Helfyre (Agía Sahnta #1)

by Mariel Pomeroy

It was the latter that scared her most, because acceptance of death was what preceded surrender.

It seemed as though Aheia’s life had boiled down to two narrow paths in front of her: either death in the mortal world on her own terms, or crossing the border to Aljira into a realm she’d been taught to fear.

Not until now, now that she spent her days running from Ophion’s bounty hunters. Now it felt important. Now time was the only thing that mattered. The strands themselves had her trapped in an hourglass, fighting against the onslaught of granules that were threatening to bury her with every passing moment.

At least I’ll see her again.

Her heart wrenched in her chest at the new acceptance that settled into her bones. If this killed her, she’d see Andromeda, her mother, again; something about that realization eased the pain. After all, it was only physical. Physical pain she could bear. She’d borne it all her life.

I miss you.

An Avarice This Nephilim wasn’t just another Leviathan, but a demon that could bend shadows to his will just like Dioscuri could bend light.

He had, of course, heard the rumors of the Mithra royal from Keloseros: a thankless Dioscuri brat on the run from her dear family.

There was something about the intensity that he saw in her pale blue eyes, even in the face of danger, that made him want to find out what made a privileged little goddess run so furiously and endure so much pain.

Will she falter in the face of death?

She’d ask him for a favor—they all asked for favors—and he’d grant it to her, for a price.

Those blue eyes of hers had half of Lyria after them; a little goddess fallen from grace, and he knew they’d come knocking, eventually.

It was calculated, all of it. The chase, the taunt, the pain. He needed her fear of what lay behind her to be greater than what she faced in front of her.

“I’ll give you anything.”

He wanted to see what it looked like when she truly begged, and imagined it would be so fucking pretty.

It was sweet, the naivety in it all, that she didn’t consider him to be the monster behind the shadows. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“A soul bargain,” he said calmly, relishing the shock on her face. “No,” she whispered, her eyes widening. “Anything else . . . I . . .”

“I don’t want anything else from you,” he said, toying with the end of her braid.

“Go on.” He tilted his head slightly, waiting for her to deny him, for her to take her chances with the Varcolac.

“Use your words. Tell me your soul is mine,”

“My soul is yours,”

Her soul was his. His.

This wasn’t part of the process, but he couldn’t resist leaning the bridge of his nose against hers and sliding his tongue over her bottom lip slowly. She went rigid in his arms as he tasted her down to her cells. Achlys and honey.

He breathed her in, wondering what a privileged Keloseros runaway had locked away inside herself that made her taste like d...

He looked down at his arm to find a glyph there, a flame perched on a crescent moon, the soft, white outline of it standing out against his dark ink.

Death’s flower doesn’t belong in the outside world. It belongs in mine.

“You’ll get used to it, Ruhí.”

“Your soul needs some time to settle.”

Her reality came crashing down around her, as she stared at him, remembering his lips, the pain she’d felt as he pulled her soul from her body, the panic in her veins.

It was longing—that’s what Aheia felt. Something inside of her was missing, and her heart was mourning. “You feel good on me.”

My soul.

She was furious—furious with him for possessing her soul, furious with herself for giving him what he wanted, furious with her mother for dying, furious with Ophion for killing her.

It felt good, being this close to him, too fucking good. But it wasn’t her that needed him close like she needed air to breathe; it was the bargain between them, the piece of her he held in his grasp. It felt like her soul was calling to her and would do anything to be back inside of her body.

“Yes, Aheia, I know who you are. It seems that I have the advantage since your careless words can only mean you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he continued.

“No one speaks to me like that in my realm.” He bared his teeth, a breath away from her. “Not if they value their life.” My realm.

He was Alshaytan.

Fuck, of course. If he was Alshaytan, the monster that had chased her through the Borderlands was his, directed by him, corralling her right into his waiting arms, as he pretended not to care if she handed over her soul.

“Gods . . . you’re—” She hesitated. He narrowed his eyes. “Finish the sentence. Tell me more about myself, little goddess.”

“You’re everything they said you’d be.”

She wanted to claw at his face, but in the same breath wanted to lick across those tattoos on his arms. Her mind was divided, torn between needing to run as far from him as she could and feeling like she might suffocate with each step he put between them.

“Don’t believe the truths told to you by the light. The brightness you’re used to casts the most vicious of shadows.”

Seven days was nothing. Nothing.

Would she always feel like this? Would she feel him like this even after she left his realm?

He was on edge, more so than usual now that he carried Aheia’s soul on his arm. It was fucking intense, the slight outline burning into his skin like she was fighting her very existence on his body and amongst his shadows.

They danced around her pale face while she stared up at him, eyes wide with the realization of how badly this bond would affect her, how completely she belonged to him while she was seated under his skin. He’d show her, fuck, he’d show her.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don’t be greedy, little goddess,” he chided. “You’ll get just as much as I want to give you.”

It was hard to tell if she was awake or asleep, but a part of her hoped for the latter because if she was awake, then she’d have to face the reality that she had dreamed about Arioch between her legs and liked it. Liked it a lot. Not just that, but wanted to beg him for more, and burned for everything he had to give.

Gods, she was soaked. She was wet over the thought of him.

“Are you finished?” he drawled, cocking his eyebrow.

“Why are you here?”