“He will keep your secret, or he will find himself in Tartarus,” Hades promised, driving his point home by glaring at the God of Mischief, who approached now, brushing dirt and grime from his person. Hades found it amusing to see the god in disarray, as he prided himself on his appearance like many gods.
“You know, Hades, not everything has to be a threat. You could try asking once in a while. Just like you could have asked me to step away from your goddess here instead of throwing me halfway across the Underworld.”
“I’m not his goddess! And you!” Persephone’s tone was full of disdain as she made her way to her feet. Hades narrowed his eyes, unable to put into words how much he hated being spoken to in this manner before another Olympian, especially Hermes. “You could be nicer to him. He did save me from your river!”
“You wouldn’t have had to be saved from my river if you had waited for me!”
“Right, because you were otherwise engaged. Whatever that means.”
She rolled her eyes. Was she…jealous? Hades wondered.
“Shall I get you a dictionary?”
When Hades heard Hermes’ gleeful laugh, he turned on the god. “Why are you still here?”
Just as the words fell from his mouth, Persephone swayed. Without thought, he reached for her, catching her around the waist, and was surprised when a sharp moan escaped from somewhere deep in her throat.
Pain. She’s in pain.
“What’s wrong?” He was not used to the hysteria rising within him; it felt like a foreign thing splitting open his skin.
“I fell on the stairs. I think I…” He watched her take a deliberate breath, wincing. “I think I bruised my ribs.”
Hades could best describe how he felt as angry, but it was more than that. He hated that she had been hurt in his realm. It made him sick, frustrated, made him feel like he had lost control. He was surprised to notice Persephone’s gaze soften, and after a moment, she whispered, “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
Except that she wasn’t. She had fainted in his arms.
“She has a pretty nasty gash on her shoulder, too,” Hermes added.
That same feeling of losing control consumed him, and it was heavy, like he had been dropped into a tarpit. He felt his jaw tighten to the point that his teeth might split, then he lifted her into his arms as gently as he could, despite the chaos inside him.
“Where are we going?”
“To my palace,” he said.
If he could heal her, at least he could regain some sort of power over the situation and she would be safe.
He transported them to his bedchamber, and when he looked down at her, she opened her eyes. For a moment, she seemed unfocused.
“Are you well?” Hades asked, and she met his gaze.
When she nodded, he strolled to his bed and settled her on the edge, kneeling on the floor in front of her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He did not answer but reached to peel Hermes’ cloak from about her shoulders. She stilled at his touch, and he thought about telling her to breathe but decided that maybe she was reacting to pain and not his presence. He was not prepared for what the cloak was hiding—her shoulder was torn to the bone.
Nasty gash? Hermes had grossly misrepresented this wound.
Hades sat back on his heels, studying the damage. He would need to clean it before he healed it, or there was a chance infection would set in. Though it was rare for a god to become ill; it was not impossible, and he would not take any chances. Not with her.
He let his gaze wander the length of her, searching for other wounds. The dead who inhabited the Styx were vicious, their claws and teeth sharp, and they shredded their victims. Persephone was lucky to have gotten out of the river with a shoulder wound.
It could have been worse.
His horror was real and painful, like hitting a brick wall. He had crafted his realm to discourage curious exploration, and yet here was Persephone, inquisitive and unfazed.
It was not until Persephone drew an arm over her chest that Hades lifted his gaze to her eyes; he hadn’t realized that he’d been staring. He scolded himself and came to his knees, bracing his hands on either side of her thighs. The movement brought him within an inch of her face. Even having almost drowned in the Styx, she still smelled like vanilla—sweet and warm.
“Which side?” he asked quietly.
She held his gaze for a moment, and he noted how she swallowed before covering his hand with her own and guiding it to her side. Something gathered in the back of his throat, and he wanted desperately to clear it, but couldn’t.
He wasn’t breathing now, either.
He focused instead on her side, sending a wave of power from deep inside his body to his hand, letting the magic soak into her skin.
She moaned and leaned into him, his head resting against her shoulder, and something akin to fire ignited in his stomach.
Fuck.
He took deep breaths through his nose and out his mouth, trying to concentrate on his magic and not his growing erection.
When he was certain she was healed, he moved his head a fraction, their lips level as he spoke.
“Better?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and he noted how her eyes fell to his mouth.
“Your shoulder is next.” He stood and when she started to look, he stopped her with a hand on her cheek.
“No. It’s best if you don’t look.”
It would hurt worse if she did.
Hades stepped into the bathroom and wetted a cloth. He was not gone long, but when he returned, he found Persephone had shifted to her side and lay on his bed with her eyes closed.
He frowned as he watched her.
While he understood why she would be exhausted, he did not like it. It made him worry that perhaps he had taken too long to heal her, or maybe she had been injured worse than he knew?
He approached and leaned toward her.
“Wake, my darling.”
As she stirred, he knelt beside her again, relieved to see that her eyes were clear and bright.
“Sorry.” Her voice was a hushed whisper, and it shivered through him.
“Do not apologize.”
He should be apologizing. He had intended to advise her of the dangers of the Underworld on their tour tonight, but he hadn’t had the chance.
