Chapter 12 Hades #2
The scent of her—lavender, defiance, sleepless heat—wrapped around us like a storm cloud ready to burst.
“You can throw plates at me all day long,” I murmured, voice low, dark, velvet-wrapped steel, “but it won’t change what you are to me.”
She stared at me—jaw tight, eyes gleaming.
“You think you can intimidate me?” she snapped.
But I heard it.
The edge.
The quiver.
The little slip in her voice that told me she felt it too—that electricity coiling in the space between us, sparking with every breath.
“Oh, little Persephone,” I whispered, leaning just a little closer, letting my mouth hover near her ear. “This isn’t about intimidation.”
She froze. Just for a second.
A standoff with no winner—only rising stakes.
“This is about inevitability.”
My lips didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
But they hovered close enough that her body swayed, just slightly, toward mine.
I smirked.
“Let’s see how long you can resist.”
Her eyes flicked down.
Quick. Reflexive.
But not quick enough.
She was looking at me. All of me.
At the lines of my chest, bare and unapologetic.
The muscles that flexed as I leaned back.
The ink that curled down my ribs like a secret.
And then—
The blush.
It bloomed across her cheeks in a soft, furious wave. She blinked like she hadn’t realized I wasn’t wearing a shirt until that exact moment.
Beautiful.
The robe she wore suddenly looked tighter on her.
Tighter around her waist.
Tighter across her chest where her breath caught.
She hated that I noticed.
She hated even more that I didn’t say anything.
Instead, I let the moment stretch.
Let it become a noose.
And then—
I reached for the box she’d tossed across the counter.
The choker.
Black velvet, silver vines.
Delicate. Commanding.
Mine.
I dragged it toward her with one finger. Slow. Deliberate. Like drawing a knife between us.
“Wear it,” I said softly, “or don’t.”
I tilted my head, letting my gaze burn into hers.
“You’ll think about it either way.”
Her breath hitched. Just a little.
Enough.
I picked up my coffee, turned my back on her, and walked away—unhurried, shirtless, calm.
Like I hadn’t just taken her apart with a finger and a whisper.
And behind me?
Silence.
But I knew what I’d left behind:
A woman breathless with fury.
Blazing with shame.
And aching for something she wouldn’t name.
I stepped into the dining nook, the scent of espresso and crêpes still lingering in the air like temptation itself.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, delicate and golden, casting lace-like patterns across the table. Beautiful. Peaceful.
A lie.
The real beauty was back in the kitchen—shards of porcelain scattered across the floor like fractured stars. A reminder of her rage. Of her fire.
Of my effect.
I took it in with a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Chaos looked good in this house. Especially when it wore her face.
Persephone was still in there, likely pacing, fuming, trying to swallow her fury without choking on it.
Good.
I wanted her simmering. I wanted her to feel it crawling under her skin. I wanted her to realize she couldn’t burn me down—because I’d already set the fire.
I poured myself a cup of coffee. Watched the dark liquid swirl in the mug like a prophecy I already knew the ending to.
She was my wife.
And no matter how loud she screamed, she was still here.
Still wrapped in the robe I gave her.
Still standing in my kitchen.
Still playing a game she could never win.
She could fight all she wanted. It only made the game sweeter.
“Gideon’s going to be waiting,” I murmured, checking my watch. Practice was soon. The guys would be warming up.
But what was another few minutes?
I wasn’t finished with her yet.
The dining nook was quiet—minimal. Clean lines. Polished wood. I built this house for function, not comfort, but it still felt like control.
Like a throne carved from calm.
And she was the crown I intended to keep.
I leaned against the counter, sipping my coffee, letting silence stretch between us like a net. I could feel her presence—vibrant, blistering—just beyond the doorway.
Then—
A creak.
The soft squeal of a door opening behind me.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t look.
Waited.
“Don’t think you can just ignore me,” she said, voice sharp and low.
I turned slowly, deliberately, savoring every heartbeat it took to meet her eyes.
She was framed in the archway like a painting—barefoot, furious, divine.
The robe clung to her like it was made for this moment: a second skin wrapped in silk and rebellion.
“You can yell,” I said, calm as ever, “or you can sit down and eat.”
I didn’t need to raise my voice. Didn’t need to demand. My presence did the work for me.
She glared like I’d insulted her soul.
Good.
She should be angry. She should feel like she had to fight for every inch of ground.
It would only make it that much more satisfying when she gave it up.
“Just because you’ve locked me into this ridiculous marriage,” she snapped, “doesn’t mean you get to dictate everything.”
I took another sip of coffee.
Let the steam rise between us like smoke.
Raised an eyebrow.
Said nothing.
The silence hit harder than words.
Because she knew it too.
She was already in a game of control, and I wasn’t the one flinching.
The tension pulsed between us—thick, electric, waiting.
“Let’s see how far you’ll go today,” she said.
Oh, little wife.
She had no idea how far I planned to go.