Chapter 17
Seph
I sank deeper into my seat, heart hammering as I tried—really tried—to keep my eyes on the game. The ice glittered under the arena lights, players flying across it like weapons on blades. But all I could see was him.
Hades.
He didn’t just skate—he hunted. Every stride was controlled violence, sharp and deliberate, a predator in black and gold. The way his body moved—coiled power and rage just barely restrained—it did something to me I didn’t want to name.
I swallowed hard as he launched into a clean hit, sending some poor bastard crashing into the boards. The impact rattled the glass in front of me, and I jolted—but not from fear. From something else. Something darker.
The crowd roared. I couldn’t hear anything past the thundering pulse in my ears.
He skated like the ice belonged to him, like no one else had the right to exist out there. And I hated how I couldn’t look away.
Then the gloves dropped.
My breath caught. I watched—frozen—as Hades turned toward the opposing captain. Logan Rhys. Mouthy. Known for cheap shots.
Whatever he’d said, I didn’t hear it. But I saw what it did to Hades.
He snapped.
He charged like he’d been waiting for this moment. And when he collided with Logan, it was all fists and fury—brutal and beautiful in a way I didn’t have the words for.
Each punch echoed through the arena, but all I could feel was the heat rising beneath my skin.
What is wrong with me?
I gripped the edge of my seat like it could anchor me to something safe. But there was no safety in him. Not on the ice. Not in that house. Not in my head.
And still—my body betrayed me.
The way he moved. The way he dominated. It wasn’t just aggression. It was claiming. And some twisted, fucked-up part of me wanted to be the thing he claimed.
Logan hit the ice again, blood blooming beneath him like spilled ink. Hades didn’t stop. Not until the refs dragged him away, teeth bared like an animal mid-feast.
I should’ve felt disgusted.
Instead?
I felt alive.
Shaken. Burning. And completely owned by the chaos that man carried like a crown.
He was the war. The fire. The damnation I should’ve run from the second he touched me.
But as I watched him stare across the rink—at me—with that blood-smeared mouth and that wild, satisfied grin, I knew:
There was no going back.
Not for him.
Not for me.
Not after this.
After the game, a nice gentleman in a blazer ushered me downstairs and led me to the locker room.
I stood just outside, heart pounding like I’d been the one on the ice.
The roar of the arena was still echoing in my bones—adrenaline still threading through my veins like fire.
I tried to breathe, to ground myself in the quiet of the hallway, but everything felt off-kilter. Like I wasn’t supposed to be here.
The door loomed in front of me—bold, black, unwelcoming. Loud voices filtered through the cracks: laughter, slaps on backs, the rough cadence of victory.
A woman in a blazer approached me. Cool. Composed. Like none of this touched her. “You can go in now,” she said, her voice clipped but polite.
I nodded, stepping inside as she held the door open. The moment it shut behind me, the air changed. It was cooler in here. Damp with sweat. Sharp with soap and leather. The locker room didn’t smell like celebration—it smelled like battle aftermath.
I hovered near the entrance, trying not to draw attention as players bantered around me. They moved like wolves in their den—half-dressed, cocky, loud. I caught fragments of conversation.
“Did you see him lose it out there?”
“Bet it was about the wife.”
“Wonder how long she’ll last.”
I straightened my spine and stared straight ahead.
The team began to drift out, brushing past me like I didn’t matter, like I was just another fan who’d wandered too far backstage. Until I heard his voice.
Deeper than the others. Calmer. Lethal in the way only Hades could be.
He stepped out of the showers, hair damp, a towel slung over his neck, and still—still—he moved like a predator. Even post-game, he owned every inch of the room.
His eyes found me instantly. And for a moment, the whole place fell away.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t smirk.
He just looked at me like I was inevitable.
My breath caught.
The locker room was half-empty now, steam curling from the showers and laughter bouncing off the tile like leftover adrenaline. Hades stood beside me, still in his padded shorts and compression gear, looking as if the fight hadn’t taken a single breath from him.
But when he turned to me, there was something quieter in his gaze. Not soft. Never soft. But… anchored.
“Come here,” he said simply, like it was a command and an invitation rolled into one.
I followed him deeper into the room, my boots echoing against the tile as I stepped into his world.
Five men were scattered around the benches—half-dressed, half-cocked, and fully chaotic.
“Gentlemen,” Hades said, voice dark and unhurried, “this is my wife.”
