Chapter 18
Hades
I didn’t expect her to come.
But there she was—Persephone—standing in front of me like a goddamn storm wrapped in sunshine, her wrist caught in my hand, her pulse thudding like war drums beneath my fingers. That beat wasn’t fear.
It was awareness.
Of me.
Of this.
Her skin burned under my grip—soft, alive, mine. An electric tension sparked between us, sizzling through the space that had no business existing anymore. And God help me, she was wearing my jersey. Drowning in it, the hem brushing her thighs like temptation incarnate.
She looked like war and want all at once. Fierce, chin high, eyes blazing—but I saw it. That flicker of vulnerability buried beneath the fire. That crack in the armor.
It made something vicious stir inside me. Something that wanted to pin her to the locker room wall and remind her exactly who she belonged to.
My breath caught as I inhaled—vanilla, warmth, something delicate and untouchable, yet here she was, completely touchable. That scent went straight to my spine, coiling low, making me forget every rule I’d set for myself.
But then she moved. Slipped out of my grasp like smoke and stepped back. The spell broke—barely.
She turned to the med kit I hadn’t even registered before. Her hands were steady as she pulled out supplies, but mine? Mine were still shaking with restraint.
She returned to me, gaze hard, steps deliberate. The healer now. Not the temptation.
“Hold still,” she muttered, focused on my wound like she didn’t feel the weight between us.
I didn’t flinch, even as the antiseptic stung. I welcomed it. Pain was easier than the hunger clawing at my ribs.
“Is this how you intend to nurse me back to health?” I asked, voice rough with something darker than amusement.
Her eyes shot up, sharp as a blade. She didn’t answer, just pressed harder. Good. I liked her angry. Angry meant she still cared.
“I could’ve done it myself,” I added, low. Letting the silence fill with everything unsaid. “But I prefer it this way.”
Her fingers brushed my skin again. Gentle. Intentional. She wasn’t just tending to a cut—she was peeling me open.
And fuck, I let her.
Every touch was a new wound. Every glance, a provocation. This wasn’t about bandages. It was about boundaries, and how close we were to burning them to ash.
“I’d rather not bleed,” I said, softer now.
A flicker passed through her expression, but she didn’t stop. She pressed the bandage down, her fingers sure. There was no hesitation in her hands, but her eyes—her eyes betrayed her.
“I’m not here for you,” she said. Sharp. Final.
But her gaze lingered too long. Her breath hitched when mine did. Her lie tasted sweet on her tongue, but I could smell the truth underneath.
She wasn’t here for me.
But she stayed.
And that pull between us?
It was only growing stronger.
Her touch was too gentle.
Precise.
Careful.
She treated the wound like it mattered. Like I mattered.
Every brush of her fingers across my skin felt like a brand, each movement deliberate and reverent in a way that pissed me off—because I didn’t want to be worshipped.
I wanted to be feared.
Obeyed.
But with her?
I wanted something else entirely.
I didn’t speak. Just watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her lips pressed together like she was holding back too much.
There was fire in those eyes. Always had been.
Fierce. Stubborn. Defiant.
But beneath it—something else.
Softness.
Uncertainty.
And that? That was mine, too.
Her voice broke the silence, low and uncertain. “What did he say?”
The memory of Logan’s smug little jab made my teeth grind. I flexed my jaw, the anger still fresh, still sharp. “He made a comment about our marriage.”
The words tasted bitter in my mouth, my voice rough with the edge of something darker than irritation.
“About what?” she asked, lifting her eyes to mine. Brave girl. Always searching for cracks in the mask, like she didn’t already know I was made of fractures.
“He said you were either sold with a bow or a leash.”
I watched the shock ripple across her face, followed by something better—rage.
Her grip on the bandage tightened. Good. I wanted her to feel it. I needed her to.
The silence between us stretched, heavy with heat and fury. That closeness—that damned pull—crept in again, her body brushing mine as she worked. My blood still hummed, not from the injury, but from her. The scent of her, the warmth, the way her pulse betrayed her even when her mouth stayed shut.
“I can’t believe he said that,” she finally muttered, voice trembling—not from fear, no, but from that righteous burn beneath her skin.
I leaned in then, lowering my voice not out of softness, but strategy. “You should’ve seen his face when I snapped.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, breath hitching just like I knew it would.
That spark was there.
