Page 33 of Lies Among Gods

Hours later, the ball crowd thinned. Lyra found herself standing near a fountain, nursing the dregs of a glass of sparkling water, utterly exhausted. Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on Asmodeus. He was leaning against a column, his posture a picture of effortless charisma, his head bent close to a strikingly beautiful woman whose dress was dangerously sheer. They were locked in intimate conversation, his low laughter occasionally carrying over the winding-down orchestra.

Lyra felt a small, flat sigh escape her. It wasn’t pain she felt, just a dull confirmation of Virel’s earlier words. She wasn’t special; she was just the new public conquest, already being replaced.

Just as the thought settled, she felt a powerful, grounding presence behind her. The air seemed to cool and sharpen, the scent of leather and ozone replacing the perfumes and wine. She didn’t need to turn around; the shift in the atmosphere was a signature she knew already.

"Alaios," she murmured, a genuine relief smoothing the edges of her fatigue.

"Are you upset that he’s moving on to another conquest?” he asked, his voice a low, rough whisper close to her ear.

Lyra turned to face him. She smiled, shaking her head. “No. I’m upset that he wasted my time. I don’t like being used.” She met his dark eyes, the truth of her fatigue and resentment clear. “He’s just... easy. And I think I’m done with easy tonight."

He didn’t return the smile, but his eyes held a satisfied intensity. He extended his hand, his expression serious. “Let’s get out of here."

Lyra did not hesitate. She pressed her hand into his rough, calloused palm. The immediate contact was a jolt—not the chaotic flutter of Asmodeus, but a potent, steady surge of reckless certainty.

Alaios led her not to the main entrance, but through a discreet side passage, past stone-faced guards who immediately fell silent and stiffened at the sight of the God of Strife. The air, crisp and cool against her skin, embraced them as they slipped out into the night. Distant pinpricks of light from a few scattered figures shimmered in the lamplight, but the overwhelming quiet left her feeling almost as if it were just the two of them in the world.

Alaios took her straight to his temple. The black basalt structure was a shadow against the night sky, severe and uninviting, yet to Lyra, it felt like the safest place in the city.

He guided her through the massive, hushed hallways, their footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor. Then, they reached the heavy oak door of his inner sanctum. As it swung shut behind them, a deep, resonant thud vibrated through the floorboards, sealing them in a sudden, profound silence that swallowed the distant hum of the world outside.

She stood in the center of the room, still encased in the emerald velvet gown, feeling utterly exposed. Alaios stoppeddirectly in front of her. He reached out, his thumb lightly tracing the velvet material where the neckline plunged.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark and hungry with an intensity that promised no escape and offered no comfort.

"You smell like the kind of night that leaves marks and memories,” he stated, his voice a low, rough growl, his meaning not a question but a declaration.

Chapter twenty-seven

CHAPTER 22

As Seren’s peace settled into custom, devotion no longer lived only in prayer, but in record and ritual. Blessings were measured, witnessed, and remembered. Councils marked whose labor pleased the gods, whose marriages were sanctioned, whose homes were worthy of protection.

Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran

Alaios took a step toward her, and Lyra instinctively backed up, but not from fear. Her breath locked in her throat as she stared into the dark pools of his eyes. Another step, and she retreated further, until the cool, solid edge of the desk bumped against her back, stopping her retreat.

"Tell me to stop, Lyra,” Alaios murmured, his voice a rough growl. He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand rose, the coarse pad of his thumb a gentle rasp against the smooth curve of her jaw. “Because in about three seconds, I’m not going to."

She met his gaze, the raw danger glinting in his eyes like a shard of obsidian. A defiant spark ignited within her; the primalurge to retreat was absent, replaced by an unshakeable resolve. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she filled her lungs with the faint, musky scent that always seemed to emanate from him, a familiar aroma that now felt strangely potent.

“Then I guess you better make those three seconds count,” she said breathlessly.

His mouth crashed against hers with a primal intensity that swallowed the air between them. The kiss was no longer a question; it was a demand, a claiming. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before plunging inside, deep and searching, a molten exploration. She tasted the dark complexity of him—champagne and a raw, barely contained hunger.

All thoughts—the anxiety of the trials, the constant watching eyes, the fear of her disappointing her family—fled instantly, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming reality ofhim. Her hands rose instinctively to the collar of his suit, gripping the material, anchoring herself to the potent force of his kiss.

His hands slid from her jaw, down her shoulders, and wrapped around the small of her back. With a low, guttural sound, he pressed her flush against the length of his body. She felt the muscular hardness of his chest against her velvet-clad front, the unyielding strength of his thighs against hers, the firm pressure of his shaft against her core, confirming that this connection was real and utterly dangerous. A reckless, fiery warmth erupted in her core, a chaotic, undeniable answering hunger. She kissed him back with a ferocity she hadn’t known she possessed, surrendering fully to the deep, consuming heat of the moment.

His hands slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass, and he lifted her slightly, pressing her softness against the undeniable length of his hardness. A low, needy moan escaped her lips, the sound filling his mouth, a raw affirmation. He leaned harder into her, driving her back harder against the edge of the desk, the pressure intensifying the demand of the kiss. Thekiss deepened further as her tongue dueled with his, a fiery, silent clash of wills. With a grunt of pure need, he lifted her fully, and she instinctively wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, anchoring herself to him; their bodies now perfectly, dangerously aligned.

He released one ass cheek and then she heard a crash. Pulling back slightly, she saw with one swoop he had shoved everything—papers, pens, and artifacts—off his massive desk. The impact of the objects hitting the floor was a sharp, final sound that signaled the end of all his restraint. He then set her fully onto the cleared desk, the coolness of the granite shocking against the velvet of her dress. His fingers dug into her chin, the firm pressure a stark contrast to the sudden, dizzying pull of his attention. His mouth crashed onto hers, a desperate, consuming kiss. It was a claiming, more urgent than before, his tongue a bold explorer, tasting and demanding. As he tilted her back, the cool, unyielding stone of the desk pressed against her back. Her breath caught, a sharp, ragged sound lost in the heat of the moment.

His hand slid down her velvet-clad hip, the movement deliberate, stopping precisely where the dress’s high slit began. The emerald fabric was pushed up by the motion, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against the delicate skin of her inner thigh, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. A chaotic flutter of reckless desire and sharp anticipation erupted in her core, pulling a soft gasp from her.

He pulled his mouth away; the warmth lingering on her lips. His eyes, dark pools reflecting the dim light, locked onto hers for a breathless moment. Then, a soft sigh escaped him as his lips, incredibly gentle, traced the delicate curve of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “That innocent look doesn’t fool me, Lyra. I know exactly how much trouble you want to be in,” he whispered, the words hot and flirty against her skin beforehe gently sucked her earlobe into his mouth. A potent, electric shiver raced down her spine, spreading an intoxicating heat that ignited a raw, undeniable need that made her muscles clench in surprised ecstasy.

He shifted his weight, his rough, calloused palm settling against the junction of her thighs, the heel of his hand grinding slowly, deliberately against her pulsing core. The exquisite friction was a molten shock that stole her breath. Her nails dug into the nape of his neck as the pressure intensified, a silent plea for more of the raw, consuming pleasure.