Chapter 19
Hades
I wake before dawn, which is meaningless in the Underworld where time moves differently, but my body remembers mortal rhythms even after millennia, and I know, instinctively, that it is early.
Ophelia is still asleep beside me, her dark hair spread across my pillow, her face peaceful in a way it never is when she's awake. The pomegranate necklace rests in the hollow of her throat, rising and falling with each breath.
I can see the tops of her breasts, and I want to sink my teeth into the flesh, leaving my mark on her skin.
The thought sends possession roaring through me, primitive and absolute. After two thousand years of waiting, of searching, of building an empire just to have something worthy to offer her when she returned, she's finally in my bed.
In my arms.
In my kingdom.
I've tried to be restrained. Tried to give her space, let her adjust, not overwhelm her with the intensity of what I feel, but that burned away last night when she begged me for pleasure.
My cock hardens as I remember the night before. The way she trembled and begged and how wet and warm her cunt felt.
Groaning softly, I slide down the bed carefully, settling between her thighs. She stirs slightly but doesn't wake.
I press a soft kiss to her inner thigh, and she shifts, her legs falling open in unconscious invitation.
I nuzzle into her skin. She smells like roses and mahogany. The scent of the two of us is layered on her skin, and it makes me want to ensure she never smells like anything else.
I trace my tongue along her slit, tasting myself mixed with her, and the combination makes me groan. She's still sensitive from last night — I can feel her twitch at the contact — but I'm gentle. Reverent.
This is worship. It always is, but I want her to understand that while I might be the God of the Underworld, I am hers. She controls me. She is the mistress of life and death.
I circle her clit with my tongue, slow and patient, eager to savor her taste. She twitches slightly, moaning softly, and I smile against her. She's waking up. Her hips shift slightly, pressing into my mouth.
"Hades?" Her voice is sleep-rough, confused.
I don't answer. Just continue my devotions, licking and sucking until her confusion melts into pleasure.
"Oh god," she gasps, and her hands fist in my hair. "What are you—"
"Good morning," I murmur against her flesh, and then I slide two fingers inside her.
She's wet already, her body responding even before she's fully conscious, and the knowledge makes me savage. I work her with fingers and tongue, building her pleasure steadily, relentlessly.
"I can't," she whimpers, but her hips are moving now, riding my face. "I'm still sensitive from—"
"I know." I curl my fingers, finding that spot that makes her cry out. "Give me one," I order.
"Hades—"
"Please." I look up at her, holding her gaze. "I need to taste you."
Her orgasm crashes over her with a cry, and I drink down her release, the finest ambrosia of the gods.
I continue kissing her softly, bringing her down, caressing her as her tremors subside. When they do, I kiss my way up her body, settling my weight on top of her.
I can't stop touching her.
"That's one way to wake up." Her eyes are slightly out of focus, and I chuckle as I take her into my arms.
"Get used to it." I capture her mouth, letting her taste herself on my tongue. "I plan to be insatiable."
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest. Makes it tight. Makes it ache.
She sits up slightly, her eyes dark with desire. She presses me back into bed, and I allow it.
"My turn," she says lustily, climbing on top of me. "Let's see what it's like to ride Death."
Fuck.
Later, after I've made her come twice more and she's declared she needs food or she'll die, we shower together in the massive bathroom attached to my chambers.
She's fascinated by everything: the black marble, the rainfall shower that seems to have no visible source, the way steam rises around us like we're bathing in clouds.
"Is all of this real?" she asks, running her hands over the smooth stone. "Or is it... I don't know, divine illusion?"
"It's real." I pour soap into my hands and begin washing her back. "The Underworld is as real as the mortal realm. It's just on a different plane, which changes things."
"What does that mean?"
I smile at her curiosity. Ophelia is a learner. She likes to know things.
"Time moves strangely here," I explain. "Space bends. The rules that govern the living world don't always apply. But the stone is real. The water is real. The souls are real."
She turns to look at me, green eyes wide. "The souls?"
"The dead." I continue washing her, my hands moving over her shoulders, down her arms. "They're here. Resting. Waiting. Some move on. Some stay. It depends."
"On what?"
