Chapter 4
Hades
Persephone locked the door.
Cute.
A flimsy little move. A flick of the middle finger wrapped in satin gloves. She thought it meant something—thought it was a stand, a shred of control in the mess I’d so neatly gift-wrapped around her life.
But see, that was the thing about cages.
They didn’t have to feel like prisons to work.
You just had to believe you built the walls yourself.
I let her have the illusion.
Leaned lazily against the doorframe, shoulder pressed to the wood, hands in my pockets like this was just another casual Tuesday. I could hear her heartbeat—tight, erratic, like a songbird trapped behind glass.
“You can stay in there all night, Persephone.”
My voice came low, slow, with just a smile’s edge of menace.
“Won’t change a fucking thing.”
Silence.
Beautiful, loaded silence.
I imagined her jaw clenched. That pouty little mouth twisted into something angry and defiant and doomed. She thought the lock was a line I wouldn’t cross. That if she stayed quiet, if she held—she could outwait me.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t lose.
Then… the pacing started.
Soft steps. Hesitant. Controlled.
Like she thought she was still the one playing chess.
But every footfall was a tell. A little crack in her composure. And oh, I lived for the cracks.
She thought locking the door kept me out.
But Persephone didn’t understand the game she’d walked into.
That wasn’t a door she closed.
That was a line she crossed.
And baby, I owned everything on this side.
I pushed off the doorframe and strolled away, the silence behind me thick as smoke.
Didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.
I knew her.
She’d dig in, barricade herself behind that pretty little door like she could hold the line. Like she could outlast me.
Adorable.
She thought she had the upper hand—thought she held the cards.
Sweetheart, I built the goddamn deck.
The kitchen was dim, the marble cool beneath my fingertips as I poured myself two fingers of whiskey. The amber swirled over ice, smooth and precise—just like me. The glass clinked, sharp and deliberate, the sound slicing through the quiet like a whisper that knew all your secrets.
It would reach her.
Oh, it would crawl beneath the door and curl around her spine like smoke.
She’d hear it.
She’d feel it.
My presence. My patience. My power.
Then came the television.
I didn’t even check the channel. Just turned it on, turned it up. Not loud enough to be jarring—no, no, that was too obvious. Just enough to invade.
Celebrity gossip. Red carpet bullshit. Perfect.
Noise with teeth.
Empty, stupid, sugar-coated sound that would wrap around her like a silk noose. Normalcy. Comfort. Distraction.
A hollow world she couldn’t touch.
“In other news, it appears as though the engagement between NHL star Hades Sinclair and Callista Moore,” a voice chirped from the screen. “Terribly disappointing if you asked me. He seemed absolutely in love with her.”
I barked a quiet laugh into my glass.
Callista Moore.
My first misdirection back in my rookie years.
Everyone thought she was the one I wanted. That she ran and left me wounded.
But Callista was never the endgame.
She was just the mask I wore to get to the one who mattered.
I leaned against the counter, let the chill of the glass bleed into my palm as I sipped.
And I waited.
Listened.
No movement. No footfall. Not even a breath.
She was trying to hold. Trying not to give me the satisfaction.
But silence?
Oh, that was my favorite sound.
Silence meant her thoughts were turning against her.
Silence meant she was running out of places to hide inside her own head.
Because here was the thing about Persephone: she was born in a house of marble and glass, trained to play the good girl, the dutiful daughter, the second-best shadow.
But no one ever taught her how to survive a god.
She wasn’t just locked in that room.
She was marinating in it.
In the silence.
In me.
And I could wait.
Hell, I’d been waiting years for this.
I tilted my head toward the closed hallway, raised my glass like a toast to the air.
“Your move, Persephone.”
And I meant it.
Because this wasn’t a battle anymore.
It was a war.
And I always—always—won.
I set the table for one.
A single plate. Knife on the right. Napkin folded with military precision. Steak—medium rare, like I’d read she preferred—rested beside a flawless line of roasted vegetables. A glass of red, full to the halfway mark, bled dark against the stark white marble countertop.
Not a gesture of kindness.
Not an olive branch.
Just a message.
An invitation to reality.
I left it all there. Right outside her door.
Close enough to smell. Far enough to remind her what she’d forfeited.
No knocking.
No calls.
No pathetic, puppy-eyed checking in.
I wasn't here to soothe.