That stopped everything.
Five pairs of eyes turned toward me.
Gideon was the first to break the silence. He was lounging against his locker like it owed him money, shirtless and smug, with the kind of jawline that belonged on a cologne ad. “This is Persephone?” he drawled, pushing off the bench. “Damn, Sinclair. No wonder you lost your mind tonight.”
“She always look this furious?” James—aka Hook—asked with a crooked grin, twirling a hockey stick between his fingers like it was a sword. He had dimples that looked like they belonged on a sinner and a glint in his eye that said he knew it. “Hi, sweetheart. Welcome to the boys’ club.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is hazing part of the welcome package?”
Hook grinned wider. “Only if you ask nicely.”
Jeremy—Scar, Hades had said—was quieter. Leaner. Paler. He sat back in the corner with his hair still wet, watching me with those ice-blue eyes that didn’t blink often enough. “She’s got fight,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I like her.”
“Of course you do,” Gideon muttered, rolling his eyes.
Then there was Jafar—slicked back hair, long limbs, a smirk that could slice a man open. He looked me over like I was a chess piece he hadn’t decided how to use yet. “We were wondering if you existed,” he said, folding his arms. “Or if you were just part of the mythos he built around himself.”
“Surprise,” I said dryly.
That earned a chuckle from the last man—Gang Lu. Quiet, strong, terrifying. He didn’t say much, just nodded once, his gaze respectful but heavy. Like he could snap a spine without breaking a sweat and then make you tea afterward.
“These are the idiots I deal with every day,” Hades said beside me. “Don’t get attached.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gideon said with a wink. “I think she already likes me.”
“I think I tolerate you,” I shot back.
Gideon clutched his chest like I’d stabbed him. “I live for strong women. This is why Belle won’t speak to me.”
“Because she has good taste?” Jafar offered, earning a fist bump from Hook.
The tension had shifted. They weren’t posturing now. They weren’t playing the roles their nicknames had carved out for them on the ice.
They were just men—sweaty, loud, ridiculous. Dangerous, yes. But real.
“You’re not what I pictured,” Gideon said, grabbing a towel and tossing it over his shoulder like he was posing for a magazine cover no one asked for. “Sinclair made you sound like a myth. Ice in your veins, fire in your stare. Honestly?” He winked. “You’re hotter.”
“I think you mean scarier,” Jeremy muttered from his corner. “She hasn’t even smiled.”
“She just watched your captain beat the shit out of a guy in front of thousands of people,” Hook pointed out, adjusting the rings on his fingers like he was dressing for war. “Maybe she’s processing, Jeremy.”
“Or traumatized,” Jafar added dryly. “Hard to tell with women like her.”
“Women like what?” I cut in, lifting an eyebrow.
Jafar met my gaze evenly. “The kind who know the weight of their silence.”
That shut them all up for a beat.
Then Gideon let out a dramatic groan. “God, even your wife is intimidating. Where do you find these women?”
“I don’t find them,” Hades said calmly, not looking up from where he was unlacing his skates. “They find me. Then they stay.”
“I wouldn’t say stay so much as get shackled to a heating vent with velvet cuffs,” Hook said, kicking off a shin pad. “But hey, I respect your brand.”
“Velvet’s a good touch,” Gang Lu murmured, finally speaking. His voice was low, smooth. “Looks soft. Doesn’t leave bruises.”
Everyone turned slowly to stare at him.
He blinked. “What?”
Hades smirked. “Lu’s not wrong.”
“Oh, you would agree,” Gideon said, flopping back against the bench like a tragic prince. “Meanwhile, Belle slaps me for texting her past midnight.”
“That’s because you text her ‘u up?’ like a frat boy,” Jafar muttered. “And she has actual standards.”
“She sent me a playlist last week,” Gideon said defensively.
“Of break-up songs,” Jeremy replied, deadpan.
“Guys, guys,” Hook chimed in, hands raised like a referee. “Let’s not distract from the real issue here.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
He grinned at me, all teeth and trouble. “That our ice-cold captain is finally whipped.”
The room howled with laughter, except for Hades—who didn’t move, didn’t blink, just looked straight at Hook like he was already calculating the body count.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t want me distracted next time you’re on defense.”
Hook’s grin faltered. “Noted.”
“All right, lovebirds,” Jafar cut in. “We’re grabbing drinks before the press run. You coming, Hades?”
“No,” Hades said. “I’ve got… other plans.”