I focus on her soft skin. It's odd to explain this to her. I've never had to before.
"On them. On what they need. On what they're ready for.
" I turn her around so I can wash her front, and I try very hard to keep my focus clinical rather than carnal.
Her body is perfection — soft and pliant, marked with red and purple love bites that signal she is mine.
"Death isn't an ending. It's a transition, and this is the space between. "
She's quiet for a moment, processing. "Can I see them? The souls?"
I pause, soap-slick hands on her ribs. "Why?"
"Because I want to understand." She meets my eyes. "I want to understand your world. What you do. Who you are."
The sincerity in her voice makes my chest tight again, and I nod.
"After breakfast, I'll show you."
Her smile is genuine, and I feel something in me settle.
She's here. She's curious. She's not running.
This is paradise. My wife wet and soft in my arms, allowing me to worship her, and even better, wanting to know my world.
We dress. Me in my usual black robes, and Ophelia in a silk dress covered by gossamer robes.
It makes her look ethereal, and I want nothing more than to take her back into our chamber and fuck her until she passes out.
But she still resides in a mortal body, and she needs to eat.
So I take her to the kitchens first, where a large spread is waiting for us.
Ophelia eats like she's starving, and as I watch her devour eggs and toast and fruit, I feel absurdly satisfied that I can provide this for her.
That I can take care of her.
No one ever has before, and no one will ever need to again. I will ensure her pleasure, no matter what it is.
"So," she says around a bite of strawberry — I focus on a small trickle of juice that falls down her lips — "you mentioned showing me around?"
"I did."
"Where do we start?" Her eyes sparkle.
I consider the question. There's so much I could show her: the archives, the judgment halls, the different levels and realms within the Underworld.
But there are three places that matter most.
"The River Styx," I say. "The Garden. And the throne room."
Her eyes light up with mischief, and I feel a smile starting to crack across my face. "Your throne room? You have an actual throne?"
"I'm a king," I say dryly. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. A CEO desk? A conference room?" She grins. "Not a literal throne."
"Wait until you see it before you mock."
"Oh, I'm definitely going to mock it either way, but I'll wait."
But she's smiling, and I find myself smiling back.
This. This is what I've missed. Not just the physical intimacy, though that's been exquisite. But this: the teasing, the conversation, the ease of being with someone who challenges me instead of fearing me.
I've been alone for so long.
I forgot what it felt like to have a partner.
The River Styx is the first stop.
We stand on the obsidian banks, watching the dark water flow past. It's ancient, this river — older than the gods, older than civilization.
It existed before Olympus and will exist long after everything else has crumbled to dust. One day, if the Fates decide to cut my thread, the river will still flow.
Its ancientness always leaves me feeling existential.
"It's beautiful," Ophelia says quietly. "In a terrifying way."
"That's an accurate description of most things down here." I point to the water. "It's the boundary between life and death. Souls cross it when they transition. And it's what binds divine oaths. Anyone who swears on the Styx is bound by consequences older than time itself."
"What happens if you break an oath?"
"Pain. Suffering. Sometimes death, though for immortals that's temporary. The Styx doesn't forgive betrayal."
She's quiet for a moment, watching the water. "Have you ever broken an oath sworn on it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't make promises I can't keep." I look at her. "And because some things are sacred, even to me."
She meets my gaze, and something passes between us. Understanding, perhaps. Or something else. I'm too content in this moment to dig deeper.
Ophelia turns back to the river. "It's lonely, though. Isn't it? Being the only one who understands this place?"
The observation cuts deeper than it should.
"Yes," I admit. "It has been."
Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining, and we stand there in silence, watching the eternal river flow.
The Garden is next.
It's not much of a garden anymore. Mostly just a courtyard with ancient stone and memories of what used to grow here. A few stubborn plants cling to life in the corners, but mostly it's empty.
Dead.
Like everything I touch. I am death, and the garden needs life.
"This is the Garden?" Ophelia asks, looking around with obvious disappointment.
"It was a garden," I correct. "Once."
"What happened?"
I choose my words carefully, not wanting to scare her. "It needs you to bloom. It always has. Without you, nothing grows here."
She frowns. "Without me? I don't understand—"