Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hades
I leaned against the counter and watched the hallway where she’d disappeared. Muffled voices carried down the hall—her mother’s sharp edge, Lettie’s careful control.
My queen was handling her mother.
But fuck if I didn’t want to walk down that hallway and handle the bitch myself.
Apollo’s words circled in my head like vultures over roadkill.
“I think Lettie is my sister, Colette.” The certainty mixed with desperation.
The raw fucking hope that had cracked his voice when he’d explained about the nickname.
About how she’d apologized for making everyone call her Lettie because she knew it must tear him apart.
And if Apollo was right. If this woman I’d claimed as mine was actually his kidnapped sister. If someone had ripped her away and raised her in whatever hell this was, only for her to end up two miles from the family she belonged to.
Then everything changed.
Everything.
Footsteps sounded moments before Lettie emerged from the hallway, her hands still trembling. Jaw tight. That careful mask she wore slipping just enough that I could see the anger underneath. The hurt.
The darkness.
She moved past me to the stove and pulled out a pan with more force than necessary. Metal on metal echoed through the kitchen.
“How’s your mom?” I asked, keeping my voice low. Careful.
“Same.” She didn’t look at me. Just started pulling vegetables from the fridge. Peppers. Mushrooms. Onions. Her movements sharp. Precise.
“Tell me about her,” I said.
She shrugged and pulled plates from the cabinet.
“Not much to tell. She doesn’t leave the house.
Doesn’t do much of anything except sit in her chair and yell for me.
” She paused. “Except during Harvest Week. That’s the one time she actually gets up and does something.
Goes into town, helps with the festival setup.
It’s the only week she’s halfway normal. ”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She set the plates down harder than necessary. “That’s what fucks with my head. During Harvest Week, she’s different. Actually present. Actually kind. She helps people. She smiles. She acts like that’s who she really is.”
She gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.
“But then the week ends and she goes right back to being a miserable bitch in a recliner. And I’m left wondering if I imagined the other version. If maybe I’m the crazy one for thinking she was ever anything but what she is the other fifty-one weeks of the year.”
Her voice dropped, raw and confused.
“Sometimes I catch myself doubting my own memory. Like maybe she’s not as bad as I remember.
Maybe I’m exaggerating how much she yells, how much she demands, how little she gives a fuck about anything but herself.
Because I’ve seen her be different. I’ve seen her be good.
And if she can be that person for one week, then why can’t she be that person all the time?
What’s wrong with me that I can’t make her want to be that version more often? ”
She looked at me then, and I saw it. The fracture in her certainty. The doubt creeping in at the edges.
“It’s like she’s two different people. And I don’t know which one is real.”
I pulled her into my arms, wrapping them tightly around her shoulders. She melted into my embrace, her head resting against my chest. The warmth of her body pressed against mine, and I felt the gentle rise and fall of her breathing as she relaxed.
“Why do you let her stay?”
“She’s my mother,” she replied, as if that made all the difference.
How would she feel when she learned the truth? How much pain would come from learning the woman who raised you, the one who didn’t treat you the way a mother should treat a child, might have taken you from the family who never stopped loving you even after you were gone?
“What about your dad?”
She stiffened immediately. Her entire body went rigid like she’d been struck. A small gasp. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Barely audible but unmistakable in the sudden silence. She pulled back and returned to her task.
“I don’t know anything about him,” she said. Her words were honest. Raw. “My mother won’t talk about him. I don’t even know his name.”
My mind raced.
No father.
A mother who won’t talk about him.
A woman who doesn’t leave the house except for one week a year.
A daughter who looks exactly like Apollo’s mother.
A daughter who goes by the same nickname Apollo gave his sister.
Fuck.
“Nothing?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
“Nothing.” She opened the door, and Cerberus bounded outside. “She gets angry if I ask. So I stopped asking.”
Of course she did.
Because if Lettie started digging, if she started asking questions, then the whole fucking lie would unravel.
