Chapter 6
Hades
The ice welcomed me like an old friend with a grudge—cold, slick, and just waiting for someone to bleed.
I stepped onto the rink like a king returning to his throne, blades cutting across the surface with the kind of precision that came from years of warfare disguised as sport.
Morning light knifed through the arena windows, casting long shadows across the Castle Rock Inferno—my little band of beautiful degenerates.
In the locker room, chaos bloomed like it always did—loud, crude, and humming with testosterone. Banter flying faster than pucks, egos clashing like blades in a back alley brawl. It wasn’t order. It was something better.
Controlled destruction.
These weren’t teammates.
They were wolves I hand-fed.
And leading the pack, of course, was Gideon Jones—shirtless, smug, and louder than sin. Flexing like a Greek statue possessed by a frat boy.
“Behold this god-tier physique,” he declared, striking a pose with all the grace of a thunderclap in a glass house. “Tell me I’m not a divine gift to mankind.”
“Oh, you’re a gift, all right,” Scar muttered, not looking up from taping his stick. “One of those cursed ones that ruins your life when you open it.”
A towel whipped through the air. Hook ducked it with a lazy grin.
Jones caught it without missing a beat. “You’re all just bitter these arms don’t belong to you.” He turned to me, that cocky spark lighting up his pretty-boy face like a flare. “Right, Hades? Tell ‘em I’m the best-looking bastard on the ice.”
I leaned against my locker, crossing my arms. Took a long, dramatic pause just to watch him squirm.
Then I deadpanned, “Jones, if vanity were a sport, you’d be MVP, league record holder, and probably suspended for excessive celebration.”
The room erupted.
Laughter bounced off the walls like shrapnel. Jafar smirked. Gang Lu didn’t even look up—just sharpened his stick like he was planning someone’s execution. Scar muttered something snide under his breath. Hook gave me a slow clap like a man thoroughly entertained by someone else’s misfortune.
I smiled. Not wide. Just enough to let the flames flicker under my skin.
Because here was the truth:
They were cocky.
They were violent.
They were gods of war on skates.
And they were mine.
I didn’t need order.
I needed fire.
And this locker room?
It was a powder keg.
Just waiting for the spark.
“You see that girl in the third row last game?” Jones puffed, teeth flashing like he’d just scored a hat trick with his ego. “Begged me to autograph her bra.” He paused, milking the moment, eyes gleaming with unearned pride. “I signed both.”
His grin was wider than a goalpost and twice as obnoxious.
Scar leaned back in his stall, arms crossed, his face carved from cool disdain. “You’re such a peacock.”
“And yet,” Jones replied, striking a flex like he was posing for a centerfold, “I’m still prettier than you.”
God give me strength.
I watched them with a curl of amusement, head tilted like I was watching toddlers slap-fight over a toy firetruck.
Scar wasn’t wrong—Jones could out-preen a runway model.
He didn’t just want to win the game; he wanted the spotlight, the stage, the standing ovation.
The guy could charm the venom off a snake and still convince it to buy season tickets.
Across the room, Jafar was locked onto the whiteboard like he was about to reinvent quantum physics with a slap shot. Brows drawn, jaw tight. Always calculating, always ten steps ahead.
“We’re not running zone fast enough,” he said, not even looking up. “If the flank drifts again, we’re leaving the crease wide open for the kill shot.”
Scar snorted, under his breath but not nearly quiet enough. “Yeah, well, if we had forwards who weren’t allergic to passing…”
Jafar flicked him a slow, lethal glance.
Meanwhile, Gang Lu—or as I like to call him, casual violence in human form—was in his corner, dragging a blade sharpener across his stick like he was preparing for something that definitely wasn’t regulation-approved. The guy didn’t need to speak. His silence made most men sweat through their gear.
And then, as if on cue, Hook chimed in. Of course he did.
Leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, twirling his stick like it was a rapier and we were all extras in his twisted little opera.
“The captain looks grumpier than usual,” he said with a grin that begged to be punched. “Trouble in paradise?”
I turned to him, smile razor-thin, and let the silence stretch long enough to make even the ice nervous.
Then I said, “Focus on your own game, Hook.” A pause. “Leave my paradise out of this.”
The room went still for a beat. Just long enough for the message to land.
Because make no mistake: I let them talk. I let them joke. I let them think this was a democracy.
But when I speak?
Everyone listened.
Because on this team?
I wasn't just the captain. I was the goddamn underworld.
