Chapter 12 Ophelia
Ophelia
I sigh as I feel Hades' lips press softly against my skin. The room smells like roses and ash, a mix of us, and I inhale softly. I swear I can taste the two of us on my tongue.
My fingers grip the black sheets, silky and warm, and I twist them as Hades kneels between my thighs.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with want. "So fucking beautiful."
I'm trembling, a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Hades courted me chastely, allowing me to take my time to gather comfort in his embrace, and now, as his mouth traces the inside of my thigh, I despise myself for waiting so long.
This pleasure is the kind that should be enjoyed and experienced. It's ethereal and reverent, and I should never have denied myself.
My hands tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer. His chest is bare, and I dig my nails into his skin, not that he minds, pressing him harder to me. His tattoos, ancient markings, swirl across his skin, signaling his own pleasure.
"Please," I hear myself say, breathy and begging. "Hades."
"Patience, my queen." He smiles against my skin. "I am but a humble subject who must worship you properly." He looks up at me, his eyes full of mischief. "After all, you are a goddess."
His tongue traces patterns on my hip bone. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I'm arching into him, panting with desire. He's methodical as he takes me apart.
His mouth moves higher, kissing the underside of my breast, then closing around my nipple. I cry out, pleasure spiking through me, and his other hand slides between my legs. I tense slightly. No one has ever touched me there.
My breath halts.
Wait.
Something is wrong.
I'm not a fucking virgin.
Hades is still touching me, but it's different now. I feel like I'm operating through sludge, a fog.
I can't breathe, and it has nothing to do with the anticipation that a virgin Persephone feels as her husband touches her body.
The room starts to blur at the edges. The memory, because that is what this is, fades, and I'm gasping, trying to escape.
"Hades," I try to say, but no sound comes out.
The dream fractures completely. The silk sheets dissolve. His face above me changes, shifts, and suddenly it's not Hades on top of me at all.
It's a man. Holding me down and pressing a cloth to my face. I struggle to breathe against the linen, and as I do, I smell something chemically sweet. My vision swims. My limbs feel heavy, useless.
Chloroform.
The man leans close, his breath hot on my face. I can feel his facial hair scraping against my skin. "Don't fight. I'm taking you to fulfill your destiny. To bring back the Mother. This is an honor."
Rage cuts through the fog as my mind snaps into focus. This is another one of those cultist assholes. That rage fuels me, and I take my free hand, ball it into a fist, and drive it into the man's exposed gut as hard as I can, which is admittedly not very hard.
He gasps but doesn't loosen his grip on me. In fact, he presses his knees into the crook of my arm, bearing down on the bone. "Pass the fuck out," he orders, pressing the rag harder against my face.
I ignore the pain of his fingers digging into my cheeks through the cloth and slam my forehead into his face as hard as possible.
He falters, dazed, and the moment the rag is off my face I scream as loud as I can.
The sound tears out of me, raw and furious, and the man's eyes widen. There's not even a second for me to tell this guy to go fuck himself.
Shadows explode into the room, and Hades materializes as though from darkness itself.
And maybe he is part of the dark. Because he does not look like the man I am familiar with.
His eyes burn gold in the darkness. They are the only part of him that glows with life, or rather, power. Shadows pour off him like smoke, consuming the light, and the temperature drops so fast I can see my breath.
This is the God of Death. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to ignore that reality.
The attacker tries to scramble off me, but he's too slow, or maybe Hades is too fast. I'm not even sure I've had time to blink before the shadows wrap around the man. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
The darkness pulls, and I watch, frozen, still on the bed, as the shadows tear him apart.
Literally.
There's a wet ripping sound. Blood sprays across the wall in a dark arc. An arm separates from a shoulder. The man's scream cuts off mid-breath, replaced by a horrible gurgling, and then he just comes apart.
Pieces of him hit the floor. The walls. The ceiling.
It takes maybe five seconds.
Then there's just silence. And gore. And Hades standing in the middle of it, shadows still writhing around him.
He turns to me, and I know I should be scared, horrified.
But I'm not.
I'm weirdly fine.
"Are you alright?" His voice is still rough, still layered with something inhuman.
I sit up, wiping my mouth where the chloroform rag touched. I can taste the drug on my lips. "Yeah. I mean, that guy was a dick, so." I gesture vaguely at the chunks of him decorating the room. "Good job?"
Hades stares at me. The shadows start to recede, pulling back into him, and his eyes fade from burning gold to their normal dark amber with golden flecks.
"You're not upset," he says slowly. He's not asking. He's cataloging.
"Should I be?" I tilt my head. "He tried to kidnap me. You stopped him. Efficiently." I look at the blood on the wall. "Messily, but efficiently."
"Most people would be traumatized."
"I'm not most people." I meet his eyes. "And I've seen worse. I'm from Vegas, after all."
That's not entirely true. I haven't seen someone literally torn apart by shadows before, but I've seen violence. Hell, I've been the recipient of it.
Hades moves closer, stepping over body parts, and the shadows consuming the room start to clean. They absorb the blood, the pieces, everything, until it's like the attack never happened.
Convenient.
He reaches the bed, kneeling on the edge, his hands hovering near my face. "Did he hurt you? The chloroform—"
"I'm fine. Fuzzy, but fine."
His fingers brush my jaw, turning my head gently to check for injuries. His touch is careful. Clinical.
At first.
Then his thumb traces my lower lip, and something in his expression shifts.
"You smell like roses," he says quietly.
Oh.
Oh.
I'm still turned on from the dream. From watching him kill. From whatever fucked-up cocktail of adrenaline and arousal is coursing through me right now.
