Page 29 of Lies Among Gods

“Forgive me—reflex. Happens when something stunning walks in.” Asmodeus straightened his silk green tie and winked.

“Let me get a picture of you two,” Diane sighed. “You both look so beautiful.”

Asmodeus grinned, pulling Lyra to his side with an effortless grace that felt both possessive and utterly natural. His hand settled low on her hip, the pressure firm enough to convey ownership but gentle enough to be an elegant accessory to his smile.

Diane, humming with excitement, held her phone up. The camera flashed once, twice, three times, capturing the image. For a moment, Lyra felt like she was going to prom. Reliving a moment she never got the chance to experience, since no oneinvited her and she didn’t want to go alone and watch people as she sat.

Asmodeus swirled her around, turning her toward the door. “May the gods ever be with you,” he said over his shoulder.

Pollo bowed, replying, “May the gods ever be with you.”

As Diane and Anya murmured the same farewell, their voices a soft, indistinguishable hum, they bowed.

Asmodeus opened the front door. Flashes blinded her for a moment as picture after picture was taken. Voices rose as questions were shouted out. Asmodeus, a smirk playing on his lips, reveled in the flashbulbs popping like tiny firecrackers. He pulled her in, their shadows stretching long and distorted as the camera shutters clicked.

Asmodeus raised a hand. “No questions tonight, darlings. Tonight’s reserved for temptation, good company, and a woman who deserves my full attention.” He guided her forward. “So, put the cameras down.”

He guided her towards the waiting black limo, slipping inside the plush confines of the back seat as the privacy screen immediately rose, sealing them away from the clamor of the world. The limo pulled away, gliding smoothly toward the temple district.

The city lights blurred into streaks of color outside the tinted windows, but Lyra only saw the flickering reflection of her own face—pale and wide-eyed.

Asmodeus, by contrast, was a vision of perfect, relaxed ease. He lounged against the seat, one arm stretched along the top of the cushion, his gaze fixed on her with that familiar, appreciative intensity.

"Nervous, little goddess?” he purred, his voice a low, melodic rumble.

Lyra jumped slightly at the sound, then managed a jerky nod. “A little,” she admitted, her voice a reedy whisper. “It’s the HighCouncil Ball. Everyone who is anyone will be there. I feel like an untrained kitten walking into a den of lions."

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that did little to ease her anxiety. “That’s precisely why you’ll be the most fascinating person in the room. Every god there is an ancient, predictable beast. You, my dear, are the beautiful, unpredictable storm they didn’t see coming."

He reached toward a hidden compartment and smoothly produced a chilled bottle of champagne and two flutes. The pop of the cork was a loud noise before he filled the flutes with the bubbly liquid.

"You look like you need a moment of decadence before you face the pride of lions,” he said as he presented the glass to her. “Drink this. It will settle those nerves. I find that a little hedonism always improves one’s poise"

Lyra took the glass; the cold crystal was a welcome anchor in her trembling hand. She raised it to her lips and took a long, grateful sip. The effervescence was a shock, followed by a sweet warmth that instantly began to melt the ice in her veins.

"Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his eyes over the rim of the glass. “It helps."

"Anything for a beautiful woman,” he teased, taking a slow sip from his own flute, his eyes never leaving hers. “I assume you love the dress. I had it designed to make you unforgettable, Lyra, and you are wearing it exactly as intended. Though I must admit, I was planning on you being a little more comfortable in it.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I had imagined a grander introduction to my personal compartment, one involving less anxiety and more… exploration of the fabric."

Lyra felt heat rise to her cheeks, but the champagne gave her a tiny flicker of her usual defiance. “I’m not entirely sure I want to live up to your…intentions, God Asmodeus."

He grinned, the look of pure, delighted devilry. “Sweet defiance. Even better, I always love the chase. But know this: you are walking into that hall on my arm. Tonight, every eye will be on you and me.” He paused for a second, his smile growing. “Can you say my name again, little goddess? I love to watch the word roll off that sweet tongue of yours.”

"You are incorrigible,” she shook her head, a snorting laugh escaping her lips. The anxiety creeping back in as the thought of Elio’s cold appraisal resurfaced. “Will all the gods be there?"

Asmodeus waved a dismissive hand. “Elio and the others will be there, boring everyone as per usual. So, you need not worry, little goddess. I will make sure your night is filled with laughter and passion. And passion is my domain. The true power is in being the one everyone wants to watch—and the one everyone wants to touch. Tonight, Lyra, that’s you."

He lifted his glass in a silent toast, his eyes holding a promise of delightful mischief and pure, focused desire. Lyra took another sip of champagne, choosing to focus on the immediate, intoxicating promise of his presence rather than the terrifying reality that awaited them. Each charming word seemed to melt her worries away.

The limo glided to a hushed halt before the Hall of Ceremonies, a colossal building of polished white marble that shimmered with an ethereal, subtle light. Asmodeus emerged first and offered Lyra a hand.

Asmodeus led her up a wide, sweeping staircase and into the main ballroom. Her eyes snapped open wide with startled wonder, darting around the opulent room. She tried to absorb the swirling kaleidoscope of silks and jewels, the hushed murmurs of a hundred voices blending into a soft, almost reverent hum. The air, thick with the faint, sweet scent of lilies and expensive perfume. This was the hallowed gathering of the devoted, and the sheer, dazzling spectacle of it allwas overwhelming. The opulence was a physical thing: the soaring ceiling was inlaid with silver leaf, and massive crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, catching the light and casting diamond patterns across the floor. Everywhere Lyra looked, surfaces shimmered—polished marble, silver serving trays, and the glint of expensive jewelry.

The hall was a sea of color and prestige. Gods, radiant in their own light, mingled effortlessly with high priests and priestesses dressed in the specific, rich colors of their respective temples. Elio, golden and regal, stood near a fountain. Mira, in flowing blue silks, spoke with a cluster of wealthy-looking followers.

A live orchestra played a slow, elegant waltz, the music filling the vast space with a sophisticated melancholy. Before Lyra could fully register the crowd or the potential onslaught of introductions, Asmodeus smoothly spun her.

"I’m not risking losing you to a bore before I get the first dance,” he murmured in her ear, his breath warm against her temple.