I turned my back on the untouched plate and let the silence settle in—thick, slow, deliberate.
Dinner was never about food.
It was about control.
It was about presence.
Her absence.
The gym I had in my penthouse greeted me with the familiar hum of low lights and leather. No distractions here. Just iron, shadows, and the echo of every rep hitting the mat like a countdown.
Discipline.
Precision.
Power.
This wasn’t just where I trained.
It was where I honed my hunger.
I strapped on my gloves—tight, snug, unforgiving—and grabbed the bar. The weight hit my hands with a solid promise. Familiar. Grounding. Real.
The first lift was smooth. Controlled.
The second, faster.
The third, savage.
Each rep cut through the stillness like a blade.
Each movement carved the chaos out of me.
I didn’t need to yell.
Didn’t need to threaten.
I just needed to be stronger than the noise.
And oh, I was.
Hockey taught me how to fight—on ice, in silence, in the spaces between.
You learned real fast how to own a game when the only voice that mattered was your own.
The rhythm built. Pull, push, drive. My breath came heavy, my muscles burned, and still—I kept going.
Because I wasn’t just training for sport anymore.
I was preparing for her.
For every wall she thought she could build.
For every piece of armor she still clung to.
For the moment she’d finally realize there was no escape hatch. No reprieve.
Just me.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
She thought silence was a stand.
She thought locking herself away would throw me off balance.
She didn’t understand yet.
I thrived in silence. I weaponized patience. I turned waiting into war.
While she sat stewing behind that door, tangled in the knots of her own fear and fury, I was here.
Growing stronger.
Sharper.
Hungrier.
Because when Persephone finally stepped back into my world?
I wanted her to see what she’d been missing.
Not just the man she married, but the monster she unleashed.
I stepped out of the shower, steam clinging to my skin like a second layer—hot, heavy, possessive. The tiles were slick beneath my feet, but my grip was steady on the sink’s edge as I leaned forward and stared into the mirror.
My reflection?
Unbothered.
But beneath the surface?
Wildfire.
The image of her flashed through me like a match to dry bone—Persephone, staring up at me with those eyes full of hate and confusion, mouth set in that defiant little line like she actually had a say in how this would end.
She didn’t.
She never did.
And that truth?
It turned me on.
I palmed myself without shame, jaw tight, the steam making it easier to imagine her there. Her voice, her breath, the moment she’d stop fighting—not because she wanted me, but because she finally understood.
She was mine.
Mine to break.
Mine to build again.
I came hard against my own skin, every pulse a silent vow she’d get there. Whether she walked or crawled, begged or bit—I’d have her.
And she’d thank me for it.
I cleaned up, pulled on black pajama pants that slung low across my hips, and padded barefoot down the hall. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the city beyond the glass.
I stopped at her door.
Hand hovering.
Not knocking.
Not asking.
I wasn’t a fucking guest in her life.
I twisted the knob slowly. The lock had been disabled hours ago. She hadn’t realized yet. Wouldn’t matter if she did.
The door creaked open.
I didn’t look at her right away. Let the moment settle. Let her make the first move.
Let her think she still had one.
Then…
The shift in air.
The sound of soft steps on hardwood.
She stepped to the door.
Careful.
Reluctant.
Drawn to me like gravity.
My back remained to her, but I could feel her eyes—the way they dragged across my bare torso, hesitation twisted with heat and resentment.
She hated herself for looking.
That made it better.
She crossed her arms. Voice low, bitter, controlled. “I’m not hungry.”
I leaned against the frame, perfectly at ease. “I didn’t ask.”
Her glare was a slow burn, all fury and pride and false power.
“You think you’ve won.”
I tilted my head. Smiled like a wolf with blood in its teeth. “Haven’t I?”
She expected something else.
Expected me to lash out, to drag her by the throat back into my world.
But I didn’t have to.
She was already here.
On my side of the line.
That fact settled in the space between us like smoke thick enough to choke.
She’d opened the door.
She stepped into my world.
And now?
Now she’d have to ask herself why.
Because that was the most dangerous part of all—not when she was locked in.
But when she started wondering if she walked in on her own.
“My sister.” She stood there—shoulders squared, eyes wild—anger and disbelief locked in a violent tug-of-war. “You ran her off, didn’t you? You scared her away.”
I laughed.
Dark. Sharp.
It cut through the room like a guillotine.