That fire I wanted to fan into something uncontrollable.
“And what did you do?” she asked, her voice sharper now.
I let a smirk curl at the corner of my mouth. “I made sure he understood that no one disrespects you while I’m breathing.”
That was the truth.
Not because I was noble.
Because she was mine. And I protect what was mine—brutally.
She met my gaze, and something passed between us then. Dangerous. Electric.
“Next time,” she said, slow and deliberate, “you shouldn’t fight my battles for me.”
I stepped in closer, just enough to feel her breath catch. “Next time,” I murmured, “maybe he won’t walk away.”
We were toeing a line neither of us fully understood—trapped in a war of wills and want.
And I was already planning how to win her completely.
She focused on the cut above my eye, her touch infuriatingly gentle.
Precise. Controlled.
Like she wasn’t unraveling me with every press of that bandage.
Her fingers moved with practiced grace, but I felt the tension in them—like she didn’t want to care, didn’t want this to mean anything. That made two of us. And yet… each press against my skin felt like a challenge.
And I welcomed it.
A beat passed. Then another.
“Thank you for punching his teeth in,” she said, a flicker of amusement dancing behind her words.
It caught me off guard. Not because of what she said, but because of how she said it—light, like it hadn’t meant something to her.
I laughed, low and dark. “I would’ve done worse if they hadn’t dragged me off.”
She finished her work, and for a moment, silence settled between us. Heavy. Alive.
She turned to leave.
I didn’t let her.
My fingers wrapped around her wrist—not hard, not enough to bruise, but enough to stop her. Enough to make her stay.
The moment ignited, that spark between us flaring hotter than before. The kind that didn’t die out—it burned until something broke.
“You came,” I said. The words tasted like surrender and accusation all at once.
Her breath hitched. Barely. But I caught it.
She didn’t know what to say, so she deflected—like always.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“But you did.”
She narrowed her eyes, lips parting with that familiar stubbornness. “Maybe I didn’t want anyone else saying those things about me.”
God, the defiance in her voice—it was delicious. It lit something inside me, deep and primal. I wanted to grab it. To push her. To see what she’d do if I gave her something real and dangerous to fight against.
“And if I hadn’t made you?” I asked, voice low and dangerous.
She didn’t answer.
Silence stretched between us, taut as a drawn bowstring.
“Would you still have come?”
Still nothing.
But her eyes gave her away.
That hesitation. That storm brewing just beneath the surface. She didn’t want to admit it—not to me, not to herself—but some part of her had already made the choice.
And it brought her to me.
Here.
Now.
Mine.
I tightened my grip on her wrist—not enough to trap her. Just enough to remind her.
She wasn’t caged.
She chose to stay.
That fire in her still danced just out of reach, taunting me. Daring me.
And suddenly I needed to know—how far could I push her? How much could I bend before she shattered?
And what would it look like… if she shattered for me?
I let my fingers trace the edge of the choker wrapped around her throat.
The leather was soft, but her skin—fuck, her skin was softer. Warm. Alive. And that silver H? My mark, gleaming against her pulse like a crown.
She flinched. Barely.
But her breath hitched.
And that—that was what I wanted. Not fear. Not resistance.
Reaction.
Her pulse thrummed beneath my touch, defiant and delicious. A heartbeat begging to be claimed. I dragged my fingers down slowly, savoring the tension winding tight in her body like a coil ready to snap.
“Beautiful,” I murmured. Not a compliment. A truth.
She didn’t realize what that pulse meant to me. Power. Life.
Control.
And I was already halfway to owning all of it.
I released her wrist, slow and deliberate. A mercy. Or maybe a test.
“You can go now,” I said, voice flat. Masked. Like I wasn’t already memorizing the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
I met her gaze. Let her see what waited in me, if she wanted it. A storm held back by threadbare restraint. And still… she held her ground.
I wanted to ruin her.
She was standing there like a battlefield dressed in silk. Anger in her spine, confusion in her eyes. Everything about her screamed don’t touch me and yet begged don’t stop.
The air crackled between us—electric and heavy with everything we hadn’t said. She didn’t understand what this was becoming.
Hell, neither did I.
But I knew one thing: it wasn’t just the fire in her that pulled me in. It was the aftermath. The silence. The way she could look at me like I wasn’t a monster, and somehow make me want to become one just for her.
She finally turned to go.
But she looked back. One last glance.