“That doesn’t seem strange to you?” I asked, leaning against the counter. Watching her. Always watching.
“Of course it seems strange.” She turned back to the pan, the oil already heating. “But what am I supposed to do? Force her to tell me? She’s made it clear she won’t.”
“You could find out yourself.”
She paused, her hand hovering over the pan. “How?”
“Birth certificate. Public records. There are ways.”
“I’ve seen my birth certificate. The line for my father’s name was left blank.” She stirred the vegetables as the oil popped. “But part of me doesn’t want to know. If he didn’t want me, why would I want him?”
Because maybe he did want you.
Because maybe he’s been looking for you for decades.
Because maybe his name is Samson Rush and he’s Apollo’s father and he’s been drowning in grief since the day you disappeared.
I stayed quiet. Processing. Calculating.
“Maybe he didn’t know about you,” I said finally.
The thought had occurred to her. I could see it in her eyes. The way they widened slightly. The way her breath caught.
“Maybe,” she muttered.
She set the spatula down and gripped the edge of the counter. Her knuckles white.
“Parents are supposed to love their kids, right?” Her voice was quiet. Thoughtful. Like she was working through something she’d never said out loud before. “They’re supposed to be there. Show up. Give a shit about whether their child is drowning or thriving.”
I watched her closely. Waiting. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I held my breath. Muscles tense. Completely still.
“Mothers and fathers are supposed to carry some of the weight.” She turned to look at me, those eyes searching mine for something.
Understanding maybe. Validation. “They’re supposed to teach them how to survive.
Not just abandon them to figure it out alone while they sit in a fucking recliner yelling demands. ”
The bitterness in her voice cut through the kitchen like a blade.
“Your mother—” I said carefully.
“My mother is lazy.” The words came out harsh. Raw. “She’s been checked out my entire life. Emotionally absent. Physically present but not really there. She sits in that chair and yells for me like I’m her personal servant, like I owe her something for the privilege of existing.”
She stirred the vegetables with more force than necessary. The wooden spoon scraped harshly against the bottom of the pan. The oil popped and hissed. Tiny droplets spattered across the stovetop. The onions and peppers tumbled over each other in the pan, browning unevenly.
“I’ve been taking care of her since I was old enough to reach the stove. Cooking. Cleaning. Managing her moods. And she gives me nothing in return. No guidance. No support. No love. Just demands and complaints and this constant weight that I’m supposed to carry alone.”
She set the spoon down, then stepped back from the stove like she needed distance from the heat. From the memory of it all. When she looked at me again, something had shifted. The anger was still there, but underneath it was something else. Something that looked like grief.
“Rhea isn’t like that,” she said. “She loves her kids. Wants them to be happy. To be free. But Zeus—” She stopped and shook her head.
“Zeus treats her like she’s one of his soldiers he can boss around.
Like she isn’t the mother who raised him.
Like she doesn’t get to make her own choices.
Like her grief and her pain don’t matter as much as what he needs from her. ”
Something shifted in her energy. A tension I hadn’t noticed before suddenly became visible.
I moved closer. “What happened with Rhea while I was in church?”
Lettie’s shoulders tensed. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.
“We took a walk,” she said. Her voice was careful now. Measured. “She needed to talk. To get away from everyone watching her. Judging how she grieves.”
“And?”
“She’s hurting, Hades.” Lettie turned to face me fully. “She’s been holding everyone up since Kronos died, and she’s falling apart inside. Nobody’s noticed. She needs space. She needs to get away from all of it for a while.”
I watched her face. Saw the way her eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine. The way she was choosing her words too carefully. There was something else. Something deeper that had passed between them on that walk.
“That’s not all she told you,” I said.
Not a question.
Lettie reached for the pan. Her hands were steady as she began plating the food, but there was hesitation in the movement.
A pause before she scraped the first portion of vegetables and chicken onto the plate.
Like she was deciding how much to tell me.
