Page 22

CYRUS

The world shakes. Cyrus clings to the wall in a daze. Another collapse? How long has he been in his nest? He scrambles to get free, but he can’t move. The wall under his hand rumbles. It’s warm and has give—in fact, he’s surrounded by warmth, and a familiar lightning scent.

It’s him .

He wants to be angry, but he can’t muster the energy to even open his eyes.

He slides into unconsciousness.

When he wakes again, the world is still.

The first thing he notices is the lack of pain. The stabbing ache is almost completely gone—subsided to a prickle again. Tentatively he stretches his limbs. Something unimaginably soft slides across his skin. Is he naked?

To his dismay, a sigh of happiness escapes him. He rolls his cheek in the softness, heart fluttering.

He should be furious. Mezor made him sick, then abandoned him. Now he’s back to pretend he’s Cyrus’s savior.

But he can’t stir a single spark of anger to life. Everything feels so amazing. Every breath he draws is flush with Mezor’s rich scent, and it makes him tingle from the tips of his horns all the way to his claws.

He shivers and rolls in the luxurious softness that surrounds him.

Maybe this is just a dream.

A deep chuckle rings out and the soft surface dips. Cyrus turns toward the dark, blurry figure instinctively.

“Typical vergis,” Mezor murmurs. “Softer is better.”

Cyrus’s fingers brush something very soft indeed, warm and slightly heavy. Mezor’s sac twitches against the back of his hand. He strokes it, delighting at the crinkle of hair across his knuckles. His fingers drift upward. Heat flares in his gut at what he finds.

Mezor’s breath catches. A hand closes around Cyrus’s wrist before he can explore the delicious expanse of skin, where softness gives way to firm muscle and taut scars. He rises over Cyrus, a looming shadow.

“Just rest.”

“Why?” Cyrus mumbles as he’s tucked into a warm, spine-melting embrace. Yes, please.

Mezor doesn’t answer. His breath gusts across Cyrus’s ear, hot and gentle. Cyrus fights the fatigue that threatens to pull him under.

“The papers,” he suddenly remembers.

“I have them.” Mezor’s voice reverberates through him.

“They’re for you.” He struggles to pull the words free. “So you’ll help me.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Mezor’s tone is strange.

Afraid. He’s afraid .

Cyrus grips the arm around his chest. What is he afraid of? Mezor’s hold on him tightens.

The pads of his fingers drift down Mezor’s arm to his rough-hewn hand. Those wicked claws are twice the length of his own, yet they hold him gently. He uncurls Mezor’s fingers and draws the hand to his mouth, brushing the tip of his nose across the palm, breathing deeply of the scent that lingers on his wrist.

Mezor rumbles. The other arm around him squeezes. His scent mellows, the sharpness smoothing out.

“Cyrus.”

Cyrus can’t help himself. His tongue darts out to taste the skin. Salty, musky, and pulsing with life. He laves it gently. Mezor makes a strangled noise and shifts around behind him. Suddenly his soft parts are not so soft, but thick and firm, nudging into Cyrus’s thighs. Cyrus hums with satisfaction. Instinct drives him to nip the tender skin of Mezor’s wrist, right where his scent is strongest. When Mezor swallows in his ear, he puts the tip of his tongue to the callused pad of Mezor’s thumb and traces the rough surface all the way to the hook of his claw.

Mezor growls.

“Darling.”

Cyrus squirms, the word going straight to the pit of his stomach.

More.

He warms Mezor’s thumb with his mouth, relishing how the claw pricks his tongue. Need slithers down his spine to coil in a hot ball. The digit between his lips twitches, stroking his tongue gently back and forth. Cyrus can’t stop the noise that escapes him. The fear and pain seep out of him, replaced by warmth. Mezor’s cock pushes insistently at the crook of his ass, and the broad chest pressed into his back expands rapidly.

Mezor withdraws his thumb, stroking his cheek with the damp tip. “That’s not what I brought you here for.”