“Callista?” I cocked my head, the smile twisting on my lips. “Your sister’s a slut, Persephone. She’d drop to her knees for any man who so much as remembered her name.”
Her face twisted, equal parts disgust and fury.
“Stop!” she hissed, voice shaking with heat. “It bothers you, doesn’t it? That she didn’t choose you.”
Ah. There it was.
The raw, angry little nerve she thought she could touch.
I closed the distance between us in a breath. One second, space.
The next—my hand wrapped around her throat, thumb resting just beneath her jaw.
Her skin was burning hot, tension crackling between us like a live wire.
I leaned in, voice low enough to crawl under her skin. “You think I wanted your sister?”
Her eyes widened. She flinched—but didn’t back down.
I smiled, teeth bared. “She would’ve begged to be ruined by me after the first night. She just wanted the name. The power. The fantasy of being mine.” I leaned closer, lips grazing the shell of her ear as I said it. “But you? You’ll beg for me with your soul, little muse.”
Her hands shoved at my chest. Weak. Desperate. “You’ll never touch me.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“Won’t I?”
My grip stayed firm on her throat as my other hand slid down, slow and unhurried, until it found the curve of her thigh.
Warm. Tense. Trembling.
She gasped—tried to jerk away. My fingers flexed around her throat, just enough.
“Don’t,” she warned, voice cracking on the edge of panic and something else she wasn’t ready to name.
“Or you’ll what?” I whispered, my breath brushing her lips. “Cry? Scream? Or maybe… come all over my fingers like the good little liar you are?”
Her pupils flared. Her breath hitched.
And I felt it—that moment her body betrayed her mouth.
She hated me.
But her body?
It was curious.
Dangerously curious.
I felt myself harden, the idea of unraveling her piece by piece sinking deep into my bloodstream.
Not because I had to.
Because I knew, I already owned her reactions.
She locked eyes with me, green storm-clouds full of fury and fear.
But buried there, deep?
I saw it.
The realization.
That she could shove, scream, threaten—and none of it would change the truth.
Not this tension.
Not this hunger.
Not the fact that we were already past the point of return.
“Look at you,” I murmured, voice as soft as it was cruel.
Her body stiffened—eyes wide, fury already coiling in her throat.
But my gaze dropped.
Lower.
And there they were.
Tight peaks under the thin fabric of her dress. Her nipples, hard and unmissable.
She gasped, instinctively trying to pull back, even with my hand on her throat, my other moving up her thigh.
“Oh, Persephone…” I dragged out her name like a sin. “So sensitive.”
My hand moved before she could protest.
She tried to scoot away.
I followed.
“Will we find you wet and wanting tonight?” I asked, voice dark with amusement.
Her eyes blazed. “I hate you.”
I smiled, leaning in until my mouth brushed the shell of her ear.
“I know,” I whispered, drawing in a long breath against her skin. “But you smell so fucking good when you hate me.”
My nose traced down the smooth column of her throat. She trembled—barely, but enough. The scent of her fear mixed with heat, thick and addictive.
My fingers dragged higher, between the softness of her thighs now, the fabric thin. I didn’t need to slip beneath it to feel the heat.
She let out a soft, broken breath.
“Oh, Persephone,” I purred, voice velvet and ash. “You are so… pliant. So ready to be molded.”
Her jaw clenched.
“Once that ring’s on your finger…” I pressed my mouth to her throat. “I’m going to bury myself so deep inside you, you won’t know where I end and you begin.”
She flinched.
I groaned softly against her skin.
“And it won’t take long,” I added, savoring every syllable. “Not before I fuck a baby into you.”
Her whole body jolted.
I could have stayed.
Could have pushed.
But no, no.
Anticipation was everything.
So I pulled my hand back slowly—fingers trailing along her thigh like a promise left unfinished.
“Sleep tight, little muse,” I whispered. "I know I will."
Then I stood.
No apology.
No goodbye.
Just the slow, deliberate sound of my footsteps retreating across the floor.
Back in my room, I let the door click shut behind me.
Dropped my pants.
Fisted my cock.
And let every vivid image of her flash through my head.
The way she gasped.
The way she flinched.
The way her body reacted to me no matter how much her mouth fought back.
She could hate me.
She could scream and cry and claw at the walls.
But one day soon…
She’d beg.
And I’d make sure she never forgot who broke her.