Page 62 of Lies Among Gods

Alaios set her down on the bed, lowering her onto the comforter as though she were the most fragile, precious thing he had ever held. He remained standing over her, his imposing figure silhouetted against the dim light of the room. He was still rigid with the contained tension that was beginning to crack around the edges.

"I’m sorry,” he whispered, the sound a soft, raw breath of air.

Lyra reached up to him, her turquoise-sleeved hand brushing against the black wool of his suit jacket. “There is nothing to be sorry for,” she replied, her voice soft but firm. “Just tell me why.”

He leaned onto the bed, his weight pressing the mattress down by her hip as he lowered himself, bringing him closer to her level. He brought her hand to his lips. With her breath held tight, he pressed a tender kiss into the very center of her palm, a silent, devastating act of uncharacteristic softness.

"I almost lost you before I even truly had you,” he replied, the sound thick with self-recrimination. “I should have known a fanatic would come at you. Every time I let you leave this temple, I left you unsafe. I have been around long enough to know better, to know how some mortals think they are acting with the divine right of a god who doesn’t even know they exist."

Lyra exhaled softly, shaking her head. “I saw him a few times, and I should have known something was wrong. I could have spoken up and told you, but I chose not to. It was just a coincidence and nothing more, I told myself."

She watched the pain in his eyes deepen, and she reached her other hand to cradle his jaw.

“You can’t take the blame for the free will of a madman, Alaios,” she whispered.

"I shouldn’t have let you leave this temple—this room,” he countered, his eyes dark with regret. “I wanted you to live a long, mortal life. If I had not approached you… perhaps you still would have had that. Every time I looked at you after the attack, all I could think about was how close I came to losing you. I–"

His words were a punch to her gut when she realized how much he blamed himself. A feather-light brush of her fingertips silenced him mid-sentence, their soft pads pressing gently against his lips. “I don’t regret a thing. Something Seren said sticks with me: this was always my path. And my path seems to be linked to yours.” Her breath caught faintly before she forced herself to finish, softer now. “Unless you don’t want it to.”

He laughed, a harsh, dry sound like crumbling leaves that was immediately swallowed by the quiet the room fell into. Her chest hitched, a silent gasp caught in her throat, as she strained to hear his words, her eyes wide and fixed on his face.

"From the moment I saw you, I wanted to ruin every path that could take you away from me,” he murmured, his eyes burning with fierce, possessive heat. “I wanted to keep you somewherebeyond the reach of everyone who had ever made you feel unwanted. Somewhere no one else could touch what had already consumed my entire attention."

He leaned down, his mouth finding hers with a devastating urgency that was pure, unrestrained. The kiss was deep, punishingly sweet, and full of agonizing want. He shifted his weight, his immense frame pressing her deeper into the softness of the bed. The dam of the separation shattered instantly. Her grip on his suit jacket was desperate, not just pulling him closer, but trying to merge their bodies into one solid, unbroken whole. Every part of her body was screaming for the contact she had been denied for so long.

Her hands, guided by a fierce, forgotten memory, finally pulled away from his jacket and began to roam over the hard, muscular expanse of his back. Beneath the fine, black wool of his suit, she could feel the taut coils of his strength, the power she knew he kept so rigidly contained. Her fingers bunched the expensive fabric, clutching it with an urgency that demanded its removal, a frantic need to feel the bare, warm skin she had ached for.

Alaios broke the kiss just long enough to transfer his weight, propping himself on one elbow. His dark eyes were momentarily closed, a visible struggle for control, before they snapped open, burning with a mix of possession and overwhelming desire. He didn’t speak. Instead, his free hand—the granite strength of it a devastating contrast to the soft silk of her dress—trailed down her thigh. His fingers slid beneath the hem of the turquoise fabric. The silk, smooth and whisper-light against her skin, yielded easily as he pushed it upward. He gathered the luxurious material into his palm, the gentle rustle a soft counterpoint to the quiet intimacy of the moment, until his hand claimed the warm, bare skin beneath.

His mouth devoured hers again, the heat and pressure of the kiss intense, punishingly sweet. Lyra responded with desperate ferocity, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of dark, rich spice that was uniquely him. This was the taste of her anchor, the intoxicating truth that had saved her life: the demanding, consuming flavor of Alaios. All the emotional wounds of the past month—the crushing rejection, the silent avoidance, the fear of abandonment—vanished, incinerated by the consuming, undeniable reality of his presence. She realized, with a soul-deep ache, how profoundly, viscerally she had missed this: the simple, earth-shattering pleasure of being consumed by him.