Rejection stings. But why wouldn’t we? He shuts his eyes. He wants to see Mezor, wants to show him how his touch makes Cyrus long for more. Maybe Mezor doesn’t want that. Or maybe Cyrus just needs to be clearer. He parts his thighs and lets that heavy primus cock slide between them.

“ Want ,” he croaks, hardly able to get the word out. It’s hard to express what exactly he wants. Everything is a fog of closer, tighter, more .

Mezor’s fingers trail across his chest, his ribs, his hip, and then behind him to his ass. One pad rubs gently against his hole, but Cyrus reaches back and pushes his hand away dazedly. Hot embarrassment crawls up his throat. He’s practically dripping for it, and it’s not even his heat.

“Very well.” Mezor murmurs in his ear. “No touching there. It’s alright. I know what you need.”

Cyrus bites back a whimper. His whole body tingles with energy. Then Mezor’s knuckles brush his leg and the thick length of him twitches, and he’s pulling back, thrusting forward, his cock gliding between Cyrus’s thighs gently. His breath puffs in Cyrus’s ear.

“You need my seed. You’ll feel better once you’re covered in it.”

Cyrus squeezes his thighs in thoughtless anticipation and Mezor grunts. He does want it. He wants to be smothered in Mezor’s scent. He rocks back and forth, meeting Mezor’s powerful hips. His hand slides down and he strokes himself with sloppy movements, letting his fingers drift down to the tip emerging from between his legs, careful not to graze it with his claws. It bumps his palm, hot and damp. Mezor’s breathing becomes unfocused. He tenses, his cock jerking against Cyrus’s fingertips, and hot spurts hit Cyrus’s palm. The heavy scent makes him lightheaded.

“Good vergis,” Mezor huffs into his neck. “So good. Rub it on yourself.”

A deep sense of pleasure spills over him, as if he’s reached his own peak. He does as Mezor tells him, letting the seed sink into his skin.

The dark starts to feel floaty. Cyrus’s muscles melt. He curls closer into Mezor’s arms, satisfied somehow. A tiny voice in the back of his head is outraged— What’s happening? Why do I feel this way? But the rest of him is too hazy to care.

Light meets his eyes, a faint, warm glow. Cyrus feels somehow more rested than he’s ever felt. He’s so warm. Maybe he’s at the forge again and someone will come to oust him rudely. But there’s no clamor of industry nearby. Nor is he laying on hard stone. In fact, it’s so very soft.

His eyes drift open. He jolts upright.

He’s in a room. Alone.

It’s a smallish room, faintly lit. The light doesn’t come from torches—instead, the floor itself is a thick, glowing carpet of vine and leaves, the likes of which Cyrus has never seen. There are shades of pale green, splotches of purple, veins of rich burgundy. Leaves as big as his head and as tiny as a button. Vines that snake along the floor and criss-cross the wall. He gapes.

“What…?”

“You’re in my cottage.” Mezor’s deep rumble startles him. His shadow fills the doorway, eyes unfathomable as he watches Cyrus. He’s fully naked, the markings on his skin on display. They make him look wild in the midst of the glowing garden. Lush dark hair springs from his armpits and groin. Cyrus’s heart kicks. Memory comes back of being lifted out of his nest. Did Mezor carry him here?

“You didn’t come when I summoned you.” He tries to sound angry, but it comes out plaintive. He winces. To his embarrassment, pity crosses Mezor’s face.

“I was away.” Then he shakes his head. “No. The truth is, I chose not to come. I thought it best.”

“Then why did you bring me here?” Cyrus clenches his fists in the impossibly soft furs that surround him, his mind spinning in a hundred different directions. “Does this mean I’ve lost the challenge?”

“The challenge is over,” Mezor says roughly.

His heart sinks. “You don’t want me to win.”

“It’s not that.” Mezor comes to the bedside and crouches, and Cyrus finds his hands engulfed. “There are more important things at stake. During your heat we formed a bond, and you’ve been apart from me for too long. You’re bond-sick.”

