Chapter 20
Hades
I shoved through the front door, adrenaline still humming beneath my skin from the game, ready for silence. Maybe her anger. Maybe those eyes that looked at me like I was both the problem and the solution. I was used to that now.
What I wasn’t ready for—
What I didn’t expect—
Was the smell.
Blood.
Sharp. Metallic. Hers.
My pulse snapped into overdrive, instincts overriding logic. My entire body shifted into high alert.
Fight.
Find.
Claim.
“Persephone!” I called, voice rough, barely restrained. It echoed through the house—sharp, demanding.
No answer.
I moved fast, heart slamming against my ribs, scanning every shadow like it might be hiding her from me. The scent grew stronger as I neared the kitchen.
And then—
I saw her.
She was standing by the sink, skin pale beneath the harsh light, a thin line of blood between her lip.
Someone hit her.
Someone touched her.
The sight nearly brought me to my knees.
Not because she was weak.
Because she was wounded—and I hadn’t been here to stop it.
“What happened?” I demanded, already closing the distance between us.
She stiffened, not like prey, but like someone who refused to break. “It’s nothing.”
I stopped in front of her, jaw tight.
“Nothing?” I echoed, my voice a low growl. “You think this is nothing?”
Her gaze flicked to her mouth, then to the floor, where drops of crimson decorated the tile like some sick, abstract painting. It made me want to destroy the world.
“You’re bleeding,” I said through gritted teeth. Possessive. Uncompromising. Mine.
“I know what blood looks like,” she snapped, her chin lifted in defiance.
Fuck. She was hurt and still ready to go to war with me.
I took a step closer. Then another. Until her back hit the counter and there was nowhere left for her to go.
She didn’t flinch.
She met my gaze with fire in hers.
And I burned for it.
The sight of her bleeding shattered something in me.
Not just rage.
Not just protectiveness.
Something primal. Unforgivable.
“Who did this?” I demanded, my voice already rough from holding back the scream I didn’t know I’d swallowed.
She flinched.
Didn’t look at me.
Didn’t answer.
Just pressed that cloth harder against her skin like she could erase the wound herself.
“Don’t you dare act like you care now,” she muttered.
The words sliced deeper than her split lip.
But I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. Not when the air was thick with her pain and my fury and the truth neither of us wanted to say out loud.
“Care?” I echoed, the word tasting wrong in my mouth. Too soft. Too human. “You think I’m here because I want to see you bleed?”
She finally looked at me.
And her eyes—
Fuck.
A storm. Fury and fear and the sharp sting of betrayal all crashing behind her irises like waves against stone.
“You’re not exactly a knight in shining armor,” she hissed.
I stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
“I’m not a knight,” I said. “I’m the monster that comes for anyone who touches what’s mine.”
She pressed her lips together—tight. Like the pain was nothing. Like I was nothing.
But I saw through it.
I always did.
“Let me see,” I said, softer now.
“No.”
She took a step back like I was fire she refused to burn for.
But I followed.
Of course I did.
I didn’t stop until there were barely inches between us. The space between our bodies vibrated with tension—her defiance crashing into the force of my restraint.
She tried to turn away.
I caught her wrist.
Gently. Firmly. Like I was holding the last piece of my control in my hand.
“Let me help you,” I said, my voice low. Gravel and steel.
My thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. Warm. Soft. Fragile.
Her eyes softened—for a second. One heartbeat where something flickered between us. Something real.
But then it vanished. Like she’d slammed the door shut again and thrown away the key.
“No.”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
But it was final.
And that quiet refusal…
It nearly destroyed me.
“You think this is just about a cut?” I said, voice low, lethal. “Someone hurt you. And I wasn’t here.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” I said. “But you don’t have to.”
She blinked. A crack in her armor.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked. The challenge was unmistakable.
I stared down at her—at the blood, at the fury, at the way she stood her ground even now.
And something inside me snapped.
This wasn’t just about the wound on her skin.
This was about the line she kept drawing between us.
And me erasing it.
With a growl, I grabbed her chin, tilting her face up, and crashed my mouth against hers—fierce, hungry, unrelenting. I tasted her blood. Her defiance. Her need. It hit me like a drug.