And the only thing worse than crossing me on the ice was thinking you could cross me off it.
I brushed off their banter like it was lint on a tailored suit—annoying, beneath me, and barely worth a second thought.
But underneath?
Oh, baby. There was a storm brewing.
Possessiveness coiled low in my gut, a slow, hot burn, like I’d swallowed a live wire.
They didn’t get it.
Couldn’t.
To them, Persephone was a headline. A bet. A trophy.
Maybe a mistake.
To me?
She was the fucking endgame.
And I was playing to win.
Across the room, Jafar lifted his gaze from his clipboard full of complex plays and cold-blooded theories. His eyes narrowed—always seeing too much, always two inches from calling bullshit. “You’re distracted.”
I didn’t blink. “I’m focused.”
Smooth. Steady. Not a crack in the glass.
Focused on the soft press of her mouth when she was too tired to fight.
Focused on the fire in her eyes right before she looked away.
Focused on the way she’d bit her lip.
Yeah. I was focused. Just not on hockey.
Scar, never one to sit out when there was blood in the water, raised a brow. “You’re not worried she’ll ruin it before you finish?”
I smirked.
Slow. Sharp. Just enough teeth to remind them who owned this locker room.
“She’s already playing my game,” I said, voice low enough to cut glass. “She just doesn’t know the rules yet.”
Silence followed—thick, electric, the kind that made weaker men sweat.
Jafar clicked his pen closed, brow furrowed. Still skeptical. Still trying to solve me like I was a puzzle and not a loaded gun with the safety off.
Scar shifted again, skeptical as hell. “What if she turns on you?”
I didn’t even flinch. “She won’t.”
Not because I trusted her.
Not because I believed in love or fate or some flowery version of happily ever after.
But because I’d built the world she now lived in.
I was her gravity. Her god.
And no one escaped a planet they didn’t even realize they were orbiting.
Jafar gave a lazy shrug, like he wasn’t already planning contingency plays in his head. “Just watch your back. Women like that? They’ll kiss you and kill you in the same breath.”
I chuckled low.
Let it echo.
“Exactly,” I said, smile curling like smoke. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
Every little act of rebellion, every glare, every slammed door?
It was foreplay.
She was tightening her own chains.
And when the final buzzer sounded?
When the truth hit her like a slapshot to the chest?
That was when she’d understand.
She’d never been the player.
She’d been the prize.
And she was already mine.
I slid into the driver’s seat; the leather hugging my back like an old vice I never really escaped. The engine purred to life beneath my fingers—smooth, obedient, mine.
No texts.
No missed calls.
Not that I expected anything.
Persephone clung to her silence like it could save her.
Adorable.
I tapped my thumb against the wheel and let the silence fill the SUV. My mind, of course, was anything but quiet.
Her flinch.
The snap in her voice.
The look she gave me—right before she slammed that door like she thought it could shut me out.
Pure fire.
Untamed. Furious.
And burning for something she hadn’t even let herself name yet.
She thought she was strong.
Thought holding onto her pride made her untouchable.
But I knew better.
Strength didn’t come from resistance.
It came from knowing when to surrender.
And baby, she was getting close.
So damn close.
The streets rolled by in obedient lines of motion, traffic flowing like every piece on my board falling into place.
I let my mind wander…
Back to the way her voice cracked when she lied to herself.
Back to the way her body didn’t move when I touched her.
She was unraveling.
But not in the messy, screaming way people expect.
No, no.
Persephone was breaking like ice under pressure—quiet, dangerous, and sharp enough to draw blood.
I didn’t want her shattered.
I wanted her pliable.
Aware.
Willing.
And that was the real trick, wasn’t it?
Make her think she still had choices.
Let her struggle against the current.
And then, when she finally looked up—gasping, desperate—she realized she was swimming in my tide the whole damn time.
I turned onto a quieter road, the city lights falling behind like burnt-out stars. My foot eased off the gas as the penthouse loomed ahead—my sanctuary, her prison, our shared kingdom.
Each mile closer twisted the anticipation just a little tighter.
Not rage.
Not lust.
Something else.
That bone-deep, gut-level knowing: She was already mine.
She just hadn’t figured it out yet.
But she would.
Soon.
And when she did?
When that final piece clicked into place?
That was when the real game began.
I pulled into the driveway, the gate closing behind me with a satisfying hiss. The engine faded to silence, but my mind kept buzzing, sparking, burning.
This was the part I lived for.
