Chapter 30
Hades
She stepped into the suite like sin wrapped in steam.
The scent of smoke still clung to her skin—mine, all mine—layered now with soap and heat and the barest trace of fear. I didn’t move at first. Just watched. Watched as water beaded on her collarbone, kissed her shoulders, slid down her spine like it had any right to touch her before I did.
A towel clung to her hips. Barely. The rest of her was a canvas of soft skin and haunted eyes. She didn’t speak right away. My chest ached from the restraint it took not to devour her then and there.
"Still keeping watch, Hades? What am I, your pet?"
Her voice teased—but it trembled, and I caught it. That crack in the foundation. That fracture where her strength faltered.
Good.
I wanted her broken open. Not because she was weak. Because she was real. With me.
I moved closer. Slow. Controlled. Every step calculated. I reached out and brushed her damp hair from her shoulder, my fingers skimming skin that still steamed from the heat of the shower. I could feel the thrum of her pulse beneath my fingertips. She didn’t pull away.
“You’re so much more than that,” I said, voice low, reverent.
Then I kissed her.
Not soft. Not sweet.
It was a claim.
My lips crashed into hers like I could kiss the fire back into her bones, like I could brand my name onto her soul just by breathing against her mouth. She melted against me, and I took. I gave her nothing to lean on but me.
When I pulled back, her eyes—fuck, those eyes—were glassy with something raw. Something only I got to see.
“Your hair’s still wet,” I murmured, because touching her felt safer than letting her think. My hand slid down, cradling her jaw like it was something fragile. It wasn’t. She wasn’t.
She tilted her head. “I can dry it later.”
No. She wouldn’t. I’d dry it for her, if I thought she’d let me. I’d do anything to erase the scent of fear from her skin.
The towel slipped. Gravity didn’t even matter—my hunger did.
She didn’t cover herself. Didn’t hesitate. And that was mine too—her trust, her defiance, her silence.
“You came back to me,” I growled, voice dark and rough against her throat. My hands were on her hips now, holding her steady, grounding us both. “You’re mine.”
She pressed her body against mine like it was a vow. Like the fire hadn’t touched her, but I had. Her arms wrapped around my neck and I felt it—her need, her surrender, her choice.
The world outside could burn again.
I had her.
And I wasn’t letting go.
I pulled her into me like I was starving—because I was. Starving for her warmth, her breath, her yes. The fire outside could rage all it wanted—hell could open its mouth and swallow the world whole—and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Not when she was in my arms.
Not when I could feel her heart racing against mine.
I kissed her again—deeper this time, longer.
Like I could write over the scars with my mouth.
Like I could make her forget. My hands roamed down her sides, relearning every curve I’d spent too long dreaming about.
She trembled beneath my touch, and fuck, I lived for it.
That tiny shiver—the proof that she felt this too. That she needed me.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmured against her lips, my voice rough with things I didn’t dare say aloud. Then I moved lower. Kissed down her throat, tasted her skin—smoke and sweetness and something holy. My mouth kept moving, tracing paths only I was allowed to walk.
I lifted her like she weighed nothing, like she was something sacred I had to protect with my own damn life. She didn’t resist. She wrapped her arms around me and held on.
The bed waited—sheets still rumpled from nights I’d spent alone, imagining this exact moment. But she was real now. No more smoke. No more distance. Just her.
I laid her down slow, savoring every second she let me keep her like this. She looked up at me, hair a halo against the pillows, chest rising fast.
I didn’t rush. I unwrapped her like a gift I’d bled for. I watched her breathe, watched her flush under my gaze. Her eyes never left mine.
I kissed my way down, slow and reverent. From her collarbone to the curve of her breast, I worshipped every inch. She gasped when my lips brushed sensitive skin, and the sound went straight to my core.
“Tell me you want this,” I rasped, voice barely holding back the edge that lived in my bones.
“I want you,” she breathed, and fuck—those words shattered something in me.
Need surged through me—fierce and unrelenting. I slid between her thighs like I belonged there, because I did. Her warmth wrapped around me, pulled me under, and I let it. Let her consume me.
I moved slow at first. She deserved slow. She deserved everything. But every roll of our bodies, every sigh, every frantic heartbeat dragged me deeper. Our rhythm found itself—something primal, something sacred.
She met me thrust for thrust, hands digging into my back, pulling me closer like we could fuse into one if we just tried hard enough.
This wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t even love.
It was devotion. Obsession.
A sacred promise written in skin and sweat and gasps.
And I’d never let her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
The scent of vanilla and batter filled the kitchen, curling around the edges of my calm like smoke. The skillet hissed beneath my hand as I flipped the crepe, golden and perfect. Sunlight poured through the windows, warming the floor, softening the moment.
And there she was—Seph—curled on the couch in one of my shirts, drowning in fabric I hadn’t meant to give her, but would never ask to have back. It hung loose on her shoulder, teasing a glimpse of bare skin that burned into my memory like a brand.
She sighed, content, and my heart clenched.
God help anyone who tried to take this from me.
Then the knock came.
Sharp. Wrong. Intrusive.
My body tensed instantly, every muscle coiling like I’d been pulled from sleep into war. I didn’t even think. The knife was in my hand, blade still slick with strawberries. I slid it into my waistband beneath my shirt, my fingers already curling into fists.
The knock came again—louder, more demanding.
She stood, and I wanted to stop her. I wanted to pull her back to me, tuck her behind my ribs where nothing could touch her. But she walked to the door like she wasn’t terrified. Like she still believed we were safe here.
She cracked it open just enough.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was steady. Beautiful. But I heard the tremor beneath it. The one no one else would’ve noticed.