Cyrus yanks his hands out of Mezor’s grip. “We what ?”

“I should have known it would happen. My mind was occupied—but it’s not an excuse.”

Panic balloons in his chest. A bond? What did his book say about bonding? The words swim before his eyes. Words like Forever. Mate. Pups.

“What does that mean?” he demands, throat tight.

“It means it’s dangerous for us to be apart until the bond stabilizes,” Mezor says gently.

Cyrus is going to be sick.

“How could you do this to me?” He scrambles to the edge of the bed. He has to get out. The soothing words, the strong embrace, that rich gaze—they’re a trap. “I can’t be bonded to you. I can’t. I have to get rid of my vergis?—”

“Cyrus.” Mezor’s hands are on his calves. “Bright flame. Hush. Breathe.”

Mezor reels him back with ease. Cyrus wants to cry. He gulps stuttering breaths past the sharp blade of fear in his ribcage, kicking at Mezor. Then he’s engulfed, his nose pressed into Mezor’s chest. He digs his claws in as his throat squeezes shut.

“Breathe,” Mezor repeats, stern and calm. His chest rises and falls evenly under Cyrus’s claws.

“No!” Cyrus yelps, squirming.

In spite of his panic, Mezor’s grip calms him. He grimaces. His breath comes deeper. A thumb sweeps over the back of his neck, where his hairs are shorn close, and he can only let out a weak growl before his limbs melt.

“Stop that,” he whimpers. It has to be the bond. He’s not this pathetic.

Mezor’s thumb pauses. “Better?”

“No,” Cyrus growls again, but it’s a lie. His heartbeat still trembles but the panic is gone.

“I didn’t initiate the bond on purpose.” Mezor releases him.

Cyrus pulls back, sitting cross-legged. His mind works quickly. He’s already come to that conclusion. As soon as the words left his lips he knew. Why would a powerful being like the Hunter tie himself to someone like Cyrus for ever and ever?

“I’m not a pet.” He strokes the fur under his hand restlessly. “I can’t stay here. I…have other duties in the Court.”

“I know.” Mezor sits back on his heels.

The gentle glow of the vines reflect across his deep red skin to create vibrant colors. His gaze is warm and thoughtful. Cyrus’s head spins with the strangeness of it all. There’s a part of him—not small—that wants nothing more than to launch himself into Mezor’s arms again. He’s naked, sticky with seed, and exhausted. His vergis is eager to rub himself all over Mezor then fall asleep on him. But the other part of him, the part that’s schemed and worked for so many years, relying on only himself—that part rebels.

“How bad will it get?”

“We can be apart, but it will hurt.”

“I can handle pain,” Cyrus retorts immediately.

“Indeed,” Mezor rumbles, not a hint of doubt in his tone. Cyrus’s chest aches. How can he be so calm?

He digs his claws into the fur. “What else?”

“If we’re apart for too long, you’ll get sick. Until the bond stabilizes.” The huge hand on Cyrus’s calf twitches. “If you survived the bond sickness, the bond would break. If .”

“What about you?” Cyrus demands. “Doesn’t it hurt you?”

“It doesn’t affect me like that.”

Of course not. Mezor isn’t like him, after all. He’s so much stronger.

“That’s unfair,” Cyrus mutters. “How long until the bond is stable?”

“I don’t know. But we can help it along. When a primus and vergis are a good match, the bond tends naturally toward stability.”

“And we’re like that . Matching .” The idea makes something deep down inside stir, but Cyrus ignores it. How could he possibly be on the same plane as someone like Mezor? It must be another cruel trick of fate. “Only mates are bonded. So does that mean we have to behave like mates?”

He hesitates. There’s one clear solution suddenly at the forefront of his mind. It must also be in Mezor’s thoughts, because there’s an answering smirk on his lips.

“We don’t have to fuck. There are other ways.”

“It’s fine if we do,” Cyrus says quickly. He pushes through even as his cheeks blaze. “If you want to. It would help, wouldn’t it?”

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 to give 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 could use the 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.