Chapter 10
Hades
The sun bled out over the horizon like a throat slit clean—slow, deliberate, almost beautiful in its ruin.
Crimson soaked the estate grounds, washing everything in a death-kissed glow.
Twilight roses bloomed like bruises in the garden, their deep purples and wine-drenched reds curling up the wrought iron like they were trying to escape. They wouldn’t. No one did.
Candles flickered along the aisle, restless little things, casting shadows like ghosts I hadn’t invited. Good. Let the dead watch.
I stood at the edge of it all, hands in my pockets, taking in the scene I’d built like a god admiring his altar. Stripped of fluff and fantasy. Just the bones of the thing.
A stone altar.
A black velvet runner that split the garden like a scar.
Two chairs.
One white arch twisted with vines so dark they looked burnt.
No music. No crowd. No lies.
Just her. Just me. Just the chains she’d be slipping on with manicured fingers.
This wasn’t a wedding. This was a claim.
And Persephone?
She’d wear that veil tonight not as a symbol of love—don’t make me laugh—but as a shroud over her rebellion.
A final soft thing before it all turned hard.
I adjusted my cufflinks—silver serpents, naturally—and caught my reflection in the glass doors.
Sharp lines. Sharper eyes.
The kind of man they warned you about in fairy tales.
Good.
I’d always preferred the villain role. More freedom in it.
I turned back toward my little theater of control, letting a slow curl of satisfaction tug at my mouth.
Every piece in place.
Every illusion peeled back.
Every inch of her resistance catalogued and prepared for destruction.
The air thrummed with tension—or maybe that was just me.
I was wired tight tonight, every nerve tuned to one singular, delicious thought:
Midnight.
When I’d unmake her name and give her mine.
The candles swayed in rhythm with my pulse.
Fast. Steady.
Hungry.
“Everything’s ready,” I muttered, my voice low enough to belong to the dark itself.
A breeze drifted through the trees—cool, silent, scented faintly like her perfume.
She was near.
Even when she wasn’t in the room, she haunted it.
I allowed myself a flicker of indulgence. Just a taste.
Soon, she’d walk that aisle in that dress I chose.
That veil I placed.
That silence she’d wear like a collar.
And when she said “I do”?
That wouldn’t be surrender.
That would be mine.
I slipped into the tuxedo like it was skin I’d been waiting to wear.
Black-on-black—stitched sharp, tailored to cut.
The jacket whispered over my shoulders, the fabric gliding like a serpent curling into place. It didn’t cling. It coiled. Possessive. Precise.
Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. Measured down to the last breath.
The kind of dressing that meant war, not celebration.
I adjusted the bow tie until it sat flush against my throat. Tight. Restrictive.
Perfect.
No part of me would be left undone. Not tonight.
The cufflinks clicked into place—silver serpents, coiled and glinting like they were ready to strike. Fitting, really.
They were a mirror: hungry things twisted around themselves, sharp-eyed and patient.
Just like me.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror—
Slick suit. Cold eyes.
Not a groom. Not a lover.
A king.
Dressed for conquest.
There’d be no boutonnière.
No soft edges.
No symbols of love or fragility.
I didn’t need flowers to tell her what this night meant.
She’d feel it.
Every inch of it.
My fingers drifted to my inner pocket—brushed the velvet box inside.
The wedding band sat heavy inside, dark metal edged in silver. Not elegant. Not pretty.
Final.
It would slide over her finger like a lock snapping shut.
I could already picture her hand in mine—trembling, resisting, failing.
And me?
Smiling.
Because those rings combined on that dainty finger wasn’t just a symbol.
It was a sentence.
I took one last look around the room…
Low light. Shadows dancing along the walls like ghosts clapping at the altar.
Everything exactly as I designed it.
Control down to the flicker of every candle.
I stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway, footsteps echoing like a countdown.
Every stride toward the garden felt like fate closing its jaws.
The night air met me with cold approval.
Grounded. Earthy. Still.
Like even the wind was holding its breath for her arrival.
And when she emerged?
When Persephone walked into this moment I built for her—stitched together from shadows and silver?
She’d see.
Every inch of it was a trap.
Not to hurt her.
No, no.
To wrap her in it. Slowly. Intimately.
Tonight wasn’t about union.
It was about possession.
Claiming the muse who thought she could outrun a god.
The sun dipped low, bleeding behind the treeline, shadows stretching long across the garden like claws.
I stood at the altar, alone but not for long.
Right on cue, the gates groaned open.
Enter Gideon Jones—charcoal suit hugging his frame like it was tailored by sin itself, sunglasses still perched on his smug face despite the dying light. Of course.