And then I heard his voice. Gruff. Official.
“Ma’am, I’m looking for Callista Moore.”
Fuck.
Seph’s body tensed just slightly, but she didn’t waver. “Callista? Why? What’s going on?”
The officer paused—just long enough to let suspicion creep in. “She’s been reported missing.”
Missing.
No. Callista wasn’t missing. Callista was gone.
I stepped closer behind Seph, quiet as breath, watching the way the officer’s eyes flicked over her—then landed on me.
“As her sister, I wanted to reach out to you directly.”
There it was. The line. The threat wrapped in civility.
Seph didn’t flinch. Didn’t break.
She just tilted her head slightly, voice soft. “She ran away during her engagement party. I haven’t seen her since.”
It was flawless. A lie made of silk and steel.
The officer’s gaze narrowed, but she didn’t blink. And I didn’t let myself move. Not yet. Not unless he reached for her. Not unless he pushed.
“Have you seen or spoken to her recently?”
His eyes locked on me now.
I stepped forward, just enough for him to feel it.
Not to intimidate.
To warn.
“No,” Seph said, calm and clear. “She never even said congratulations.”
She turned her face slightly, just enough to meet my eyes.
And for a moment—just a flicker—I saw what we were becoming. Not broken people trying to survive. But something more dangerous.
Aligned.
The officer lingered, like he thought he might get something else out of us.
He wouldn’t.
His gaze lingered on her a second too long.
That was all it took.
The moment stretched, brittle and sharp, and something inside me snapped tight. I stepped forward, slow but certain, letting the light catch the ink across my chest—black lines carved into muscle, every one of them a story, a warning, a promise.
The cop noticed.
They always did.
His eyes widened just slightly—enough for me to see it. The flicker of instinct. That primal awareness that he wasn’t the apex predator in the room anymore.
“Unless you have a warrant,” I said, voice low and cold, honed to a lethal edge, “you’re done here.”
No need to raise my voice. People like him recognized danger when it spoke softly.
His whole posture shifted—subtle, but there. Wariness curled around him like smoke. He wasn’t expecting resistance. He thought he was knocking on the door of a scared couple clinging to secrets. He didn’t expect me.
Seph didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to. I felt her beside me—still, strong, silent. Her pulse was quick beneath her skin, but her stance didn’t waver. Not even when the officer tried to stand his ground.
“I’m just trying to get some answers regarding your ex-fiancée’s disappearance,” he said, but the confidence in his tone cracked. A hairline fracture under pressure.
Seph’s voice came like frost. “Callista is not here. She made her choice.”
He flinched.
Not visibly. Not to anyone else.
But I saw it. Felt it.
She wasn’t just mine anymore.
She was herself.
The officer hesitated, trying to salvage control. “If you see her or hear anything—”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I cut in, my voice sharp as a blade. The words curled in the air like smoke from a gun barrel—smoldering with warning.
He opened his mouth. Thought better of it.
Good.
Because I was already picturing what would happen if he didn’t walk away.
Finally, he stepped back, nodding once. No words. Just a retreat—quiet, stiff, and not nearly fast enough for my liking.
But before he turned, his eyes flicked to Seph again.
And he looked at her like she was something anyone could take.
Like she wasn’t already claimed.
The door closed.
My hands were fists at my sides, knuckles white with restraint. I exhaled once. Shallow. Controlled.
Then I looked at her.
She was still standing there, shoulders squared, jaw tight—but her eyes flicked up to mine.
“Are you all right?” I asked, voice low, threading gentleness through the storm still churning in my chest.
She stood there, still and sharp, eyes lit with something that looked an awful lot like defiance—but beneath it, she was trembling. Not out of fear. Not anymore. No, this was adrenaline. Aftershock. And she wore it beautifully.
“You didn’t have to lie,” I said, watching her like she might vanish if I blinked.
Her chin tipped up, that stubborn little spark flaring. “I wasn’t lying.”
And just like that, the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding eased out of me.
She was choosing this.
Choosing me.
The thought hit somewhere low and primal, twisting deep in my chest. I hadn’t expected it to feel like this—like possession and peace colliding in a single heartbeat.
“Good,” I murmured, a slow grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
I didn’t reach for her. Not yet. Wanting her and taking her were two different things, and right now I needed her to see what that choice meant.
So instead, I turned toward the dresser, grabbed the small box I’d stashed there this morning, and tossed it onto the bed.
She blinked. “You got me something?”
“Open it.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart pounding like I hadn’t already rehearsed this moment in my mind a dozen times. She padded toward the bed, curiosity flickering in her expression, fingers untying the ribbon and peeling back the paper with slow precision.
Her breath caught.
A soft, disbelieving sound.
The jersey slid from the box—my number across the back, my name stitched on the back in sharp, bold lettering. Mine and hers. A symbol. A warning. A promise.
“What do you think?” I asked, voice low, teeth catching the edge of a grin I couldn’t hold back.
She turned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Possessive much?”
I moved then.
Fast. Intentional.
Hands on her waist, pulling her into me until there wasn’t a sliver of space left between us. I bent down, lips brushing the delicate curve of her throat, and whispered against her skin, “Always.”
She shivered.
Perfect.
Her pulse fluttered beneath my mouth and I felt it—every beat for me. She didn’t pull away. She never would again.
Then she slipped the jersey over her head.
I watched, reverent, as fabric slid down her body—my jersey, swallowing her frame, brushing against bare thighs like a second skin. My name. On her.
Time stopped.
She turned, fully dressed in the colors I bled for. And for a second, I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
All I knew was this:
She was mine.
And I was going to ruin her all over again after the game.