Chapter 21
Seph
I woke to silence.
The kind that settled heavy on my chest, like grief before it had a name.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, painting soft shadows across the room, but none of it touched me. None of it reached the hollow behind my ribs where something had started to splinter.
Last night lived on my skin like a bruise—the kiss, the blood, the way his rage tangled with something far more dangerous. Desire. Possession. Need.
And still, he hadn’t said a word since I walked away.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask. The tension in the air was sharp—static building with nowhere to go. It crackled around me, a quiet reminder of everything still left unsaid.
I heard him moving through the house. His footsteps were deliberate, distant, too controlled—like he didn’t want to break the fragile peace we were both pretending wasn’t already shattered.
I hated that a part of me wanted to go to him.
I hated even more that I didn’t.
Pride held me hostage. So did the memory of Sloane—her voice like venom, her presence like a stain. I could still see her smile as she stood in my home. Our home. And the worst part? He’d let her in. He’d let her.
Maybe not physically. Maybe he wasn’t here.
But she thought she could.
That thought alone made my stomach twist.
I threw the covers back with more force than necessary and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, needing to move, to shake off this weight pressing into my spine.
In the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself.
Eyes tired. Lips still swollen from a kiss I hadn’t asked for—but hadn’t stopped either. There was defiance in my reflection. And something else. Something raw and shaken.
I touched my mouth.
Just a brush of fingers.
And that was all it took for the memory to return—his mouth on mine, the blood between us, the way he kissed like a man on the verge of losing everything.
I hated how much I remembered.
Downstairs, I found him in the kitchen. His back was to me, shoulders tense, posture too still to be casual. He poured two mugs of coffee. One for him. One for… hope?
He didn’t turn right away.
But he knew I was there.
I saw it in the way his hand faltered for half a second. The way he inhaled like bracing for a blow.
When he did face me, his eyes found mine instantly. Searching. Waiting. Maybe for forgiveness. Maybe for a sign that this cold war between us was over.
But I didn’t have it in me—not yet.
And the look I gave him held no warmth. Only frost.
We stood like that—adrift in the wreckage, too raw to reach out, too stubborn to look away.
And maybe that was the most honest thing we’d ever shared.
I pushed myself out of bed, the cold biting at my skin like punishment for sleeping too long. Every step toward the kitchen felt like defiance—against him, against myself, against the chaos still clinging to my ribs like vines.
I needed to move. To breathe. To pretend I wasn’t drowning in yesterday.
I opened the fridge and grabbed a smoothie—strawberry banana. The bright swirl of pink and gold as I poured it into a glass felt wrong somehow. Too cheerful. Too untouched by the mess unraveling inside me.
I took it to the table and sat down, wrapping my hands around the glass like it could anchor me.
Outside, the garden looked… perfect.
Too perfect.
Red blooms exploded beside tall yellow stalks. Green vines curled up trellises like they had all the time in the world. The whole thing looked like it belonged in a fairytale—like it didn’t know the storm sitting on the other side of the window.
It pissed me off. How peaceful it looked. Like the world hadn’t shifted beneath my feet.
I took a sip of the smoothie, hoping the sweetness would push the bitterness back down. It didn’t.
And then he walked in.
Hades. A cut on his face. Bruise under his eye.
He didn’t knock. Didn’t announce himself. He just appeared—backlit by morning light, every inch of him looking like a sin wrapped in control. My heart stuttered, then picked up pace like it couldn’t decide what to do.
His presence filled the room like smoke.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice too smooth for how hard it landed.
I set my glass down harder than I meant to; the sound echoing.
“Why?” I snapped. “What now? Another power play? A new way to make me feel like I’m just some piece in whatever twisted game you’re playing?”
He didn’t blink.
That damn smirk curved across his lips like he’d been expecting me to lash out.
“Nothing fancy,” he said coolly. His eyes flicked over me, unreadable but piercing, like he saw every emotion I’d been trying to swallow since last night.
I crossed my arms tight over my chest, trying to protect whatever was left of my pride. “Why should I listen to you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just held my gaze. Unmoving. Unflinching.
And maybe that should’ve scared me—but it didn’t.
It made me want to fight.
Then he said it. Calm. Certain. “You’ll want to wear something appropriate for what’s coming. Casual."
