Chapter 8
Hades
I didn’t knock.
Again.
Because honestly?
Why start pretending now?
She was perched on the edge of the bed, wearing that tragically oversized shirt she’d slept in—bare legs, bare feet, hair piled up like a crown spun from chaos and war. Scratches on her legs and arms.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t even say good morning.
Good girl.
We’re learning.
I strolled in like I owned the place.
(Which I did.)
Hands in my pockets. Smile just this side of a threat.
“You need to get dressed.”
She lifted a brow—slow, deliberate, full of that sparkling, venom-laced defiance I kept tucked under my skin like a favorite knife.
“For what?”
Dry. Disinterested. Already annoyed.
Perfect.
“We’re going shopping.”
Her other brow joined the first, climbing like it was trying to escape her face. “For what?” she repeated, voice dipped in mockery now.
There it was—that bite.
That dare me edge.
I leaned in just a touch, lips twitching into a slow, razor-curved grin.
“A wedding dress.”
She blinked. Just once.
No explosion. No scream.
Oh, sugarplum.
You’re learning how to bleed without making noise.
I straightened up, still grinning.
“Chop-chop, sunshine. You’ve got lace to loathe and virginal white to desecrate.”
And me?
I had a front-row seat.
The color drained from her face like spilled milk across marble—
Slow.
Silent.
Devastating.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Disgust.
Oof. Right in the ego.
I could’ve laughed if I wasn’t so busy admiring how absolutely feral she looked in that moment.
“Don’t I get to say no?” she asked, voice low and acidic—like she already knew the answer but wanted to taste the bitterness, anyway.
I smiled, slow and sharp, like the villain cue in an opera. “You had that chance when you ran.” Pause. Let it land. Let it sting. “Now?” My tone turned smooth. Silken. Sharp as a wedding invitation sealed in blood. “You get to say yes—and look beautiful while doing it.”
She didn’t argue.
Not with words, anyway.
But the way she ripped the covers back like they’d personally betrayed her?
The way she stomped into the bathroom like she was marching off to war?
That? That was her scream.
And it was delicious.
I leaned against the doorway, grinning to myself.
Because she thought this was the worst day of her life.
And I hadn’t even shown her the veil yet.
I had the whole place cleared out.
Stylists? Gone.
Photographers? Banned.
Witnesses? Please. This wasn’t a celebration. This was a ritual.
Just me.
A few dozen racks of overpriced silk and lace.
And Persephone, radiating pure, concentrated contempt like it was her signature scent.
She stepped through the doors like a soldier walking into enemy territory.
Shoulders squared. Chin up. Eyes on fire.
A heroine in a Greek tragedy.
Shame for her—I didn’t lose in those.
The boutique manager, some poor soul far too chipper for her own good, approached with a smile that said I’d never met a man who could kill me with a look.
(Newsflash, sweetheart: you have now.)
She handed Persephone a curated rack of gowns, each one more elegant than the last, and gestured toward the changing room with all the hopeful energy of a woman trying not to get eaten.
“Take your time,” she chirped, clearly unaware that time was the one thing Persephone was rapidly running out of.
My little bride-to-be didn’t say a word.
Just stared down that rack like it had insulted her bloodline.
Good.
Hate looked so much better on her than helplessness ever did.
She clutched one hanger like it might bite her, then turned on her heel and stormed off toward the dressing room.
A battlefield?
Please.
She just walked into my temple.
And she was about to learn that white wasn’t the color of purity—
It was the color of surrender.
I followed her to the dressing room like a shadow wearing a smirk.
She whipped around, arms crossed so tightly across her chest I half-expected her to implode. “I’m not trying anything on,” she snapped.
Oh, darling.
“You will,” I said, my tone smooth, casual—like a knife sliding into silk. No room for debate. No space for air.
She bristled. “I’ll rip every one of them.”
I leaned in, just enough to feel her breath stutter. “If you ruin them,” I murmured, my voice curling around her neck like smoke, “I’ll have another ten delivered. And I’ll watch you try on each one. Slowly.”
She shivered.
Not fear. No, no.
It was that delicious, dangerous tension—the kind that coiled up the spine and whispered, maybe I want to see what happens if I lose this fight.
She grabbed the most offensively bridal gown on the rack—white, laced within an inch of its life, delicate like a threat—and stormed behind the curtain like she could still win this war.
The silence that followed?
Delicious.
Tight as a violin string. Full of sharp things unsaid and even sharper things imagined.
I leaned against a nearby chaise, grinning to myself.
“Take your time,” I called out. “Make sure it fits the fantasy.”