Every villain in the room turned to look at me. I felt the heat creep up my neck but refused to squirm.
Gideon clutched his chest again, mock-swooning. “She’s staying after the game? God, just marry her again.”
“Twice if you want the tax break,” Hook offered, heading for the exit.
“Or the murder defense,” Jeremy added as he followed, eyes still fixed on me in that unnerving way of his.
Jafar passed by me last, pausing just long enough to lean in and say, “Don’t let him scare you.”
“Too late,” I replied.
He smirked. “Good. You’ll last longer that way.”
They trickled out one by one, a storm of dark suits and cologne and careless swagger—leaving me alone with the only one who mattered.
And the only one I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to run from… or run to.
I looked at him.
At Hades.
At the man who had just gone feral on the ice like it was a goddamn battlefield and he’d been waiting all season to draw blood.
Now he sat there on the bench, jersey peeled halfway off, steam rising from his skin like war still clung to him.
His knuckles were split wide open—bruised and raw and angry red.
Blood crept down the ridge of one hand, trailing a thin line along his wrist like a threat someone didn’t finish making.
His cheekbone had a shadow blooming across it, deep and already swelling, and a small cut traced the edge of his jaw like it had been carved there on purpose.
I hated the way my stomach twisted.
Hated that it wasn’t disgust I felt.
It was… concern.
Worse than concern.
It was that soft, stupid thing that wanted to reach out and fix him.
My gaze tore away from him and swept the locker room. It was pure testosterone in here—walls of gray cinderblock, sweat-stained jerseys draped over open lockers, steam still clinging to the air from the post-game showers. It smelled like victory and blood and something darker—something territorial.
Benches ran along the walls, gear scattered across the floor, and half a dozen empty Gatorade bottles were lined up like trophies beneath the overhead vents. There was a speaker in the corner still quietly buzzing with bass, the echo of a playlist no one had paused.
And then I saw it—mounted just beneath the flat screen where they watched game tape: a first aid kit.
Bright red.
Clean.
Untouched, probably.
I walked over and opened it without a word.
“Let me guess,” I muttered, pulling out gauze and antiseptic. “No stitches. No doctors. No complaints.”
Behind me, I heard the low scrape of his chuckle.
“You forgot no apologies.”
I didn’t turn around.
“Of course I did,” I muttered.
I sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.
Then grabbed the kit and turned back toward the devil bleeding all over his gloves like it was foreplay.
“Sit still, Hades,” I said through gritted teeth. “This time, I am touching you.”
I turned back toward him, med kit in hand, already regretting every ounce of empathy still rattling around in my chest.
Hades sat there, blood on his hands, bruises blooming like artwork across his skin. And still—still—he had the audacity to smirk like I was the one out of line for caring.
“You’re enjoying this,” I muttered, standing a few feet away.
“I enjoy a lot of things,” he said casually, resting one arm across the back of the bench. “Watching you try to pretend you don’t care might top the list.”
I scoffed. “I don’t have to care. I could walk out that door right now.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and smug and infuriating. He tilted his head like he already knew the answer.
“Maybe I just don’t like unfinished messes,” I shot back.
“Mm. Is that what I am to you? A mess?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bloodied hands hanging loose like the violence hadn’t fully drained from them yet. “You patching me up out of pity, Persephone?”
“No,” I snapped. “I’m doing it so your arrogance doesn’t get infected and kill you. Though now that I say it out loud, maybe that isn’t the worst idea.”
He grinned, all sharp teeth and wolfish charm. “You’re adorable when you try to sound dangerous.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away.
Big mistake.
The second I shifted to walk past him, his hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist—not hard, but firm. Unyielding.
“Let go,” I said, heat spiking through me like a threat—or a thrill.
He didn’t.
Instead, he looked up at me with that same calm darkness in his eyes, like he’d planned this moment before I even walked in.
“You don’t trust me,” he said.
“You’re damn right I don’t.”
He didn’t look hurt. He looked amused.
“I don’t need you to trust me, Persephone. I just need you to stop lying to yourself about what you feel when I’m near.”
My pulse jumped. Right there beneath his thumb, he’d feel it—racing like prey in a trap.
I jerked my arm, but he didn’t let go.
“You think I’m not scared of you?” I hissed.
His grip didn’t tighten, but his voice did. “You should be.”
Silence fell like a blade between us.
And still—I didn’t pull away again.
Not yet.