Page 35 of Lies Among Gods

Lyra slid off the desk, the smooth, cool granite a profound contrast to the fiery heat of the moment that had just consumed them. The emerald velvet dress, discarded in a pool on the floor, was a silent testament to what had just happened, and she felt a sudden rush of self-consciousness. Alaios, already dressed in his trousers and shirt, retrieved the gown with silent grace, holding it out to her. The raw, possessive intensity in his eyes never wavered as she took the dress, and she felt a familiar flutter in her chest—not the chaotic rush Asmodeus offered, but a fierce, grounded certainty.

He waited patiently as she redressed, the cool fabric sliding over her still-heated skin. His hands, rough and warm, brushed the skin of her spine as he smoothly pulled the zipper up; the simple contact was a deep, lingering caress that made her shiver.

"Stay," he stated, his voice a low, rough growl, his breath warm against her ear. It was not a request, but a command wrapped in desire.

Lyra turned back, managing a small, tired smile. “I can’t. My mother will officially declare me missing, and I don’t think my PR team can spin a ‘lost in the bushes’ story twice."

“PR team?” he chuckled.

“That would be my family doing everything they can to make me presentable."

He kissed the tip of her nose and murmured, “I like the unpresentable version better.”

“Well, you would be the only one,” she giggled.

He moved his lips from the tip of her nose, murmuring against her skin as he trailed downward. He brushed a soft kiss across her lips, then another, feather-light, and a third, more insistent one, before his mouth settled onto hers. Lyra gasped a soft sigh as her lips parted beneath his. His tongue entered her mouth, deep and searching. She felt a profound rush of excitement, mingled with the potent, steady certainty of their connection, as the lingering kiss deepened, consuming her. He finally pulled back, the air between them thick with unspoken promises, and his thumb gently caressed her cheek, his dark eyes holding hers with quiet, powerful intensity.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” he murmured.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, a breathy whisper in the quiet room. as she shook her head. “I will come back tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t argue, simply nodding once. He led her through the massive, quiet hallways. The walk was silent, the heavy thud ofthe outer door heralding the return to the cold reality of the world.

When they stepped out into the pre-dawn darkness, the air cool and sharp against her skin, Lyra felt an immediate shift. The shadows of the early morning were fractured by a streetlamp’s sickly yellow light, and standing directly beneath it, immaculate in his emerald velvet tuxedo, was Asmodeus.

He pushed away from the lamppost with a casual, predatory grace, his baby-blue eyes instantly sweeping over Lyra, then hardening as they fixed on the God of Strife. His usual seductive smirk was entirely absent, replaced by a sharp frown that made heat flutter across Lyra’s cheeks.

Alaios didn’t flinch. He simply tightened his grip on Lyra’s hand, the rough texture of his palm a potent contrast to the polished world Asmodeus represented. With a soft tug on her hand, he drew her behind him. The possessive gesture was a silent, absolute declaration of ownership.

The instant Asmodeus’s smile switched from playful to angry, Lyra noticed. The transformation was so immediate and stark that she could almost feel the shift in the air, as if the space between them had become negatively charged with latent energy. His baby-blue eyes held a cold, proprietary fury as he assessed the scene.

"You're the God of Strife,” Asmodeus said, his voice dropping from its usual purr to a low, tight menace. “Strife, for fuck’s sake. Nobody wants to be around you. So why would she choose you over me?"

Alaios’s grip tightened slightly. He looked at Asmodeus with an expression of granite calm, but the surrounding air grew heavy, charged with latent, volatile power that almost crackled in the air. “You realize that without me, people would be just as self-entitled as you. I am the necessary friction, the consequence that keeps your petty hedonism in check."

"Consequence?" Asmodeus scoffed, taking a step closer, his emerald jacket a flash of arrogant color now. “You’re the god they pray not to meet. I’m the one they dream of following. Tell me, Lyra,” he demanded, focusing his sharp gaze on her, “did he have to use his charming temple lecture to convince you, or did you just enjoy slumming it for a night?"

"You think a mortal needs convincing to choose passion over duty?” Alaios countered, a flicker of genuine heat entering his dark eyes. “You offer a gilded cage, Asmodeus. A pretty prison lined with silk and self-delusion. Pleasure without consequence, desire without depth. An endless parade of distractions for people too weak to survive the gritty parts of life. I offered the gritty truth, and she chose it."

"This is not helpful,” she tried, her voice barely a squeak against the hard, low sound of their exchange. Neither god acknowledged her.

Lyra's eyes darted frantically between the two gods, feeling an icy wave of helplessness wash over her. Their argument was a vortex of tension, pulling all the air and focus into itself, leaving her entirely irrelevant even though she was the eye of the storm.

"Truth? You offer boredom, Alaios! You offer constant resistance,” Asmodeus sneered, his voice ringing with cutting malice. “Endless tests. Endless struggle. You demand people break themselves just to earn your approval, and you call it virtue.”

Was anyone recording this?The thought was a sickening punch to her gut. She scanned the empty street, the dark windows of the temple complex, but the damage was already done. She could practically see the headlines now: GODS FIGHT OVER MORTAL! Lyra Nymphaea: The New Catalyst for Divine Strife. Her hands instinctively went to the velvet of the dress, suddenly feeling exposed, as if the garment itself was broadcasting all her transgressions. The thought of her mother,of the inevitably scathing social media dissection, made her skin crawl.

“And yet,” Alaios said evenly, “when your pleasure fades and the room goes quiet, they pray to me.”

Lyra looked between them, her mind reeling, confused and upset. The memory of the kiss, the dance, the fierce certainty she had felt with Alaios, was suddenly being drowned out by the acrid taste of their fighting. She didn’t want to listen to this bitter, angry exchange after the profound night she had just shared.

Lyra shook her head, pulling her hand free from Alaios’s grip. “No fighting, children,” she said, her voice strained but firm. She took a step toward Asmodeus, managing a soft, placating smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you for the magnificent dress, Asmodeus. It made the night unforgettable.” She let the word unforgettable hang between them — layered, deliberate.

Then, turning fully, she walked the short distance back to Alaios. She rose on the balls of her feet and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to his lips, a silent declaration of loyalty that cut through the tension.

“Goodnight.” She didn’t wait for either god to speak. She simply turned and started walking toward the nearest tram stop, the emerald velvet of her dress catching the sickly light of the streetlamp, leaving both the God of Lust and the God of Strife standing alone in the pre-dawn silence.

Lyra was abruptly pulled from the deep, dream-filled sleep by the sound of her bedroom door creaking open. A soft, contented smile spread across her lips, an automatic responseto the lingering, sensual memory of Alaios’s rough hands and possessive kiss. She blinked against the morning light streaming through the window as the curtains were opened, the image of his dark, serious eyes the first thing her mind thought before her eyes fully opened.