A rustle of fabric. The sound of irritation in motion.
I pictured her inside—barefoot and fuming—glaring at that gown like it was an insult in tulle form.
And then—
She stepped out.
Oh.
The light caught her like she belonged in it. The dress clung to her in all the wrong ways—wrong for a church, wrong for a virgin, wrong for a man who hadn’t yet decided whether to kiss her or claim her.
Lace spilled over her curves like white fire.
It should’ve looked innocent.
Instead, it looked like a lie.
She didn’t look at me. Not right away.
“What do you think?” she asked, voice too flat, too casual—like it wasn’t loaded with challenge.
I took my time answering.
“It looks better on you than it did on the hanger,” I said, tone low, lazy, lethal.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes like I hadn’t just devoured her with mine.
But she didn’t turn away from the mirror.
No—she shifted. Angled herself.
Admired it.
Her fingers curled at the hem. Like she wanted to tear it. Or maybe hold it tighter.
“I’m not wearing this,” she said, jaw tense, voice tight like the dress was suffocating her.
I stepped closer, grin slow and wicked. “Not yet.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. Fire. Fury. Frustration.
Perfect.
We stood there—one heartbeat away from collision. A stare-off dressed in silk and venom.
She spun and vanished behind the curtain again, lace whispering behind her like a ghost escaping confession.
I let the silence fall again.
Let her simmer.
Because every time she slipped into one of those dresses?
She came out a little closer to belonging to me.
And I planned to enjoy every fitting.
I lounged in a leather chair across the changing room like a god on his throne, one ankle resting over my knee, fingers steepled, watching her unravel one white lie at a time.
Dress after dress.
Each more dramatic than the last.
Too tight.
Too traditional.
Too pure.
She hated them all.
And oh, I knew why.
Because every time she looked in the mirror, she wasn’t just seeing lace and illusion.
She was seeing a bride.
Which meant this was real.
Which meant I’d won.
Good.
Let her squirm.
Let her spit venom behind silk curtains and mutter curses like prayer beads between her teeth. It was better than tears. It was honest.
The boutique manager? Poor woman was a wreck. She kept glancing at me like I might burst into flames or set someone else on fire.
Not yet.
But I was thinking about it.
Then Persephone stepped out again—this time in something laughably ethereal. Flowing. Laced within an inch of its life. The train dragged behind her like she was about to marry a prince instead of the devil at her throat.
She turned slowly toward the mirror, fingers brushing the fabric like it had personally offended her existence.
“Not bad,” I said, leaning back, sounding bored just to annoy her.
She turned that glare on me—a look that could peel paint off the walls. “You think this is not bad?”
“On you? It’s better than anything else you’ve worn today.”
And I meant it.
Her jaw flexed. Her hands pulled at the bodice like it was a straightjacket she planned to escape from by sheer will alone. “I’d rather wear a sack than this.”
I raised a brow, smirking. “Funny. A sack would match your personality just fine.”
Boom. Direct hit.
She scoffed—actually scoffed—and spun toward the curtain like she was going to strangle the next gown with her bare hands.
The curtain whipped closed.
A minute passed. Two.
Then—
She emerged.
Different gown. Different energy.
This one?
Sleek.
Satin.
Sin incarnate.
It hugged every curve with the confidence of a lover who didn’t ask permission. The neckline was sharp, the silhouette lethal. She didn’t walk in it—she prowled.
She placed her hands on her hips like she was daring me to speak.
“This one?” she asked, chin tilted like she was already preparing for battle.
I let my gaze drag from her collarbone to her ankles and back again.
Slow.
Appreciative.
Predatory.
I smirked. “Much better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you would think so.”
“Do you want to try something else?” I asked, voice honeyed and dangerous. “Or do you need me to remind you that your options are running out?”
Her lips pressed into a line so thin it could’ve cut glass.
There it was—that war inside her.
Fight or fold.
Burn it all down, or burn quietly in silk and submission.
I leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low enough to crawl across the space between us. “Keep trying, Persephone.” A pause. Smile curling. Wicked and inevitable. “I’ve got all day.”
But then—
She pulled a gown from the far end of the rack.
Simple.
Satin.
Form-fitting.
Sharp in its elegance. Like it was crafted for a woman who’d rather wield a dagger than a bouquet.
No lace.
No frills.
Just clean, merciless lines and the kind of ivory that wasn’t meant to symbolize purity—
It was meant to tempt ruin.
She stepped out slowly.
Controlled.
Composed.
Like she hadn’t just put on something that made the world tilt on its axis.