I hated the way that sentence landed.
Like a promise.
Like a dare.
Like he knew I wouldn’t be able to walk away.
And the worst part?
For one brief, reckless second—I didn’t want to.
I stood, fists clenched at my sides, heat rising beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.
Casual, he said. Like I could just throw on a pair of jeans and pretend we weren’t caught in the middle of a slow-burning war.
I stalked toward the bedroom, anger pounding behind my eyes. I slammed the door behind me—loud, final—and leaned against it for a breath that didn’t come. My chest was tight, my hands already rifling through clothes with more force than necessary.
Everything looked wrong.
Too soft.
Too feminine.
Too much like something he’d undress me in.
I shoved those pieces aside.
My hand landed on a black tank top. Simple. Fitted. Solid enough to remind me I was still here. I paired it with high-waisted ripped jeans that showed just enough skin to feel like rebellion. Like a warning. Like a girl you couldn’t own.
The combat boots were non-negotiable. Heavy. Loud. Unapologetic. They grounded me in ways words never could.
I caught my reflection and narrowed my eyes.
“You don’t own me,” I muttered, mascara wand in hand, even though some traitorous part of me wondered if he believed otherwise.
Hair brushed. Lashes darkened. No lip color—just the faintest trace of last night’s bruising still haunting my mouth.
Let him see it.
Let him remember.
I stepped out.
And there he was—leaning against the doorframe like a devil in disguise, arms crossed, smirk in place, pretending like he hadn’t torn me open twenty-four hours ago.
His eyes raked over me, slow and deliberate, landing on the boots before dragging back up to my mouth. That damned mouth.
“Nice choice,” he said, voice smooth like velvet over steel.
“Thanks,” I replied, tone clipped, arms crossed over my chest like a shield..
He pushed off the frame and opened the front door for me like we were playing house. The perfect gentleman. A lie wrapped in tailored black.
“After you,” he said.
That voice. That calm command masked as charm.
I hesitated for a second. One heartbeat.
Then I walked past him, chin high.
The air outside hit me like a reset—cool, crisp, real. But the weight of him followed me, each step echoing just behind my own. I could feel his gaze on my back like pressure, like possession he hadn’t earned.
We reached the car—a sleek black machine that looked more like a threat than a ride. Of course.
He opened the door for me.
And I hated how it made my pulse spike.
The gentleman act didn’t suit him. It was too clean. Too curated. We both knew there was nothing noble about this.
Still, I climbed in.
Because whatever game he thought we were playing—I wasn’t backing down.
The car ride stretched into an eternity.
A quiet, tense, heavy thing that sat between us like smoke.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of grey and gold, buildings and streetlights bleeding into one another. He said nothing. Not a word. Just sat there, composed and unreadable—like he hadn’t torn my world sideways and kissed me with blood on my lips.
I could feel him watching me. I didn’t have to look to know.
His gaze was heavy. Probing. Like he was trying to peel me open with sheer silence.
And it was working.
The longer he let me stew, the tighter my chest coiled.
What was this?
Some new tactic? Another way to unnerve me? To keep me guessing?
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to demand answers.
But instead, I stayed silent—because I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
When the car finally slowed, I blinked at the building outside.
A bookstore.
What?
Not just any bookstore—this place looked like it had fallen out of a fairy tale.
The sign above the door read The Book Nook, and soft golden lights wrapped around the entrance like stardust tangled in tree branches. A café on one side. An art gallery on the other. And in the middle—this.
He parked and stepped out without a word, rounding the car before I could find my voice.
My door opened. He stood there, still as ever, eyes unreadable.
“Come on,” he said. Smooth. Quiet. Laced with something I couldn’t name.
I hesitated.
Because it felt like a trap.
Because this wasn’t him.
But curiosity was louder than fear. And just for a moment, I forgot how angry I was.
I stepped out and followed him.
The moment I crossed the threshold, warmth wrapped around me like an embrace I didn’t ask for—but maybe needed.
The air smelled like coffee and fresh paper and something soft and sweet—like cinnamon and honey and childhood dreams. Books towered in every direction.
Shelves stretched to the ceiling. Cozy nooks and armchairs invited readers to get lost. Lamps cast a golden glow over worn rugs and tucked-away corners.
