Chapter 15 Seph
Seph
I stood alone in the kitchen, my pulse thrumming like it was trying to outrun what had just happened. The air still buzzed with his presence—like static clinging to every surface he’d touched. And me?
I was shaking.
Not from fear.
Not really.
From everything else.
He hadn’t yelled.
Hadn’t hit back.
He just kissed me like it was a punishment.
Touched me like he had to, like he couldn't help it.
And then he walked away.
Like he hadn’t just taken something from me.
Like he hadn’t just unmade me with his mouth.
My fingers drifted to my lips before I could stop them, brushing over skin that still burned like it belonged to him. I hated the tremble in my hands. Hated the way my knees still felt weak. Hated that part of me was still waiting for him to come back.
I should be angry.
I was angry.
But underneath it, buried in the cracks of all that fury, something else bloomed—warm and wrong and terrifying.
Desire.
The word made bile rise in my throat.
I turned toward the mirror above the sink, the one I usually avoided, and stepped closer like I was approaching something dangerous.
And there she was.
The girl in the reflection.
Cheeks flushed. Lips red and swollen. Eyes too wide, too full of something I didn’t want to name.
I looked like someone who’d been kissed senseless.
I looked like someone who had liked it.
My nails dug into my palms, hard enough to leave marks. I wanted to scream. To grab the stupid dress off the floor and burn it. To scrub my skin raw until every trace of him was gone.
But even if I did—he’d still be in me.
In the place between my ribs where rage and confusion lived.
“I should hate him,” I whispered.
The words didn’t land.
They just floated there. Empty. Useless.
Because the truth was?
I didn’t.
Not completely.
I hated how he made me feel.
I hated that he knew he made me feel it.
But most of all?
I hated that there was a part of me—twisted and aching and small—that didn’t want him to stop.
The silence pressed in tight, thick like syrup, and I turned from the mirror before I had to watch myself fall apart any further.
But it didn’t matter where I went.
There was no escape from this feeling.
No running from the fact that he had changed me.
And now?
Now I didn’t know how to get back to the girl I’d been before Hades Sinclair touched me like I was something he already owned.
And worse?
I didn’t know if I wanted to.
I turned the taps on full blast, the roar of rushing water drowning out the storm still echoing in my chest. Steam curled toward the ceiling like smoke from something already burned.
My hands shook as I reached for the bottle of bubbles, pouring more than necessary. They frothed instantly, too sweet, too soft—too wrong.
This wasn’t about comfort.
It was about erasure.
I stepped into the water, already stripped bare in every possible way.
It should’ve been warm—should’ve offered relief—but all I felt was heat meeting ache. The sting crawled across my skin, chasing the places where his hands had been. Where his mouth had marked me.
I didn’t sink in slowly.
I lowered myself like I was being buried.
And then?
I scrubbed.
Hard.
Fingernails dragging over arms, collarbones, thighs—anywhere he’d looked at me like he had the right. Touched me and then left me to burn without satisfaction. The water turned cloudy with soap and shame, bubbles popping too fast.
But no matter how much I rubbed, I couldn’t feel clean.
His kiss still lingered. Not on my lips anymore.
Inside me.
Everywhere.
I pressed my forehead to my knees, curling in, shrinking down. Trying to remember who I was before this.
Before him.
And I saw Cliff.
That damn soft smile. That boy who used to wrap me in safety without expecting anything in return. He made me feel seen—never claimed.
“Are you okay?”
He used to ask that like it meant something. Like I was someone worth asking about.
I remembered his hugs. His voice. The way he always stood in front of me, never over me.
He made me feel safe.
Hades makes me feel… wanted.
And God help me, I didn’t know which one was worse anymore.
I slid lower in the water, until only my face remained above the surface, watching the ceiling blur through steam and unshed tears.
What kind of girl wanted to be owned?
Because that was what this was, wasn’t it?
Hades didn’t love. He claimed. He devoured.
And the part of me that trembled under his touch?
That part wasn’t afraid.
That part wanted more.