She gasped, but she didn’t pull away.
And for the first time in a long time, I lost control.
I never lose control.
But with her?
I never stood a chance.
The moment I pulled away, her hand cracked across my face.
The sting bloomed hot against my cheek, sharp and immediate—a warning and a punishment wrapped into one.
“Don’t you ever touch me again!” she shouted, voice laced with fury sharp enough to flay skin. The air between us fractured.
I had kissed her to claim what was mine.
But all it did was unleash her fire.
Good.
Let her burn me.
Because I deserved every fucking flame.
Her eyes blazed as she shoved me back with her words, no sugar-coating this time. No restraint. Just raw, righteous rage.
“How could you let Sloane in?” she snarled. “How could you let that woman get close enough to touch me?”
Each syllable slammed into my chest like a fist.
Sloane.
The name alone made my pulse spike.
That venomous ghost I should’ve buried long ago.
“You brought that poison into my home,” she spat. “You brought her into my space.”
“Did she hit you?” I asked, my voice eerily calm—but inside?
Inside, I was already reaching for blood.
“Yes!”
The answer hit harder than the slap.
My jaw locked. “And you bled.”
I said it like a death sentence—because it was one.
Not for her.
For me.
For the version of myself that failed to protect what was mine.
Her breath hitched like my words physically hurt.
“What does that matter?” she snapped. “You didn’t even care enough to tell me that she would—"
“Don’t twist this—” My voice broke. I clenched my fists at my sides to keep from grabbing the nearest wall and tearing through it. “You think I wanted that? That I’d ever allow—”
“Then why did you?” she screamed, stepping closer. “Why did you let her think she could walk through our door? Why didn’t you stop it before you decided to marry me? What the hell am I supposed to think, Hades?"
Each accusation cut deeper than the last.
She wasn’t just angry. She was betrayed.
And every inch of me wanted to throw the world at her feet to make it right.
But she didn’t want apologies. She wanted answers I didn’t have.
Because the truth was too ugly to speak aloud:
I underestimated Sloane.
I thought I could control the past.
And now it had bled into the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.
Her.
And now we stood here—two blades drawn, hearts exposed, bleeding in a war we never meant to start.
And I didn’t have a damn thing to say that would fix it.
I stared at her.
Defiant. Bleeding.
There was blood on her lip, fire in her eyes, and a heartbeat pulsing so violently at her throat I could damn near taste it in the air—copper, fury, and something sweeter that called to the darkest part of me.
She should’ve been running from me.
Instead, she was fighting me.
And I wanted to tear the world apart just to prove no one else could touch her.
The rage surged like a wildfire inside my chest, licking up my spine, turning every breath into smoke. Every accusation she threw at me struck with precision.
“Why did you let her think she could touch me?”
It wasn’t just a question. It was a wound she was opening. Deeper than the cut on her lip. It hit somewhere I didn’t want to name.
“Do you think I wanted this?” My voice came out lower than I intended—rough, raw, almost broken. “Do you think I’d ever let someone hurt you?”
She didn’t flinch.
Of course she didn’t.
Persephone Sinclair didn’t break—she shattered things.
She squared her shoulders like she was ready to take a hit. Or give one.
“I can take care of myself!” she snapped, but her voice betrayed her—barely. I heard it. The fracture.
And I couldn’t take it.
“No,” I said, firm. Final. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Her eyes widened—just for a second. Enough for me to see it.
That flicker of doubt.
That sliver of something else.
Maybe fear.
I wasn’t just the man she married under pressure.
I wasn’t just Hades fucking Sinclair.
I was what lived in the silence after betrayal.
I stepped forward—slow, deliberate—until the space between us was unbearable. Until the air practically vibrated from everything we weren’t saying.
“Let me take care of you,” I said, the words a vow and a demand all at once.
Her lip curled. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” I whispered, my voice dark and edged in something lethal, “no one gets to touch what’s mine.”
The word hung in the air like a brand. Possessive. Absolute.
She didn’t step back.
Didn’t look away.
And fuck, I loved her for it.
In that moment, we were two blades clashing—sparks flying from the contact, neither willing to yield.
But I meant every word.
I’d burn the world to ash before I let anyone lay a hand on her again.