And in that second, I swore the world stopped breathing.
She didn’t say a word.
She didn’t need to.
And I watched her walk away, knowing full well I’d chase her again.
Because she wasn’t just the battlefield.
She was the goddamn reason I bled.
And the worst part?
I wanted more.
She paused at the door, fingers hovering over the handle like she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave.
Part of me wanted her to go.
The other part—the darker part—wanted her to stay.
To fight.
To burn.
And she turned.
God, she turned.
Her gaze locked onto mine, fierce and sharp enough to cut through steel. It was a look that dared me to lie. Dared me to pretend this didn’t matter.
“Your teammate mentioned others,” she said, voice steady. Too steady. But underneath, I caught the edge—the serrated blade buried beneath silk.
I didn’t respond.
Let the silence stretch between us like a wire pulled tight, ready to snap.
“We’re married now, correct?” she asked, chin high, that jaw clenching like she was already bracing for the worst.
I watched her.
She was beautiful when she was angry. When she was pretending this was just politics and not the wildfire she couldn’t control.
I said nothing.
Because I didn’t need to. Watching her struggle—wrestle—with what she felt and what she refused to feel… that was the power I craved. And it was all mine.
“You’re not…” she started, but the words caught. She clenched her jaw tighter. Her voice sharpened. “I won’t tolerate that.”
My brow lifted, the corner of my mouth twitching. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t,” she snapped, too fast.
Too loud.
Too telling.
“But I won’t be a fool.”
There it was.
The fear. The fury. The fire.
And God help me, I wanted to wrap it around my throat and choke on it.
I stepped toward her slowly, letting the tension throb between us like a second heartbeat.
“What makes you think I’d treat you like one?” I asked, my voice a low hum of warning and curiosity.
She didn’t flinch. That only made it worse.
“Because you enjoy this game,” she bit out, eyes burning. “You thrive on chaos and power.”
I chuckled, low and dark. “You’re not wrong.”
She shifted then, restless. On edge. Like a wolf too smart to flee, too proud to show its throat.
“Then you know what it means,” she said, quieter now, “if you play me for a fool.”
Oh, she didn’t understand.
She had no idea what game we were playing.
I moved in—close enough that our breath mingled in the space between us. Close enough to feel the crackle in the air as our energy collided, sparked, bled.
“Oh, Persephone,” I murmured, savoring her name like a secret on my tongue. “You’ve always been anything but a fool in my eyes.”
Her breath hitched.
I felt it more than heard it.
The way her body reacted, even as her words defied me.
And it was intoxicating.
“You think you understand how this works,” I whispered, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “But there are layers to this… to me… that you haven’t even begun to unravel."
Because beneath the masks, beneath the titles and the war of words, I already knew the truth:
She was mine.
And someday, she’d stop fighting it.
“But it’s good to know you’re jealous,” I said, letting the smirk curve slow and deliberate across my mouth. “That means you’re only a few steps away from caring.”
Her eyes flared, wide with fury, with something wounded just beneath the surface.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
God, it was beautiful.
The way her voice broke just slightly on the last word. Like it cost her something. Like hating me wasn’t as easy as she wanted it to be.
I stepped in one final time, close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off me, close enough to make her breath stutter just once.
“No, sweetheart,” I murmured, voice dark and full of promise, “you hate what I make you feel.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Not at first.
“You think you know everything,” she hissed, backing toward the door like I was fire she didn’t want to touch—but couldn’t stop staring at.
“I know you,” I said softly. “And I know that hate… is just passion misdirected. Burn it long enough, and it turns into something else.”
“I’d rather burn alive than fall for a monster like you.”
I laughed once, low and dangerous. “That’s the problem, Persephone. You’re already burning.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her hand found the doorknob, white-knuckled, like she needed the cold metal to anchor herself.
Still, she hesitated.
Still, she looked back.
Like some part of her knew she wasn’t walking away from me—not really. Just pretending she could.
“Run, little goddess,” I said quietly, folding my hands behind my back. “I won’t stop you.”
She didn’t answer.
Just yanked the door open and disappeared down the hall, heels striking the floor in a rhythm that sounded too much like a war drum.
And I let her go.
Because she needed the illusion of freedom.
Because she needed to think she was still in control.
But she’d be back.
They always came back when the flames didn’t go out.
And with her?
I never planned on putting the fire out at all.