The anticipation.
The quiet before the fall.
I stepped out into the night, rolled my shoulders, and smiled—low, slow, lethal.
Let her try to fight me.
Because every time she did?
She knotted the leash around her own neck just a little tighter.
The moment I stepped into the penthouse, I felt it.
Not the usual calm. Not the sterile silence of control.
No—this was different.
The air crackled.
Buzzed with tension.
The kind that crawled up your spine and whispered she’d been here.
And God, I lived for it.
She had moved.
Not carelessly. Not like someone wandering.
No—deliberate.
Like a ghost who wanted to be noticed without leaving footprints.
I took my time walking the hall, fingertips grazing the wall like I was reading Braille. Every detail told a story.
A chair, slightly askew.
Not sloppy—angled, like she’d sat, hesitated, left.
A cabinet door left open just enough to speak.
The scent of her perfume still hanging in the air—warm, sweet, and so obviously hers it hurt.
She’d found the study.
And she hadn’t said a word.
Even better.
Because silence?
Silence is where power fermented.
Anger cooled into resolve.
Fear twisted into obsession.
And when she didn’t scream?
That was when I knew the game was working.
I smiled.
Let the tension melt into me like honey on a blade.
She was brewing, letting all those delicious questions fester in that brilliant little mind…
How long had I been watching her?
How deep did my plan go?
What else had I hidden in plain sight?
She was learning the truth in slow, sharp doses.
And that was exactly how I wanted it.
My steps echoed soft and slow down the hallway, every movement intentional.
Not a king returning to his castle.
A god descending into his temple.
I passed her door.
Didn’t stop.
She’d already invited me in—with her curiosity, her defiance, her need to know.
I reached my office and paused in the doorway.
The light was low, casting shadows like secrets across the room.
Everything in its place—my desk, my files, my trophies.
All untouched.
All perfect.
Except now?
Now it smelled like her.
And that changed everything.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t demand answers.
She didn’t even slam another door.
She just moved through the room like she was tracing the shape of her own damn downfall.
And in doing so?
She left fingerprints all over mine.
I stopped and decided to check in on her, the corners of my mouth curving with something sharp and slow.
Let her stew.
Let her plot.
Let her pretend she still had control.
Because when she came for me…
When she finally tried to take back power she never truly had…
I’d be waiting.
And I’d smile while I burn her world down.
The door creaked open under my hand.
No knock. No announcement.
Why would I need one?
This was my home.
And she was already mine.
She was curled on the bed, knees tucked up, a book open in her lap.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t speak.
But her spine straightened—just slightly.
She felt me.
Good.
I let the silence stretch as I stepped inside. My gaze swept the room—soft edges, shadows stretched long by the dying light outside. Everything in its place.
And then I saw it.
The ring box.
Set perfectly on her nightstand. Not hidden.
Not rejected.
Just… waiting.
Claimed.
I walked toward it slowly. Picked it up like it was something sacred. Or something dangerous.
Both, really.
I flipped the lid open, let my eyes trace the sharp lines of the black diamond.
Beautiful. Uncompromising.
Just like her.
“Are you ready to get married, Persephone?”
No response.
No gasp.
Just that delicious stillness, her throat tightening as she swallowed hard.
I lifted my gaze.
Watched her carefully.
She was trying not to react.
Trying not to give me the satisfaction.
Too late.
“I’m flexible,” I said, my voice a low hum. “We can do it quietly. No press. No dress. Just the papers. You sign. I keep you.”
Her fingers curled around the edge of her book, knuckles white.
The book dropped to her lap.
I took a step closer.
“Or…” I let the smile crawl slowly across my face—slow, sure, sharp enough to bleed. “We can make it a spectacle. Pick out flowers. Invite your parents. I’ll even walk you down the aisle myself. How’s that for tradition?”
Still, she said nothing.
But she was listening.
I could feel it.
Her pulse beating in the space between us like war drums muffled under silk.
I crouched slightly, just enough to meet her eyes—when she dared to look.
“You’re already mine, little muse. The ring just makes it legal.”
I closed the box and set it back down like it was a crown being placed on a throne.
“Think it over,” I murmured. “You have until tomorrow.”
I turned toward the door, then paused—hand on the frame.
Didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.
“And Persephone?”
A beat.
I could feel her breath catch before I even said it.
“Wear something pretty.”
Another pause.
“I want the memory to be worth the cost.”
And then I left her there…
In silence.
In fire.
In my promise.