Chapter 31
Hades's POV
The silence of his chamber felt heavier than usual. The firelight crackled low, shadows shifting across the walls, but Hades was not looking at them. He was staring at his hand—the same hand that had rested on the arm of the chair while Elara leaned close to tend to his wound.
He could still feel it. Her touch.
Her fingers had been hesitant at first, brushing against his skin as if afraid he might burn her.
But then they grew firmer, steadier—gentle yet unyielding, like she had decided she would not let him push her away.
Each press of cloth against the gash on his chest had ignited sparks beneath his skin, and he—Hades, who had endured fire, war, and centuries of solitude—had nearly flinched, not from pain, but from the heat she awoke inside him.
It wasn't just the physical sting of her touch. It was the care behind it. The raw, unguarded worry in her eyes when she had asked if he was hurt. No one looked at him that way. No one dared.
Not for him.
His allies, his servants, even the gods themselves—when they looked upon Hades, they saw only power, shadow, and dominion. But Elara... she had looked past all that. She had looked at him.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the pillows, his gaze dragging to the ceiling.
He should have sent her away. Should have told her it was nothing, let the wound close on its own as it always did.
But instead, he let her stay. Let her help.
Let her see him, stripped of the armor he wore before all others.
Foolish. Reckless. Dangerous.
And yet... he had not wanted it to end.
His chest still burned where her fingers had grazed him, not from pain but from memory. As though the echo of her touch had branded him. He flexed his hand, restless, irritated at his own weakness. She unsettled him in ways he had not thought possible.
What are you doing to me, little mortal?
The question lingered as his eyes closed at last. And though he drifted into sleep, it was not the wars of old or the faces of the dead that filled his mind. It was hers.
?
The next morning, Hades woke to silence. For a moment he lay still, registering the absence of pain in his chest. He shifted, fingers brushing over the place where the wound had been—smooth, unbroken skin. Already healed.
A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips. Her worry had been for nothing. His body had always mended faster than mortals could imagine. But still, the memory of her fussing over him stirred something in his chest he could not quite smother.
He rose, dressing in dark robes with deliberate motions, as if the discipline of routine might quiet his thoughts. It didn't.
The palace halls greeted him in their usual stillness, servants bowing as he passed, their eyes lowered. He ignored them, his expression unreadable, but inside his thoughts wandered back to the night before.
The way her cheeks had flushed when he removed his shirt. The way she had pressed her lips together, trying to focus on the wound rather than on him. The way he had caught her gaze lingering before she quickly looked away.
Hades shook his head as he entered his office, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary.
He should be focusing on matters of consequence—border disputes in the shadowlands, negotiations with restless spirits, the endless duties of his realm.
And yet, Elara had lodged herself firmly in his mind.
He lowered himself into his chair, resting his hands on the desk. The familiar weight of scrolls and documents surrounded him, but for once, they did not center him. Instead, he stared at the parchment without seeing it, the phantom warmth of her touch still haunting his skin.
Work would demand his focus soon enough. But for the first time in centuries, Hades found himself distracted.
And the cause was a mortal woman with fire in her eyes and gentleness in her hands.