Chapter 3
Hades
I've waited a millennium. I've dreamed of the moment I would see my wife again. I thought I'd considered every single scenario.
Her loving. Her angry. Her neutrality.
I never considered that she might laugh in my face.
"Sure, dude," she says, pressing one delicate hand against her stomach. Her fingernails are short, bitten to the stubs, and I notice calluses on her palms. They are the hands of a worker, a hard one.
Very unlike the soft hands of Persephone, who’d never known a hard day’s work. She didn’t need to. She was a goddess.
It's not the only thing that's different. Her hair is dark but more mahogany than the blue black I remember. It’s also shorter, wavy and only slightly past her shoulders. Her skin is pale but freckled, as though she’s been out in the sun, and I notice a small scar on her chest—peeking just out of the V of her t-shirt.
I try not to focus on those differences, but it’s hard not to. She’s here, but she’s not the person I’ve dreamed about for so long.
It’s disconcerting in a way I didn’t anticipate.
"Now, be straight with me. Who the fuck are you, and why did you kidnap me?" She presses a hand to her head. I suspect she is still recovering from the events of the evening. "And also, what the hell did you give me?"
My brow furrows as I take in the woman before me—Ophelia Marin, I remind myself of her name. I don't know much about her except that she is my wife reincarnated. The wife I made a deal with The Fates to see again.
But she's not what I expected. I don’t see anything of my wife in her, and though I know, in my bones, that she is Persephone, my mind can’t reconcile it.
"You curse a lot for such a young woman, you realize that, correct?" It’s the first thought that comes to mind. This woman curses like a fucking sailor. Her vulgarity is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced from someone her age, and I don’t care for it.
The smile on her face turns to a scowl, and the space between her green eyes creases. "Fuck you."
I roll my eyes. “Do you have anything else to say or is your vocabulary so limited that you must result to insults only.”
Two spots of color bloom on her cheeks, and she takes a step closer, a scowl on her pretty face. "I don't know who the hell you think you are—"
"Hades, God of the Underworld."
She rolls her eyes. "So you said, but I’d like you to cut the bullshit.”
“That is my name.”
She throws her hands up in frustration. “You're insane and clearly need help."
It’s taking immense effort to be calm in the face of her denial. There are things that I need to do, important things, and yet, her refusal to accept the reality of her circumstances is holding me up.
"You wanted to know who I am. That is who I am.”
Her eyes narrow. "Let's say I believe you—"
"You don't." I can tell from the way she's looking at me. Eyes full of distrust. Posture tense and defensive. I don't even know if she realizes she's shaking. Her delicate frame trembling like a bird's.
"Why did you kidnap me?" The pale column of her throat works as she swallows heavily. you think you are.”
I close my eyes with a heavy sigh. This is a fucking mess. When Zeus told me he'd heard rumblings of the Demeter cult, I thought it was simply another false flag. I've experienced more than one over the years. Then, just an hour ago, Zeus sent me a file—Ophelia Marin.
I knew the moment I saw her photo. Persephone. My wife.
Despite all the difference, my soul would always know hers. No matter what she looked like, or how she speaks, I would always know her.
And yet she's standing before me, a completely different person. Full of distrust, anger, and vulgarity, and she has absolutely no idea of who I am, and I have absolutely no fucking idea what to do.
"I told you. I didn't kidnap you. I rescued you.”
"Rescued me?" She sounds skeptical.
I nod, inhaling deeply. "I came to your flower shop, and when I saw the damage—"
"Damage?" Her face pales further, and I’m surprised to see the way her terror increases over the idea of property damage. "Shit, how much?" She shakes her head. “Actually, don’t tell me. I’m already losing it. I cannot think about the price of the damage.”
I continue, ignoring her. "I knew I only had a few moments. I was able to track you using my men." I smirk. "Thankfully, that desert is filled with the dead."
Her moss-green eyes grow huge. "You flipped the car?" Her mouth drops open slightly. "The one where I was in the trunk?”
"I knew you would be fine."
"Based on?"
"Because you are a goddess, Persephone. A flipped car wouldn’t kill you.”
Her mouth drops, and she laughs loudly. The sound isn’t full of mirth, but rather, filled with incredulity.
"I suppose you would have preferred I leave you at the hands of a cult?”
She stops abruptly. "You're serious?"
"Of course, I am."
She takes a deep breath. "This is insane.” She starts pacing back and forth. "I am in the house of an insane person. I've been kidnapped by someone who thinks they're a god, and who thinks I'm a god, and—"
"You don't remember." The words come out flat, cold. A statement, not a question. I put it together very quickly. Ophelia is Persephone, and yet, she has no idea.
She stops. "Remember what?"
Fuck. The Fates didn't prepare me for this. I knew there would be a price, but I didn’t expect it to be her memories.
"That you are Persephone, Goddess of Spring, Queen of the Underworld." I move toward her slowly. "My wife."
She backs up until she hits the desk. "I'm not—” She inhales, shakily.
“I'm not anyone's wife. I'm just—I'm a florist. With a failing shop. Who somehow got kidnapped, or maybe, I’m having some sort of episode.” She presses her palm to her forehead. “God, my father was always worried I’d turn out like my mother, and he was right.”
"You are not insane.” The words come out sharper than I intend. "You are the reason spring exists. The reason things grow. You are—"
"Stop." Her voice cracks, and she points a finger at me. Her brow is furrowed. "Just stop. I don't know what kind of game this is, but I'm not playing. I'm not a goddess. I'm Ophelia. I'm—" She's shaking harder now, and I can see the moment she breaks. "I want to go home."
Home. As if that small flower shop in a mortal city could ever be home to her. As if she belongs anywhere but here, with me, where she's always belonged.
"I can't let you do that."
Her eyes snap to mine. "Excuse me?"
"The cult that took you, they'll try again. They won't stop until they have you, and if they’ve found you…”
"Then I'll call the police—"
"The police?" I laugh. "Ophelia. Those weren't ordinary criminals. That woman leading them? She carries a piece of Demeter's essence. Your mother."
"My mother is dead.” Her eyes are hard, full of anger. “She’s been dead since I was a kid.”
"Your mortal mother, yes. But your divine mother, Demeter, she's the reason you were taken. The reason you'll be taken again the moment that you leave the protection of my home.”
I don't give her time to protest. I let the shadows come—not all of them, not enough to terrify her, but enough to prove I'm not lying. They pool at my feet, crawl up the walls, dim the lights streaming through the windows. The temperature drops ten degrees.
Ophelia gasps, stumbling backward. The letter opener falls from her hand and clatters against the marble.
"What—what are you doing—"
"I am Hades." My voice echoes with power I haven't used in her presence before.
"God of the Underworld. King of the Dead.
And you—" The shadows reach for her, but I keep them gentle, careful not to touch her skin.
They frame her like a portrait, like the queen she's always been.
"You are Persephone. Whether you remember or not. "
The shadows dissipate. The lights return. The temperature rises.
And Ophelia is staring at me with those wide green eyes, her chest heaving, her face white as bone.
"That's—that's not possible," she breathes.
"And yet." I pick up my drink, and take a slow sip. "Here we are."