Chapter 14 Hades
Hades
Ophelia Marin has taken over my life in a way I never expected. Or rather, in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I knew she would be important to me.
But I crave her presence in a way that makes me feel like an addict, which made pulling away from her exceedingly hard. Because it was the last thing I wanted to do. Since the night I pressed her in my arms, intent on devouring her, I have been unable to think of anything else.
Not that she has mentioned it.
Since that night, we've trained relentlessly, both of us focused on the cult. That was fine. We were controlled.
At least, until I had her in my arms again.
The scent of roses made me harder than stone, and I lost control. I would have taken her right then and there, but when she pulled away, insisting that I know she isn't Persephone, I came to my senses.
She is my wife. I want nothing more than to fuck her into the ground while she screams my name, but I know she isn't ready for that.
Despite what she says, I'm not the one who is struggling with the Persephone/Ophelia dynamic.
Not that it matters. Since that moment, we've fallen into an odd and yet comfortable routine.
She trains with Hecate in the mornings. I work in my office, managing the Erebus empire, coordinating with Thanatos on cult surveillance.
At night, we have cordial dinners, often with Hecate or Thanatos, never alone, and then we retire.
We orbit each other carefully. Different rooms. Different schedules. We've become experts at avoidance.
And it's killing me.
I want her. Every time I see her in the hallway, every time I catch her scent, jasmine or roses depending on her mood, every time I hear her voice through the walls, I want her.
But I can't have her.
She's made it clear she does not want to belong to me and that she's leaving when this is over. "I want to get out of here," she said that night, and I haven't forgotten.
So I keep my distance, as much as I can. Because I don't trust myself around her. It's why I continue to pull back from her. Because once I have her, I won't be letting her go again.
And she deserves better than that.
I always promised myself that when Persephone returned she would have a choice. If in this life she wanted something else, I would allow it. I would content myself in the knowledge that she was alive.
Didn't mean I needed to fucking torture myself with it.
Ophelia isn't mine. In fact, she's a distraction. I spend more time thinking about her than I do about the cult.
And that's dangerous.
Because they've been quiet.
Too quiet.
Thanatos thinks they've gone to ground, regrouping after losing so many operatives. But I know better. They're waiting. Drawing us out. Giving us a false sense of security.
Mother Callista is too obsessed to give up. The echo of Demeter has rotted her soul, and I know her mistress would never allow me to win.
I suspect she's gearing up for something big. She used magic to break my wards, ancient magic, the kind that takes preparation and power. She's planning something. I can feel it the way I feel all death that circles close.
So Ophelia stays here. Safe.
That evening I return home, expecting to see Hecate and Ophelia at the dining table, as they normally are.
Instead, I simply see Ophelia, sitting alone, picking at a plate of food.
She's changed from her training clothes into jeans and a t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looks small. Tired.
I want to turn away, leave her to it, but she looks up and our eyes meet. There's something in her green ones that freezes me in place.
"Join me," she says. Not a question. A statement. Ophelia has a way of commanding people.
"Please," she adds, and the word sounds like it costs her. "I'd rather not eat alone."
I cross to the table, taking a seat several chairs away. Close enough to be polite. Far enough to maintain the distance we've carefully constructed.
"How was training?" I ask, because that's what we do now. Polite questions. Surface-level conversation.
"It sucked," she says bluntly. "I'm losing my mind, Hades. This house. This routine. It's like Groundhog Day, except instead of learning and growing, I'm just stuck."
"The cult—"
"Has been quiet since that first attack," she interrupts. I watch her. She isn't sitting still, her leg jiggling up and down, her free hand clenching and unclenching. She's restless.
"What do you need?"
She releases a loud exhale. "An hour outside these walls. A conversation that isn't about prophecies or powers or death cults." She meets my eyes. "We should get to know each other, don't you think? Since we were married and all."
She says it like a joke, but it lands like a blade between my ribs. I'm not prepared for it, so it hits me harder than it normally would.
"What do you want to know?" The words escape me before I can think about them.
"Mundane shit." She picks up her wine glass, swirling the contents. "Favorite color."
"Pink."
She blinks. Then laughs. "Seriously? The God of Death's favorite color is pink?"
I think of her cheeks in sunlight. The way they flush when she's embarrassed or aroused or angry. The soft color of her cunt. Pink.
"Yes," I say, voice thick. I pour myself a glass of wine, cursing, not for the first time, that I can't get drunk.
She's smiling now, and it transforms her face. "Favorite food?"
"Chocolate."
"That actually tracks, considering you're all about excess." She takes a sip of wine. "Best modern invention?"
"Chocolate," I repeat, deadpan.
She laughs again, and the sound does something to my chest. Loosens something that's been tight for weeks.
"Music?" she asks.
"Jazz." I don't elaborate, and she doesn't ask. This is rapid fire. We aren't going deep.
"Books?"
"The Bible."
She chokes on her wine. "You're kidding."
"It's remarkably accurate about human nature," I explain. "And the depictions of hell are creative. I enjoy it."
"You read the Bible for fun."
"I read it for the humor," I correct.