I let out a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the tub like it could hold me steady while everything else inside fractured.
How do you wash off a feeling?
Because I’d burned myself raw, and I could still feel him everywhere.
I stepped out of the tub, water trailing down my skin like ghost hands I couldn’t shake. The steam curled around me, clinging, as if it, too, refused to let me go. But I was already gone—adrift in the aftermath of what I couldn’t scrub away.
The hoodie I pulled on swallowed me whole. The sweatpants slouched low on my hips. Comfort clothes. Armor. Nothing stuck.
The house felt colder than before.
Bigger, too.
I wandered, barefoot and hollow, letting my steps guide me through hallways carved from silence. Every wall echoed with his presence. Every shadow felt like something watching.
I just needed… space.
A distraction.
A way out of my head.
Then I saw it.
A door—usually shut tight—left slightly ajar.
Hades’ study.
Curiosity wasn’t what pulled me forward. It was defiance. A rebellion quiet enough to feel safe but sharp enough to make my heart race.
I slipped inside.
The scent hit me first—leather, smoke, and something sharper beneath. Something distinctly him. The air was heavier here, thicker, like the room had lungs and it was holding its breath.
Books lined the walls—rows and rows of perfectly ordered knowledge. Power. Psychology. Politics. Seduction. Control.
Of course.
I took a step further.
His desk was immaculate. Barely a pen out of place. Except… one envelope.
It sat dead center.
White against the dark wood.
My name on the front.
In his handwriting.
I knew I shouldn’t.
I knew he wanted me to find it.
But I opened it anyway.
Inside: a letter. No salutation. No signature. Just lists. Bullet points.
I stopped breathing halfway through.
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t romantic.
It was a dossier.
Like I was a subject under surveillance. A case study in how to dismantle someone and call it devotion.
I dropped the page. It fluttered to the floor like something dead.
This wasn’t obsession masked as love.
This was control, quantified and catalogued.
This was a manual.
My throat closed around a scream I didn’t let out.
Because now I knew.
I wasn’t being courted.
I was being conditioned.
I needed air.
The walls were pressing in again—too tight, too loud, filled with the ghost of Hades’ voice, the echo of that letter in my hand, that list. My name scrawled on an envelope like it belonged to him.
I couldn’t breathe.
I took the stairs fast, feet light but heart pounding like it wanted to rip through my ribs and throw itself off the edge first.
The door to the balcony creaked as I pushed it open. The cold night hit me like a slap—and hell, I needed it. My skin prickled, and for the first time in hours, I felt something that didn’t belong to him.
The city sprawled beneath me, golden and glittering.
Distant.
Untouchable.
I leaned over the railing, fingers curling around the iron like they could anchor me. But the panic was still there, coiled tight in my chest, slithering up my throat. I blinked hard against the sting in my eyes.
No tears. Not for him. Not since that night my father handed me off like property.
Not since the moment I stopped being a person and became a transaction.
The stars were swallowed by city glow. All that beauty. All that light. And none of it mine.
He wants to own me.
The thought came bitter and sharp. I hated how true it felt.
But worse?
What if I don’t know who I am without being owned?
What if I was always just the girl in someone else’s story? The obedient daughter. The quiet shadow. The prize to be traded. The wife in white silk, claimed before she ever got to choose.
The panic surged.
If I left—if I ran—what would be left of me?
And if I stayed… who would I become?
Would I vanish completely?
Would I look in the mirror one day and not see a girl at all—just a thing wrapped in velvet and silence? A ghost in his bed, in his house, in his world?
Was that already happening?
I dropped my head against the railing, breathing in the cold until it burned.
“You’re mine,” he’d said.
And worse?
Part of me believed it.
Part of me wanted it.
Not because I loved him.
But because being wanted that fiercely, that violently—it made me feel real.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
I felt him before I saw him.
The temperature shifted. The air stretched tight. His shadow reached me first, darkening the floorboards like it belonged here more than I did.
I didn’t turn around.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t breathe.
I just stared at the city. At the lights dancing so far away. At the freedom I could see but never touch.