Like the act of serving was buying her time to figure out what words came next.
She filled the first plate with careful precision, then moved to the second and the third. Steam rose between us, carrying the scent of garlic and ginger and something green. She stared at the food for a moment. Just stared. Like she was gathering herself before speaking.
“She talked to me,” Lettie said quietly. Her voice dropped lower, more guarded. “Opened up in a way that isn’t mine to repeat. Things she needed to say to someone who wouldn’t judge her. Who wouldn’t try to fix it or make it about themselves.”
She set the spoon down and stepped back from the heat. Her expression shifted again, hardening into something else. Something that looked like determination.
“I’m not going to betray her trust, Hades. Not even for you.”
I moved closer. Not crowding her—just closing the distance because I needed to understand what had shifted between these two women. What vulnerability Rhea had shown Lettie that she hadn’t shown anyone else.
“Zeus will let her go,” I said. “He won’t want to, but he’ll let her go as long as she has someone with her.”
The words came out flat. Final.
Her hands went to her hips with that stubborn tilt to her chin that made me want to kiss her and fuck her and claim her all over again. “Why?”
I leaned against the counter and chose my words carefully. “Rhea’s connected to people. Powerful people. The kind who don’t forget a face or a name.”
Lettie’s eyes narrowed slightly. She was smart enough to read between the lines.
“Not just Kronos, but a man named Morpheus,” I continued, keeping my voice level. “Everyone in the underworld knows he’s her brother now. And that makes her a target.”
I watched her process that. Watched the questions form in her mind.
“People will use her,” I said. “To get leverage. To send a message. To hurt someone she loves.” I paused, letting that sink in. “With Kronos gone, she’s vulnerable in ways she’s never been before. No one’s protecting her but us, and we need to make sure she’s safe.”
She leaned back against the counter, her fingers going white as she gripped the edge.
The weight of what I was saying crashed down on her.
I watched it happen in real time, saw the moment her brain caught up to the implications.
The moment she understood that Rhea’s vulnerability wasn’t just emotional. It was physical. Lethal.
Her jaw tightened. “You’re saying people want her dead.”
Not a question. A statement.
And fuck, I loved how her mind worked. How she cut through the bullshit and landed on the truth without me having to spell it out.
“I’m saying people want leverage,” I corrected. But the distinction was thin. Razor thin.
She was already there. Already understanding the implications without me spelling them out. That was the thing about Lettie. She didn’t need me to explain the darkness. She already lived in it.
She turned away from me. “I need to make her tea,” she said quietly. Changing the subject. Shutting down the conversation before I could push deeper.
I watched her move to the cabinet and pull down a tin. Her movements were automatic. Practiced. Like she’d done this a thousand times before.
She filled the kettle. Set it on the stove. A blue flame licked up the sides of the metal. The kitchen filled with the soft hiss of heating water.
Then she reached behind the sugar container, her fingers closing around something small. A small glass jar. No label.
She uncapped it. Tapped a small amount into the teacup. Just a pinch. Maybe less. Her movements were calm. Precise. Like she was measuring salt or sugar. Like this was just another ingredient in her mother’s afternoon tea.
The kettle began to whistle.
She poured the water over the powder. Stirred it with a spoon. The liquid darkened slightly as whatever she’d added dissolved into it.
This woman. My woman. She was so much darker than I’d realized.
And I was so fucking turned on by it.
She carried the tray laden with lunch and tea down the hallway to the woman who sat in her recliner and did nothing but yell and judge and make Lettie’s life hell. The woman who might have stolen Apollo’s sister. The woman who might have kept Lettie from her real family.
I leaned against the counter. Still processing what I’d just witnessed. The jar. The careful dosage. The complete absence of hesitation or doubt.
Because now I understood. This wasn’t just a woman who could be controlled or claimed. This was a woman who controlled everything around her. Who bent her world to her will through knowledge and precision and a complete lack of moral hesitation.
She was ruthless.
And she was mine.