She's grinning now, fully, and I realize I'm smiling too. When was the last time I smiled?
"Free time?" she asks.
"Golf."
"Of course you golf. Of course the ancient God of the Underworld golfs."
"It's meditative."
"It's boring."
"What about you?" I ask, turning the questions back on her. "Favorite color?"
"Green. Like plants. Shocking, I know."
"Favorite food?"
"Tacos. The shitty kind from food trucks at two AM."
I file that information away. Tacos. Food trucks.
"Music?"
"Anything I can sing badly to in the car. My dad liked Madonna, which always made me laugh." Her eyes crinkle slightly as she loses herself in the memory. "So maybe Material Girl."
I don't ask her to expand, even though I want to.
"Books?"
"Romance novels. The trashier the better." She doesn't look embarrassed admitting it. "I like knowing there are happy endings."
Something in my chest twists.
"Free time?"
"I didn't have a lot of it. Between the shop and, you know, surviving." She shrugs. "But I like learning. I didn't get a chance to go to college, but I've always been curious. The internet is an incredible rabbit hole."
I nod but don't ask another question.
"I'm going crazy in this house," she says finally, her voice quieter now. Serious. "I need a break, Hades. Just a few hours. The cult has been quiet. Your security is insane. I just need to breathe."
I should say no. Should explain that quiet doesn't mean safe. That Mother Callista is planning something. That every moment Ophelia is outside these walls she's vulnerable, and I'm not willing to risk that.
But she's looking at me like I'm her jailer. Like she's suffocating.
And I realize I'd do anything to take that look off her face.
"Where do you want to go?" I ask, resigned.
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
"One condition. I come with you, we don't stay long, and you listen to me. If I say go, we go. If I say hide—"
"Deal." She's smiling again, and it's like the sun breaking through clouds. "The botanical gardens. There's one here, right? With a desert exhibit?"
"Yes."
"Then that's where I want to go."
I have my shadows close the gardens to the public. It's not difficult, a few strategic power outages, a convenient maintenance issue. By the time we arrive at sunset, the place is empty.
When we arrive, shifting from shadow to corporeal, Ophelia vomits.
"Fuck," she moans. I hold her long braid off her neck. "That was the worst."
I wince. "Apologies. I didn't want to take the car, in case we were being followed."
I hand her a water, which she takes, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
She's wearing loose overalls with a white shirt underneath.
Despite the nausea, she looks young. Happy.
Nothing like the guarded woman who's been living in my penthouse, and I realize she wasn't wrong when she said she was suffocating.
She's like a plant. She needs sunshine and air to breathe.
"Come on," she says, already moving. "I want to see the exhibit before you change your mind."
Golden hour turns everything warm, and the desert plants seem to glow from within.
Ophelia moves through them like she's coming home.
"Look at this," she says, stopping in front of a flowering cactus. "Echinocereus engelmannii. Engelmann's hedgehog cactus. They only bloom for a few days in spring, and the flowers are this incredible magenta."
She touches the edge of a petal with reverent fingers. I hold my breath, half expecting them to bloom.
They don't.
"And this one, Fouquieria splendens. Ocotillo. People think it's dead half the year because it drops its leaves in drought, but it's not. It's just waiting. Conserving energy. The second it rains, it comes back to life."
She moves to the next plant. And the next. Explaining each one, Latin names flowing easily, technical details mixed with personal observations. Why she likes them. What they remind her of. How they survive in impossible conditions.
I follow. Listening. Watching.
She's transformed. Animated in a way I haven't seen since before the attack. Her hands move as she talks, gesturing to demonstrate growth patterns, touching leaves carefully. Her voice is passionate, alive. She's stunning.
"This one's my favorite," she says, stopping in front of a small tree. "Parkinsonia florida. Blue palo verde. The bark is green because it photosynthesizes. The whole tree is covered in chlorophyll. It doesn't need leaves to survive. It just needs sun."
"Resilient," I say, my eyes on her.
"Exactly." She smiles. "People underestimate desert plants. They think because they're small or sparse or strange-looking, they're weak. But they're survivors. They've adapted to thrive in conditions that would kill everything else."
Like her, I think. Small. Strange. A survivor.
She's completely absorbed in the plants now, moving from exhibit to exhibit, explaining pollination strategies and root systems and drought adaptations. She doesn't notice me watching. Doesn't see the way I can't look away.
I'm enraptured.
Not by the plants. By her. By the way she lights up talking about something she loves. By her knowledge, her passion, the way she touches each plant like it's precious.
This is Ophelia.
And she's incredible. Still familiar in so many ways, but new in others.
"Hades?"
I blink. She's looking at me now, head tilted.
"Are you okay? You've been staring at that agave for like five minutes."
I haven't been looking at the agave at all.
"I'm fine," I say. "Continue."
She does, moving on to explain something about succulent water storage, and I follow.
Trying to memorize this. The way she looks in the golden light. The sound of her voice, animated and happy. The way she exists in this moment, completely herself.
Not a ghost. Not a memory. Not a replacement.
Just Ophelia.