He said nothing.
Of course he didn’t.
Hades only spoke when silence had done its damage first.
Then—
thud.
Something landed beside me with the weight of a threat.
Still, I didn’t look.
“Don’t you want to see what I brought you?” His voice slid into the space between us like a silk ribbon tightened around my throat. Too smooth. Too easy. Always with the illusion of choice.
My hands clenched around the railing, nails biting into the metal. I wouldn’t give him the reaction he wanted.
“You’re going to wear it,” he said, more command than prediction. Calm. Confident. Certain of the outcome.
My gaze dropped. The box sat beside me like a trap.
But I opened it anyway.
Inside was his jersey.
Black and gold. Heavy. Warm.
His name.
Sinclair.
Stitched across the back like a brand.
My stomach twisted.
“You’ll be at the game tomorrow,” he continued, casually, like he was ordering wine. “Wearing that.”
A pause.
“And the choker."
Another pause.
“And the ring.”
My chest rose sharply, air suddenly feeling too thick. I spun to face him.
He hadn’t moved from the doorway. Just stood there, watching—arms crossed, jaw sharp, eyes darker than the night behind me. Like he was measuring how much fight I had left.
“You think I’d wear this?” My voice came out clipped, sharp with disbelief. “You think you can dress me up like some prize and parade me around like I belong to you?”
That smirk.
I hated that smirk.
“Oh, little Persephone,” he said, stepping into the room, slow and lethal. “I don’t think." He stopped two feet away. “I know.”
I backed up before I even realized it, hitting the cold railing behind me. He kept coming, every step measured, quiet, cruel.
“Try refusing me,” he whispered, now close enough that I could smell the ice on his breath, the sweat from practice still clinging to his skin. “Please.” A smile ghosted across his lips. “Make me prove it.”
My breath caught in my throat—rage and fear colliding like sparks. I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw that jersey into pieces and throw it in his face.
But my fingers were still touching the fabric.
Still holding on.
And he saw it.
Because Hades didn’t gamble.
He calculated.
And I was already playing a game I never agreed to join.
I stood frozen, heart pounding in my chest, every nerve ending alive under his gaze. Hades loomed over me, a dark shadow blocking out the light. His presence was suffocating and intoxicating, a contradiction I didn’t know how to process.
“Already so desperate to go back to the edge?” he murmured, his breath ghosting against my ear. I felt the heat of him without needing him to touch me.
His lips brushed so close I could almost taste the danger. I fought the urge to lean into him, a primal instinct clawing at me. He barely touched me, but already I was burning alive beneath his scrutiny.
“You will do this,” he said with that low, commanding tone that stirred something deep inside me—something thrilling and terrifying all at once.
“Or what?” I shot back, fire in my veins.
His expression shifted just slightly, an amused glint dancing in his eyes as if he found my defiance amusing rather than threatening.
“Since your former friend didn’t seem to get the message,” he drawled slowly, “we need to be clear.”
The air thickened with tension as he leaned closer, his voice dropping into a whisper that curled around me like smoke—deadly and seductive.
“You’re my wife. Mine.” Each word was like a brand on my skin.
“And you will show up for me tomorrow. Exactly when I say.” He paused for effect, letting it sink in. “Wearing what I tell you.”
My breath caught in my throat as heat pooled low in my belly against my will. This wasn’t just about obedience; it felt debauched and exhilarating all at once—this twisted game we played where submission danced with desire.
“I won’t wear that jersey,” I shot back defiantly even as a part of me shivered at the thought of what it meant.
He chuckled softly, darkly—the kind of sound that sent chills racing down my spine. “You think you have a choice?”
I swallowed hard as he stepped even closer, our bodies nearly touching now—a dangerous proximity that made every nerve sing and ache with awareness.
“You’re wrong if you think this is a negotiation.” The corners of his mouth curled into a wicked smile that promised retribution if I dared defy him again.
Hades didn’t care about boundaries; he reveled in dismantling them piece by piece while I stood here—caught between wanting to fight and wanting to succumb to the chaos he created within me.