He began cleaning her shoulder, infusing the damp cloth with his magic so she felt less pain.
“I can do this,” she offered, and started to rise, but Hades held her in place.
“Allow me this.” He wanted this—to take care of her, to heal her, to ensure she was well. He could not explain why, but the part of him that desired this, it was primal.
She nodded, and he resumed his work. After a moment, she asked in a sleepy voice, “Why are there dead people in your river?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “They are the souls who were not buried with coins.”
He felt her gaze upon him as she asked, appalled, “You still do that?”
His smile widened. “No. Those dead are ancient.”
“And what do they do? Besides drown the living.”
“That’s all they do.”
Their life in the Styx had initially been a punishment, a place souls were sentenced for not possessing coin to cross the river. Coin was a sign that a soul had been properly buried, and back then, Hades had no time for souls who were not be cared for in the Upperworld.
It was a painful memory, one that he had decided to rectify long ago. He had The Judges evaluate all of them, and those who deserved respite were given water from the Lethe and sent to Elysium or Asphodel. Those who would have been sent to Tartarus were left in the deep.
Hades was not sure what Persephone thought of his explanation, but she fell silent after that and he was glad. Her questions had drudged up memories he preferred to keep isolated in the back of his mind forever.
This was the second time her presence had unearthed something painful from his past. Would this be a common occurrence? Was this the Fates’ form of torture?
Once he finished cleaning her wound, he focused on the healing. It took longer than her bruised ribs, as he had to cure tendon and muscle and skin, but once he was finished, there was no sign that she had been hurt. He released a short breath, relieved, and then placed his finger against her chin so that she would look at him, partly so he could ensure she was well and also because he wanted to see her expression.
“Change,” he advised.
“I…don’t have anything to change into.”
“I have something,” he said, and helped her to her feet. He didn’t know if she felt dizzy, but he preferred to keep a tight grip on her hand in case that changed. Plus, he liked to feel her warmth. It reminded him that she was real.
He directed her behind a changing screen and handed her a black robe, noting the look of surprise on her face as she registered what she was holding.
She arched a brow. “I’m guessing this isn’t yours?”
“The Underworld is prepared for all manner of guests,” he answered. It was the truth, but he also could not remember who the robe belonged to.
“Thank you.” Her response was curt. “But I don’t think I want to wear something one of your lovers has also worn.”
Her comment might have been amusing, but instead, he found that he was frustrated by her anger. Would he encounter this every time they discussed past loves? If so, the conversation would get old very fast.
“It’s either this or nothing at all, Persephone.”
Her mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t.”
He narrowed his eyes, and a thrill shot through him at the challenge. “What? Undress you? Happily, and with far more enthusiasm than you realize, my lady.”
She used her remaining energy to glare at him before her shoulders fell.
“Fine.”
While she changed, Hades poured himself a glass of whiskey, managing to take a sip before she stepped out from behind the partition. He almost choked on his drink. He had thought the silver dress she’d been wearing left little to the imagination, but he was wrong. The robe accentuated her small waist, the flare of her hips, and her shapely legs. Giving her that scrap of fabric was a mistake, he thought as he approached and took her wet dress, hanging it over the screen.
“What now?” she asked.
For a moment, he wondered if she could sense his sinful thoughts.
“You rest.”
He lifted her into his arms, expecting her to protest, but he was relieved when she didn’t. He would not be able to explain why he needed this closeness, didn’t fully understand it himself, he just wanted to touch her, to know that she was full of life and heat.
He lowered her to the bed and pulled the blankets over her. She looked pale and fragile, lost in a sea of black silk.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, looking up at him with heavy lids. She frowned and touched the space between his brows with her finger, tracing his cheek, ending at the corner of his lips. “You’re angry.”
It took everything inside him to remain where he was, to not lean into her touch, to not press his lips to hers. If he kissed her, he would not stop.
After a moment, her hand fell away, and she closed her eyes.
“Persephone,” she said.
“What?”
“I want to be called Persephone. Not lady.”
Another faint smile touched his lips. Lady was a title she would have to get used to; he had ordered his staff to address her as such.
“Rest,” he said instead. “I will be here when you wake.”
He sensed her breath evening, and when he was sure she was asleep, he teleported back to the Styx, appearing on the bank of the river. His magic flared, a combination of the anger and lust and fear.
“Bring me those who smell of Persephone’s blood!” he commanded, and as he lifted his arms, four of the dead burst forth from the Styx, the water rushing after them like the tail of a comet. The corpses shrieked, sounding and appearing more like monsters than the bodies of once flesh-and-blood mortals. “You have tasted the blood of my queen and therefore shall cease existing.”
As he closed his fists, the wailing increased to an almost impossible shrill, and the corpses turned to dust that was swept away into the mountains of Tartarus.
In the aftermath, Hades’ ears rang and his breathing was harsh, but the release was euphoric.
Behind him, he heard Hermes’ familiar chuckle. He whirled to face the God of Mischief.
“I knew you would return,” he said. He nodded toward the mountains of Tartarus. “Feeling better?”
“No. Why are you still here?”