I didn’t take my eyes off her.
Not for a second.
As I reached for the first aid kit, my hands moved slowly, deliberately—like if I moved too fast, I’d shatter what little peace remained between us.
The silence was thick. Tense. Her breaths came sharp and shallow. Mine, slower. Calculated. Every beat of my heart synced with the memory of her blood on her lip—on the counter.
It hadn’t stopped burning.
I opened the kit. Pulled out antiseptic, gauze, tape. My hands were steady, but barely. Her blood was still there—still visible. Still mocking me.
A reminder that I failed her.
That someone dared to hurt her where I couldn’t protect her.
Where I should have.
“Stay still,” I said quietly, stepping toward her.
She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her body was stiff, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, but it came weaker than before—more reflex than command.
“I’m not asking,” I replied, voice low, soft—but final. Not because I needed to win. Because I needed to tend to her. Even if it was the only way she’d let me near her.
I reached up, brushing my fingers against her chin as I tilted her face toward the light. Her skin was warm beneath mine, tense but unflinching.
She didn’t pull away.
She could’ve.
She didn’t.
I dabbed the wipe against her lip with the kind of gentleness I didn’t know I possessed. The antiseptic stung—I saw it. That flicker of pain in her eyes. That moment of vulnerability she tried to bury too fast.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“Not sorry enough,” she whispered back.
Her voice cracked like a hairline fracture in armor. And it made my pulse spike.
Because for a second—I got to see her break.
Not in weakness. But in truth.
And I hated myself for it.
I continued slowly, cleaning the blood with care I didn’t know how to express in words. Every swipe of gauze was deliberate. Controlled. Like I could erase the hurt someone else inflicted. Like I could reclaim her—one touch at a time.
Then her hand. The finger she’d pressed too hard in the heat of it all. Another small wound, but one that mattered because it was hers.
I wrapped it in silence.
Every brush of my fingertips against her skin sparked something electric in the air between us. Unspoken. Unresolved. Dangerous.
When I finished, I secured the tape gently and looked up.
“There,” I said. My voice was quiet, hoarse. Possessive. “You’re all set.”
But we both knew nothing was.
Because I hadn’t fixed what mattered.
I’d just touched the surface.
And beneath it?
Everything still burned.
“I don’t understand you,” she said quietly.
The words cut through the silence like a blade.
I turned to her, leaning against the counter, my hands still tingling from touching her skin just minutes ago. Her eyes were guarded, wide—but not afraid. Just lost.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew.
She hesitated—then shook her head, like the weight of it all was suddenly too much to hold.
“You were engaged to Sloane,” she said, each word deliberate.
“Then to my sister.” She paused, letting the words settle.
“And now… me.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Just slightly. But I caught it. “You get engaged to women like they’re contracts,” she said.
“And I don’t know where I fit in that equation. I don’t know what I am to you.”
There it was.
The fear behind the fire.
She didn’t know if she was a placeholder or a possession.
Didn’t know if she was a weapon or a weakness.
Didn’t know if she was just… next.
I pushed off the counter, slow and controlled, walking toward her like she might bolt.
“You think I see you the same way I saw them?” My voice dropped, low and dark. “You think this was just convenient?”
Her breath hitched—but she didn’t answer.
“Sloane was a mistake,” I said. “One I tried to fix. One that tried to own me.” Her gaze sharpened. “Your sister was a power play. One I agreed to for the sake of politics, not desire.”
And then I stepped even closer until I could feel her breathing.
“But you?” I said, voice nearly a whisper. “You were never supposed to be part of this game.”
She blinked.
“I didn’t choose you for power. I didn’t choose you because I had to. I chose you,” I said slowly, “because the second I saw you, everything else became irrelevant.”
She looked like she couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t want your crown,” I added. “I want your fight. I want your fire. I want the part of you that looks me in the eye when I’m bleeding and still refuses to kneel.”
She looked away, jaw tight.
And I did the one thing I didn’t want to do.
I stepped aside.
Let her walk past.
Didn’t reach for her.
Didn’t stop her.
Because if she came back—it had to be on her terms.
And if she didn’t?
Then I’d burn for her, anyway.