fists. So long hiding, he can’t even get the words out.

Mezor growls deep in his throat. “Bright flame, I can smell your need. Whatever you think of me, I’m not cruel. I will help you.”

The words strike like lightning. His whole body pulls tight.

What if he could have what his vergis needs? Just once?

What if he could let go?