Chapter 5 Hades
CHAPTER FIVE
hades
Evangeline's apartment building is exactly how I remembered. A secure apartment building with doormen, the kind of place where residents pay more in monthly fees than most people make in a year. It's a world away from the clubhouse, from the life I'm offering her.
But she chose us anyway.
"This the place?" Tempest asks from beside me, his bike rumbling to silence as we park in the visitor spaces.
"Yeah." I kill my engine and pull off my helmet. "She texted twenty minutes ago. She should be ready."
Tempest's studying the building with the same tactical eye he uses when we're scoping enemy territory. "Fancy neighborhood. Security cameras on every corner, private guards. If someone wanted to keep tabs on her movements..."
He doesn't need to finish the thought. I've been thinking the same thing since she called me yesterday. Breaking off her engagement, walking away from this life, it makes her vulnerable in ways she might not even realize.
"Keep your eyes open," I tell him as I walk toward the entrance.
The doorman gives my cut a long look but doesn't say anything when I give him Evangeline's name. The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor feels endless, my nerves stretched tight with anticipation.
I shouldn't be this fucking wound up about seeing her. Shouldn't be counting the hours since she walked out of the clubhouse last night. Shouldn't be replaying every word of our phone conversation.
But I am.
The door opens before I can knock, and the sight of her stops me cold. She's dressed in black, simple and elegant, but it's her eyes that catch me. She looks wrecked… and real. No gloss, no perfect mask. Just Evangeline, finally done faking.
"You came," she says, and there's surprise in her voice.
"Course I came. You think I'd let you handle this alone?"
Something flickers across her face, too quick for me to interpret. "Ethan always said funeral planning was women's work. That men shouldn't have to deal with the emotional details."
The casual way she mentions how that bastard dismissed her grief makes my hands clench. "Ethan's a fucking idiot."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Yeah. He really is."
She grabs her purse and keys, and I notice her left hand is bare. No engagement ring. The absence of it makes something possessive and satisfied curl in my chest.
"Tempest is with me," I tell her as we walk toward the elevator. "Hope that's okay."
"Of course. I... thank you. For this. For everything."
Her voice breaks slightly on the last word, and I have to resist the urge to pull her into my arms right there in the hallway.
Tempest is waiting by the bikes when we get outside, and he tips his head in a polite nod when I introduce him.
"Ma'am," he says simply. "Sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." Evangeline's voice is steady, but I can see her struggling to hold it together.
"You riding with me?" I ask, offering her the spare helmet.
She nods, and when she settles behind me on the bike, her arms wrapping around my waist, every nerve ending in my body lights up. She's pressed against my back, warm and soft and trusting, and it takes everything I have to focus on the road instead of how right she feels there.
The funeral home is filled with muted colors and soft music. Calla would’ve hated it and Marcus would have wanted whatever his wife wanted. That was Marcus to a T. Whatever made his wife, children and sister happy, was all he wanted.
The director is a thin man with practiced sympathy and manicured hands. He walks us through options like he's selling cars instead of discussing the final arrangements for my sister.
"Now, for the service itself," he's saying, "we have several package options—"
"Just tell us what Calla would have wanted," I interrupt. "Simple. Nothing fancy."
Evangeline nods beside me. "She always said funerals should be about celebrating the person's life, not showing off for the neighbors."
"Of course. We can arrange a simple memorial service. Perhaps here in our chapel, or..."
"The clubhouse," I say. "She'd want to be surrounded by family."
The director's face goes carefully blank. "I see. That's...unconventional."
"My sister was unconventional."
"Hades is right," Evangeline says quietly. "Calla would want people to tell stories and laugh about the good times. She'd hate the idea of everyone sitting in uncomfortable chairs pretending to be solemn."
Her voice wavers on the last word, and I watch her fight to keep the tears at bay. She’s a strong, stubborn woman trying to handle everything on her own.
"Could you give us a minute?" I ask the director.
"Of course. I'll be right outside if you need anything."
When we're alone, Evangeline's composure finally cracks. Her shoulders shake, and she presses a hand to her mouth like she can physically hold back the grief.