He strolled in like he owned the place—didn’t even bother to check if he was interrupting something.
“Would you look at this?” he called, grinning like a wolf in a velvet collar. “You look like you’re about to host a funeral, not a wedding.”
I didn’t bother to turn. “You know I prefer black.”
He let out a low whistle. “Sure, sure. Very you. But come on—could’ve added a pop of color. Maybe a little blood red. Something festive.”
I finally turned to face him, adjusting my cuff with the patience of a man deciding whether to kill or indulge.
He walked up, slow and casual, glancing around the setup like a critic at a gallery opening. “So… is this where the sacrificial lamb gets walked down the aisle?”
I arched a brow. “It’s not a sacrifice.”
He grinned wider. “Right. It’s a coronation.”
I didn’t answer. He knew damn well what it was. That was the game between us—he joked, I let him. As long as he remembered whose kingdom this was.
He leaned against one of the stone pillars flanking the altar, arms crossed, sunglasses catching the last bit of dying sun.
“Gotta say, man…” He glanced around. “It’s almost romantic. You’ve got the flowers, the candles, the creeping sense of dread. It screams die pretty.”
“Touching,” I muttered, deadpan.
He smirked. “Hey, next time you’re throwing a cursed union, let me plan it. I’ll bring the champagne and the body bags.”
“Tempting,” I said. “You always were good at staging a bloodbath.”
He tilted his head. “Nothing says love like a little mayhem.”
I let the silence stretch.
He didn’t break it.
Because for all his irreverence—for all his teeth and theatrics—Gideon understood something most didn’t: beneath every joke was a blade. And mine was always sharper.
Still, his presence chipped at the anticipation tightening in my chest. Gave the moment a flicker of levity before the storm hit.
And the storm?
She was coming.
Wrapped in white silk.
Laced with resistance.
Dripping in denial.
Soon, Persephone would walk through that garden gate.
And when she did, this place would shift from setup to sentence.
Because Gideon could joke all he wanted.
But when she stood across from me under that arch?
There’d be no punchline.
Just the sound of something sacred breaking.
And me, smiling through every second of it.
Gideon leaned against the stone pillar, arms crossed, that signature smirk clinging to his face like it always did. But beneath it?
Something colder.
Sharper.
He watched me—not like a friend cracking jokes, but like a man cataloguing the fault lines in a crumbling monument.
And I knew what he saw.
Not the suit.
Not the smirk.
The hunger.
“Just remember,” he said, low enough to sound like a threat if it came from anyone else, “she’s not like the others.”
I arched a brow, feigning boredom. “And you think I don’t know that?”
His grin twitched. Faded at the edges.
There it was.
The part where the mask slipped, and Gideon stopped playing the jester.
Just for a moment.
“You’ve got it bad for this one, Hades.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.
He went on anyway.
“Just don’t let it blind you.”
I shifted my weight, rolled my jaw.
The irritation came fast, curling under my skin like smoke behind my ribs.
“You think I’m careless?” I asked, voice like flint striking steel. “That I’d risk everything on a whim?”
“Careless?” He let out a breath—half a laugh, no real humor in it. “No. You? You’re calculated to the fucking second. You don’t gamble—you stack the deck.”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.
Just said, “Which means you already know how easily she breaks.”
That landed.
Quiet. Direct.
No malice, just fact.
And I hated him for being right.
“I’ll have her,” I said, voice low, final. “You know that.”
“I do,” Gideon murmured. “Just make sure she doesn’t get shattered in the process.”
The words hung in the air between us like ash.
I met his gaze.
He held it.
Gideon had always been loyal. Loyal enough to bleed for me. Kill for me. Lie for me.
And still…
He was the only one who dared to question how close to the edge I was willing to drag her.
“I won’t lose her,” I said flatly.
He nodded slowly. Shrugged.
But his eyes didn’t waver.
“Just be careful how tightly you hold on,” he said. “Some things snap when you grip too hard.”
Before I could respond—
Footsteps.
Soft.
Measured.
Every inch of my attention snapped to the garden gate.
And then…
There she was.
Veil trailing.
Gown catching the last light of the dying sun.
Spine straight, mouth set like a challenge carved in marble.
My wife.
And my heartbeat?
Didn’t just echo.
It roared.
Not because I doubted the outcome.
But because somewhere, beneath all the obsession, was the sick, dark truth I didn’t want to name.
I wanted her to walk toward me.
But I also wanted to see if she’d run.
She stepped out alone.
No escort.
No music.
Just silk trailing behind her like a severed vow.