And he can tell. It's literally scenting the air.
And if that wasn't embarrassing enough, my nipples are hard against the silk of my nightgown.
His eyes darken. His hand slides from my jaw to my neck, thumb pressing against my pulse point. "Your heart is racing."
"Yeah, well. I just got attacked."
"That's not why," he says, matter-of-factly.
Fuck.
He's right. My heart is racing, but not from fear. From want. From the dream that's still vivid in my mind. From seeing him as something powerful and terrifying and mine.
Wait. Not mine. Persephone's. The dream, or rather the memory, made that clear.
But my body doesn't seem to care about the distinction. I'm horny, scared, and he's incredibly hot right now as he radiates power and competency.
It's literally the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
And while that is fucking weird, and probably says something about my brain, I'm not sure I care.
Hades' hand moves lower, fingertips trailing down my throat to my collarbone. I'm still in the sheer nightgown, and I can feel his gaze drop, see him notice my hard nipples pressing against the thin fabric.
"Fuck." It's the first time I've heard him curse, but I can't focus on the word. I don't have any sort of sarcastic comeback.
His hand slides lower. Over the curve of my breast. His palm is warm through the fabric, and when his thumb brushes my nipple, I gasp.
He does it again. Deliberately this time. Circling. Teasing.
"Tell me to stop," he says, but his other hand is already moving, sliding down my ribs, my stomach, lower.
I'm trembling. I can't remember the last time I wanted to be touched this badly, and I want it. All of it.
"Don't," I breathe. I should tell him to stop. After all, there's a lot of baggage here. But again, horny, scared, not thinking clearly.
His fingers slip between my legs, and even through the silk of my underwear I can feel the pressure, the heat. He strokes once, testing, and I'm so wet it's probably obvious even through the fabric.
I should be embarrassed. Should care that I'm this turned on right after watching him murder someone.
But I don't. My head is swimming with pleasure and chloroform, and I want a taste of what I was starting to experience in the dream.
I lean into his touch, spreading my legs slightly, and he makes a sound low in his throat.
I moan, loudly.
The sound breaks whatever spell we're under.
Hades jerks back like I've burned him, his hands leaving my body so fast I actually feel cold without them.
"Fuck," he says, and his voice is controlled again, though I catch an underlying shakiness in it. He stands, putting distance between us. "You've just been attacked. You aren't thinking clearly. I apologize." His ancient politeness is back, and he's not even looking at me.
It pisses me off. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I literally just leaned into your hand. I moaned. In what universe did that sound like I wanted you to stop?"
"You've been drugged."
"Barely."
"It's not appropriate—"
"Appropriate?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "It's the twenty-first century," I remind him. "I consented."
"Ophelia—" He sounds world-weary, and I feel my cheeks heat. Sure, I want this, but he clearly doesn't. After all, I am his wife, and yet I'm not.
Persephone was a sweet, pure virgin. She probably wouldn't have encouraged him to finger fuck her the way I just did.
The thought burns through me. "I get it. Fine. Forget it."
He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm just trying—"
"It's fine," I say, waving his words away. "Let's forget about it, chalk it up to the moment."
He's staring at me like I've slapped him. And for the first time since I've met him, he looks lost. "I shouldn't have let him get so close."
My hurt ego keeps me from being kind. "You told me I'd be safe here," I snap. I'm being unfair, but I'm buzzing with terror and unspent desire. Unfortunately, that's creating a cocktail of anger.
"You are."
I raise a brow in challenge.
"I'm not sure how he was able to get through my wards, but I'll find out. In the meantime, we need to up your training. You should be able to protect yourself."
I hear an accusation, even though I know, logically, he isn't meaning it to be. "I literally have had one day to figure this out. Give me a break."
"I'm not saying that—"
"One day, Hades. You can't expect me to master goddess powers in twenty-four hours."
"The cult shouldn't have been able to get in here.
" His voice is hard now. Controlled. Back to business.
He's not allowing me to rattle him, which pisses me off.
I hate this control. "The fact that they could either means they have help or someone let them in.
Either way, you need your powers under control. "
The implication settles over me like ice.
"So what do we do?"
"Train. Hard. Fast. Until you can defend yourself without me."
I want to argue. Want to tell him that I'm not some damsel who needs saving. But the truth is, I almost got kidnapped ten minutes ago. By one guy. With a cloth.
If Hades hadn't been here...
"Fine," I say. "We'll train." I cross my arms over my chest. His eyes don't even glance at my breast, which annoys me. "I want out of this nightmare as soon as possible."
He nods before turning to leave, and that bitter feeling in my chest grows. I can practically taste the sourness on my tongue.
"Hades."
He stops, doesn't turn around.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
He doesn't turn, but I see a slight nod of his head as he walks out, closing the door softly behind him.
I stand there alone in the bedroom, still wearing the sheer nightgown, still aroused and angry and confused.
"Fuck you, Persephone," I mutter to the empty room. "For ruining my life even when you're dead."
Because that's what this is, isn't it? I'm living in her shadow. Wearing her face. Carrying her power. And the man I'm inexplicably drawn to can't see past her to actually see me.
I grab clothes from the dresser, real clothes, not sheer anything, and head to the bathroom to shower off the chloroform and the arousal and the blood that didn't quite reach me but feels like it's everywhere anyway.
And I try very, very hard not to think about the dream.
About Hades worshiping Persephone's body.
About how much I wanted him to finish what he started.
About how much it hurts that he pulled away.
I'm not a wilting flower. I'm not going to cry over a man who wants someone else.
But fuck if it doesn't sting anyway.