"Hey." I turn toward her, and she looks up at me with eyes full of pain. "It's okay to break down. It's okay to be angry and sad and fucking furious that this happened."
"I should have been there," she whispers. "I should have been a better sister-in-law, should have made more time for them. Now I'll never get the chance to..."
The words dissolve into sobs, and I can't stand it anymore. Can't watch her tear herself apart with guilt that isn't hers to carry.
I reach out, my thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. Her skin is soft under my touch, warm and alive, and when she looks up at me through wet lashes, something electric passes between us.
"This isn't your fault," I say, my voice rough. "None of this is your fault."
Her breathing hitches, and I realize how close we are. How my hands are still cupping her face, how she leans into my touch, and I should step back. I don’t. I can’t. I’ve wanted her for too long to lie to myself now.
I find myself stroking my thumb across her cheekbone, memorizing the feel of her skin, the way her pupils dilate when I touch her.
"Hades," she breathes, and my name on her lips sounds like prayer and sin all rolled into one.
"I know," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm acknowledging. The timing, the wrongness of it, the way I want to kiss her grief away even though she just buried her engagement yesterday.
Her eyes drop to my mouth, and the air between us goes molten. I can feel the pull, the gravity that's been drawing us together for years, finally strong enough to break through every barrier we've built.
Then the door opens, and we spring apart like teenagers caught making out.
My hands are still buzzing with the feel of her skin. I wanted to kiss her so badly it scared me, because it wouldn’t have been about comfort or grief. It would’ve been about me. I want her. I always have.
"Sorry to interrupt," the funeral director says, though his tone suggests he's anything but sorry. "I wanted to discuss the timeline for the service."
I clear my throat, trying to get my heart rate back under control. "Right. The timeline."
Evangeline smooths her hair with shaking hands, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her again.
We get through the rest of the arrangements in professional mode, making decisions about flowers and programs and all the mundane details that surround death. But I can feel the tension humming between us, the awareness that we almost crossed a line we can't uncross.
When we're finally done, Evangeline excuses herself to use the restroom, leaving me alone with Tempest in the parking lot.
"Security cameras across the street," he says without preamble, nodding toward a building with clear sight lines to the funeral home's entrance.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That someone might be watching to see who shows up? Yeah. I'll make some calls; see if we can get access to the footage from the past few days."
I nod, filing the information away. Every lead matters when you're hunting killers.
"Hades." Tempest's voice carries a warning. "What happened in there..."
"Nothing happened."
"Bullshit. I could feel the heat between you two from across the room." He looks toward the bathroom where Evangeline disappeared. "She's vulnerable right now. Grieving, confused, probably looking for something solid to hold on to."
"Your point?"
"My point is that you need to be real fucking careful about what you're offering her. Because if you're just looking to scratch an itch, there are plenty of club girls who'd be happy to help. But if you're thinking about something more..."
"I'm not thinking about anything," I lie. "She needs support right now. That's all this is."
Tempest gives me a look that says he's not buying it for a second. "Keep telling yourself that, brother. But when this whole thing goes sideways, remember that I warned you."
Evangeline emerges from the building before I can respond, her face composed again but her eyes still red-rimmed. She's put her armor back on, but I can see the cracks in it now.
"Ready?" I ask.
She nods, and we walk toward the bikes. Before she can put on her helmet, her phone rings.
"Ethan," she says, looking at the display with distaste.
"Don't answer it."
"I should. He's probably calling about the wedding vendors, deposits that need to be cancelled..."
"Let it go to voicemail. You don't owe him anything."
She stares at the phone for another moment then deliberately hits the decline button. "You're right. I don't."
The simple act of defiance makes pride swell in my chest. She's finding her strength again, piece by piece.
"Come on," I say, offering her the helmet. "Let's get you to the clubhouse."
But as she settles behind me on the bike, as her arms wrap around my waist and her body presses against mine, I'm not sure how easy things are going to be.
The ride back to the clubhouse is torture. Every turn, every stop light, every breath she takes against my back reminds me of how she felt in my arms. How she looked at me when I touched her face, like I was something worth wanting.