She felt the sudden, cool rush of air as the silk of her dress rode higher, bunching at her waist under the heat of his massive hand. His fingers, rough and utterly decisive, hooked around the flimsy silk waistband of her panties. With a swift, sharp tug, the elastic snapped, a sound that made her breath hitch. He tossed the barrier aside, and the cool air was instantly replaced by the searing heat of his touch as his calloused fingers slid lower, trailing fire over her bare skin.

A violent, immediate shiver raced down her spine, culminating in a sudden, intense flood of wet heat. His thumb found the tender bundle of nerves that was singing for him, circling it with a mesmerizing, demanding pressure. A raw, primal gasp tore from her throat, and a wave of pleasure, so immense and dizzying it almost blacked out her vision, crashed through her. Her core clenched and tightened, a fierce, automatic response that caused her hips to buck upward, desperately trying to get closer to his touch and locking his hand between her thighs.

He didn’t allow it. With a gentle, dominating pressure of his palm against her leg, he pressed her thighs apart. His fingers lingered, tracing the slick, sensitive edges of her folds only for aheart-stopping moment before, with a slow, deliberate slide, his fingers pressed into her wetness.

The invasion was a shock, a profound, consuming pleasure that instantly tightened her core even further. A pressure began to build, sharp and insistent, an intoxicating promise she had believed lost forever. The realization that she was feeling this again—this consuming, earth-shattering pleasure—was a profound, emotional relief that mingled violently with the physical need. His fingers moved, thrusting in and out of her slick heat with what started as a slow rhythm, then picked up the pace. Her heart, frantic and desperate, seemed to match the tempo, hammering against her ribs, each beat a drum of relentless, accelerating want as his fingers thrust in and out. She lifted her neck, her head pressed back into the comforter, a silent scream of pure, desperate need already building behind her lips.

The friction intensified, a scorching dance of flesh against flesh, sending shivers of exquisite pleasure coursing through her. Her breath hitched, ragged gasps escaping her as the sensations mounted, threatening to overwhelm her. She arched her back, surrendering to the tidal wave of sensation, her body trembling uncontrollably. A moan, low and guttural, escaped her as she neared the precipice, her nails digging into his shoulders, holding on for dear life. The world narrowed to this single point, this consuming ecstasy, as he continued his relentless assault, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

Lyra gasped, the air ripping from her lungs as Alaios shifted, his movements quick, bringing his body lower. She felt the searing heat of his mouth replaced the relentless thrusting of his fingers, a devastating, all-consuming claim that instantly stole her breath. His tongue was merciless, a deep, skilled caress that circled and traced the most sensitive part of her before his mouth locked onto her, pulling her clitoris into the moist, dark heat of his mouth.

A profound shock of pleasure, so intense it was a physical blow, hammered through her. Her fingers, frantic and desperate for purchase, shot up, blindly finding the silky, dark strands of his hair. She clutched it, not in pain, but in a desperate attempt to anchor herself to the source of the dizzying sensation, to pull him deeper into the pleasure he was creating.

The pressure built higher and higher with every wet, demanding suckle of his mouth and the relentless, deep thrust of his fingers inside her. It wasn’t just pleasure; it was a consuming, accelerating storm that was pulling her apart, molecule by molecule. Her core was a coiled, desperate spring, wound tighter with every suckle. She was completely at his mercy, every sound she made a testament to his absolute control.

The world narrowed to the glorious, consuming ache between her legs. She heard a sound, a muffled, primal keen, and vaguely realized it had come from her own throat. Then, the pressure became too much, too sharp, too beautiful. It exploded in her, an immense, shattering wave of white-hot bliss that seized her entire body. Her back arched violently, a final, convulsive spasm. His name, a raw, ragged cry—"Alaios!"—tore from her lips. The world dissolved around the sound as she melted into the bed, sinking into the soft comforter in a state of languid, sated pleasure. The tremors ran through her, long, slow ripples of aftermath, as she gasped for breath, her limbs heavy and utterly, gloriously spent.

Chapter fifty-one

CHAPTER 45

Crops long withered drank deeply, and even the stone darkened as if remembering the softness of water. We understood then that rain was no longer a season, but a will.

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

The following pages are unattributed to High Priest Aurelius Venn