It felt… alive.
My heart fluttered—genuinely fluttered—as I wandered deeper inside.
I paused near a velvet armchair beside the romance section, where the shelves gleamed with heart-shaped bookmarks and handwritten staff picks. The titles sparkled like spells. Everything here whispered you’re safe now.
Behind me, I felt his presence like gravity.
I turned.
He leaned against a shelf, arms crossed, watching me with that maddening calm that hid everything and revealed nothing.
“You did this?” I asked, my voice quieter than I expected.
He shrugged. Just barely. Like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t.
Not to me.
There was no game here. No power play. Just… this. A moment pulled out of time.
And it hit me all at once—he had remembered.
Somewhere in the chaos of us, he’d seen me. And he’d chosen this.
A place where I could breathe again.
And somehow, that scared me more than everything else.
I wandered past the armchair, fingers brushing spines like they could ground me. The quiet of the shop was sacred, broken only by the soft creak of wooden floors beneath my boots.
Then I heard her.
“Well, well, well.”
I turned just in time to see a woman round the corner from behind the front counter, her long cardigan trailing behind her like a cape. Her smile was wide, bright, and just a little unhinged—the best kind.
She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a storybook—if the storybook had a coffee stain on the cover and a secret map tucked in the back. She was around my age, with big, curious eyes that sparkled like she was always mid-thought and never quite finished dreaming.
Her brown curls were piled into a messy bun held together by a pencil and pure willpower, and her cardigan swayed around her like a cape as she moved between the shelves like she belonged to them.
There was ink smudged on her wrist, probably from a forgotten to-do list. She was the kind of girl who’d quote Austen in one breath and threaten to hex your ex in the next—and somehow, you’d believe she could do both.
She took one look at Hades and grinned like she’d caught him stealing cookies from her personal stash of forbidden tomes.
“So you’re the girl who finally got him to read a romance.”
I blinked. “Wait… what?”
Hades made a noise—something between a sigh and a threat—and muttered, “Don’t.”
I turned to him, slowly.
“You read romance?”
He looked away like the nonfiction section had just become extremely interesting.
Belle cackled. Actually cackled. “Not just read. He’s been coming in for months. Always lurking around the romance section, looking like he’s contemplating murder and love at the same time.”
“Belle,” Hades said, his tone low with warning.
She ignored it completely.
“Usually walks out with something broody and emotionally devastating.” She leaned closer, stage-whispering, “And always pretends it’s for his sister.”
I stared at him.
“You told her it was for your sister?”
“She owns a romance imprint,” he muttered like that excused anything.
Belle beamed at me like we were old friends who had just buried a body together. “Honestly, I was starting to think he was heartless until you showed up. You must be something special.”
My stomach twisted—not with nerves, but with awareness. Of him. Of how tightly wound he was behind me. Of how Belle had seen straight through the armor I hadn’t realized he wore even here.
I swallowed hard, then looked at him again. “So… what’s your favorite trope?”
Hades just turned and walked away.
Belle giggled, and I swear I felt it in my soul. "Take a look around," she said. "And keep an eye out. There may be something for you in that general direction." She pointed over her shoulder.
I wandered deeper into the shop, fingertips grazing the edge of a display table near the romance section when something caught my eye—a small package wrapped in soft brown paper and tied with a thin ribbon, tucked beneath a handwritten sign: Staff Picks for the Soul.
There was a note on top. Not a card. Just a single word, written in that annoyingly neat handwriting I recognized instantly.
Persephone.
I glanced toward the back of the store. Hades hadn’t moved, still leaning against a shelf like he hadn’t just sucker-punched me without lifting a finger.
I untied the ribbon.
Inside was a book I hadn’t seen in years—The Garden Beneath the Ashes, a first edition. I’d mentioned it once. Just once. A throwaway comment during one of our early, tense conversations when I was trying not to flinch every time he looked at me too long. I hadn’t even remembered saying it.
But he had.
My throat tightened.
There was no speech. No grand declaration. Just… this.
He remembered.
He listened.
When I thought he was only waiting for me to break.
I didn’t know what to do with the ache blooming in my chest.
So I didn’t say anything.
But I held the book a little tighter than necessary.