CHAPTER 14
Even in quiet towns, the march of war was felt. Homes fortified, and children learned to pray not only for life but for approval. Under the watchful eyes of Raios and Thaniel, every action was measured, every word considered, and survival became devotion in its most exacting form.
Snippet from “The Book of Natural History” By Priestess Antonella Killoran
Lyra slid off her bed and padded across the room, quietly throwing a blanket over the mirror.
She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror, didn’t want to see the exhausted, anxiety-ridden girl staring back.
Her skin felt raw from the constant scrutiny, and her mother’s anxious energy was a heavy, suffocating blanket.
She just wanted the world to stop for a minute so she could catch up and get her bearings.
A loud, insistent knock on the front door echoed down the hall, immediately followed by the distant, muffled sound of her mother’s voice launching into a monologue.
Lyra tuned it out, recognizing the frantic, high-pitched tone of a fresh crisis she hoped had nothing to do with her.
The door opened and then slammed shut with unnecessary violence.
The door of Lyra’s bedroom crashed open. Lyra’s eyes, already weary, flickered up. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light, was her mother. The last sliver of hope, the quiet hope of a day hiding from the world, shattered like glass.
"Lyra!" Diane whisper-yelled, her eyes blazing with that familiar mix of pride and frustration. “Get dressed! Now! Put on something nice!"
Lyra sighed. She rubbed her temples, feeling the tension there, a dull ache beneath her fingertips. “Mom, I’m not going anywhere. I’m tired of all the—"
“For once, can you just do as I say without a fight?” Diane hissed.
Lyra huffed out a breath. “Mom, I just want—”
"Asmodeus is here!” Diane cut her off, the name delivered like a sacred pronouncement. “So, you will get dressed properly and attend to our very gracious guest.”
“Can you not just explain that I am not feeling well?” Lyra grumbled.
“Lyra!” Diane’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked onto her. “You will go out there and do your duty. You will show proper respect now!”
Lyra’s eyes rolled so hard they almost saw her brain.
Of course, he came over on a day I wanted to be alone.
The only god who knows how to make a grand entrance at the worst possible time.
She walked to her closet, her mother’s dramatic sighs following her like a shadow.
Instead of searching, she reached in and grabbed the first piece of fabric her hand landed on—a simple, deep blue wrap dress she’d bought on clearance a year ago.
It was not ‘goddess-worthy,’ but it was clean. She yanked it on.
Diane frowned, her gaze already darting toward the collection of approved garments she had set to the right side of the closet yesterday. “Lyra, that dress… It’s entirely too casual! We need to find the—”
"I’m leaving, Mom,” Lyra said, walking past her. She didn’t wait for the inevitable lecture, simply moving with a calm, defiant momentum that surprised even herself.
She walked out into the living room. As always, Asmodeus Hedone was a creature of flawless spectacle.
He was wearing a deep burgundy suit jacket over a crisp black shirt, the color a decadent clash against his pale skin and dirty blonde hair.
He was leaning against the archway, his baby-blue eyes instantly finding hers, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his lips—the kind that was utterly charming and promised delightful ruin.
She felt a gasp catch in her throat, her chest tightening.
The sheer intensity of his gaze, a palpable heat, made her heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm she fought to still.
He straightened, extending a hand to her. It was long, elegant, and soft; Lyra felt the immediate difference between the delicate smoothness of his touch and the rough, calloused grip of Alaios.
"You deserve dinner, wine, and a night full of all the things polite people don’t talk about,” he purred, his voice an invitation and a promise.
Lyra let out a short, genuine laugh. It felt good to laugh, even if it was at a line she suspected he used on everyone.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Keeping her hand firmly in his, he dragged her out the front door.
The media mob—which had clearly been waiting—erupted.
Cameras flashed like strobe lights, shouts and questions forming a chaotic wall of sound.
Lyra instinctively tucked her head down, but Asmodeus simply grinned, his presence seeming to deflect the chaos as he pulled her toward a sleek, waiting black limo parked by the curb.
They slid into the plush leather seats, the privacy window gliding up to silence the world. Asmodeus leaned back, pouring two glasses of sparkling wine from a hidden cooler.
The car glided to a halt before an imposing, glass-faced high-rise, its lights reflecting like scattered jewels.
A doorman, crisp in his uniform, gestured them towards a gleaming elevator.
As the doors slid shut with a soft hiss, Asmodeus leaned in, the faint scent of his cologne—vetiver and jasmine—filling the small space.
His fingers, cool and smooth, brushed against her cheek as he gently twirled a lock of her hair, the elevator ascending with a low, almost imperceptible hum.
The faint clinking of silverware and hushed murmurs of conversation provided a backdrop to the dimly lit restaurant.
A waiter, his steps practiced and unobtrusive, approached the table.
Asmodeus’s eyes held the waiter’s for a beat.
There was no discernible expression on Asmodeus’s face, yet the intensity of his stare seemed to communicate a silent, unspoken directive.
Without a word, the waiter offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod before discreetly leaving.
The doors opened to a breathtaking panoramic view, thanks to expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an unparalleled spectacle of the sprawling city below.
As they were seated by a window, the glittering urban landscape unfurled before them, a vibrant tapestry of lights and distant structures.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window; her gaze lost in the distant, twinkling lights of the city.
A faint hum, the city’s constant heartbeat, reached her ears.
Asmodeus, sensing the weight of her introspection, stayed quiet, leaving her to the silent company of her thoughts and the shimmering lights.
Soon, the waiter returned, the clinking of glasses on his tray a soft melody accompanying the rich aroma of wine and the tantalizing scents of the dishes he carried.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered how the waiter knew what to bring, but then she decided not to ask Asmodeus about his power.
The meal was exquisite—foie gras that melted on the tongue, delicate wine that paired perfectly with the sea bass, and a cake of dark chocolate and spiced honey.
It was the most delicious meal Lyra had ever eaten, not just because of the food, but because of the effortless, gilded freedom that came with it.
The absence of prying eyes, the silent void where critical stares usually burned, settled around her like a cool, soft blanket.
It was a strange, unfamiliar peace, a quiet stillness that hummed with an almost palpable calm.
She wasn’t even upset when he effortlessly slid into conversation. Throughout the meal, Asmodeus played the role of the perfect, attentive god of pleasure, his compliments lavish and his gaze constant.
"Idle hands might be the work for Threxus,” he murmured, leaning closer, his eyes dropping to the hand resting on the table, “but your body is the perfect solution for that."
Lyra felt the heat rush to her cheeks, but she met his gaze, rolling her eyes to mask the potent flutter in her stomach. “You’re flirting a little hardcore, aren’t you?"
His grin widened, and he reached out, taking her fork from her hand with the utmost gentleness.
He slowly guided the morsel of food into his mouth.
A faint clink echoed as he slid the fork back out, its tines now glistening, before placing it into her waiting hand.
“I’m not flirting, Lyra. I’m offering you an experience that’s going to replay in your head for days. "
“You’re just a little cocky, aren’t you?”
“That’s what confidence sounds like when it makes you nervous.”
“Oh,” she laughed. “Is that so?”
“If it weren’t, you’d be halfway down the hall by now.”
She shook her head as she smiled at him. “Maybe the food is just that good.”
She wanted to deny it, but she felt the pull towards him no matter how she tried to deny it.
The questions eating at her were: Am I one of many, or am I a new plaything, a prized possession he would show off and then discard when the shine wore off?
Or is this something special between us?
Looking into those eyes, he made her feel special, but those eyes didn’t actually answer the question rattling around her head.
"So, tell me something about yourself that isn’t written in a devotional text,” Lyra challenged, picking up a forkful of cake.
Asmodeus smiled, leaning his chin on his hand, his eyes never leaving her face. “Everything you read is accurate, little goddess. I am pleasure. I am want. I am the god who never goes hungry and people line up to fill my needs."
"Nice way of avoiding the question,” Lyra countered, taking a delicate sip of wine. “I know you never go hungry. But do you ever get full?"
He laughed, a low, appreciative sound that sent a familiar shiver down her spine. “Never. The moment I am full, I cease to be myself. But you, little goddess, feel like a meal that would last me a lifetime."
"Careful, Asmodeus. Flattery is only useful if it’s believable."
"Believe me,” he purred, reaching out to gently trace the rim of her wineglass with a single finger.
He then brought that finger to his mouth, his tongue peaked out, flicking across the tip.
“I never offer what I cannot deliver. You, for instance, are currently wearing the most innocent dress in this restaurant, yet you are the most dangerous thing in it.
That blue contrasts beautifully with the storm in those green eyes"
Lyra felt the heat rising in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “And you, my lord, are wearing a suit that screams ‘effortless decadence,’ yet I suspect you spend a great deal of effort making sure every mortal thinks you woke up looking this perfect."
He tipped his head back and laughed again; the sound drawing a few discreet glances from nearby tables. “Guilty. But I only put in effort for things that truly matter. And right now, what truly matters is seeing how long it takes for that defiant expression to soften under my attention."
"Don’t hold your breath,” Lyra said, placing her napkin neatly on the table. “I don’t soften. I break, or I get creatively difficult. And I’m certainly not going to break for a compliment and a glass of expensive wine."
Asmodeus leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur that was just loud enough for her to hear. “Then let me find out what it takes to make you crack that armor, little goddess. I’m patient, but not when it comes to a beautiful woman."
"I’m still getting over the fact that you’re the God of Lust and yet you’re dining with a girl who has no idea what she’s doing,” Lyra admitted, exhaling. “Not some elegant goddess.”
"That’s the fun of it,” he chuckled. “You’re the blank slate, the undiscovered land. Everyone else comes to me with their expectations, their rules. You, little goddess, are the only one who looks at me and sees what I am, then still has the audacity to say no. It’s intoxicating."
"So, I’m a challenge, then,” she concluded, a small, self-deprecating smile forming on her lips.
"The most delicious kind.” He pushed his chair back and stood, extending his hand. “Now, I think this conversation requires a change of scenery. Somewhere with fewer eyes, and more possibility."
Lyra didn’t hesitate. She placed her hand in his, and the smooth, warm contact sent that familiar surge of chaotic desire through her. “Lead the way, Asmodeus. But you should know I’m not promising anything but trouble. And it’s probably time for me to go home."
"Trouble," he whispered, his eyes blazing with delight, “is my favorite course."