“So rude. You have yet to thank me for saving your…what should we call her? Lover?”
“She is not my lover,” Hades snapped.
Hermes was unamused, raising a pale brow.
“So you just threw me halfway across your realm for nothing?”
“It’s a sport,” he replied.
“Have your fun, and I’ll have mine.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hermes might be the messenger of the gods, but he was also trickery and mischief. He liked fuckery, and he had been responsible for many battles between gods.
“Only that I will enjoy watching your balls get bluer by the hour.”
Hades offered a small smile, and after a beat, he looked at Hermes.
“Thank you, Hermes, for saving Persephone.”
He vanished before the god could grin.
CHAPTER X – MIND GAMES
Hades sat in a chair before his fireplace, drinking and watching Persephone sleep. The slow rise and fall of her body as she breathed soothed his nerves. His head swarmed with the events of the last few days—discovering his connection with the beautiful goddess, their subsequent bargain, her anger toward him for merely being the God of the Dead.
She might hate him, but she had let him get close to her today, and he was not sure he would ever be the same. He had hoped to maintain a modicum of control over this situation the Fates had woven for him, but he felt like he was losing that battle each time he looked at the woman in his bed.
He had lost his composure twice in the span of an hour—first with Hermes, and then with the dead in the river—because this goddess was curious, because seeing her bleed had ignited rage in him so hot, he’d had no other place to expel it except at those who had injured her.
Perhaps you should meditate, he heard Hecate’s voice echoing in his head.
“Fuck meditation,” he said aloud.
Then Persephone stirred, and he stilled. She sat up quickly and then paused to close her eyes.
Dizzy, he thought, frowning.
When she opened her eyes again, they were bottle-green and seemed to glow like pale light streaming through a muted window. She stared at him with those eyes for what seemed like an eternity. His body tensed beneath her gaze, his grip tightened around his glass, and the fingers of his other hand pressed into the supple leather of his chair. His cock grew hard, pinned against his leg and trousers.
“How long have I been here?” she asked. Her voice was husky, and he wanted to groan. Instead, he managed a one-word reply.
“Hours.”
Her eyes grew wide. “What time is it?”
He shrugged because he did not know. “Late.”
“I have to go.”
Hades expected her to be angry or react with a sense of hysteria, but she didn’t. She just sat there in a pool of black silk looking beautiful and rosy and warm.
“You have come all this way. Allow me to offer you a tour of my world.”
He stood and downed the last of his whiskey. Her eyes did not waiver from his as he approached and drew the covers from her, revealing a sliver of skin between her breasts where her robe had parted in her sleep. It took everything in his power to avert his eyes as she clasped the robe closed. After a moment, he extended his hand. Her fingers slipped into his, and he found himself wondering when he would stop being surprised by her willingness to touch him. He guided her to her feet and waited for her to look up at him before asking, “Are you well?”
“Better,” she answered quietly.
He traced the curve of her cheek. “Trust that I am devastated that you were hurt in my realm.”
Her gaze told him she was surprised by his words, or perhaps their sincerity.
“I’m okay,” she whispered, but okay was not good enough.
“It will never happen again. Come.”
He guided her to the balcony outside his room, where the Forest of Ash stretched for miles, meeting a wall of obsidian mountains. She wandered ahead of him, her fingers twined with his as she peered over the balcony.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed as her gaze wandered over the landscape. “You created all of this?”
He nodded. “The Underworld evolves just as the world above.”
He tugged on her hand, and she followed him down the stairs into the garden below. He felt a thrill of excitement as he brought her to the edge where lavender wisteria wept, where inky roses and pink peonies bloomed, and purple and red slavia twisted like serpents from darkness. Would she find this just as astounding?
His answer came as soon as her feet touched the dark stone path leading into the garden. She wrenched her hand from his and turned on him.
“You bastard!”
Hades suddenly felt completely ridiculous. His mouth tightened. “Names, Persephone.”
“Don’t you dare! This—this is beautiful!”
So she was impressed, but why the anger?
“It is,” he agreed.
“Why would you ask me to create life here?” She sounded…devastated, as if seeing his realm and the flora that grew here drained her hope. Did she grieve for what she felt she had no power to create?
With a wave of his hand, he dismantled the illusion. Revealing the truth of his realm felt like revealing the truth of his soul. The Underworld was desolate—a wasteland of ash.
“It is illusion,” he explained. “If it is a garden you wish to create, then it will truly be the only life here.”
Hades called the glamour back and walked ahead. Persephone followed, and he wondered what she was thinking. Was she appalled by what he had shown her? Did she think less of the Underworld just because its beauty was a creation of his own magic? He had not intended to give her a tour of the Underworld to make her feel powerless…but he could feel her doubt and anger flare. As much as he hated being the reason for these feelings, he knew it was the only way she could reach her potential. One day, Persephone would tire of feeling defenseless, and his queen would rise from the ashes. A goddess.
Hades stopped near a retaining wall at the back of his garden. On the other side were the Asphodel Fields. At his feet, the earth was barren and black.
“You may work here,” Hades said.
If Persephone wanted to grow a garden, if that was her way of creating life in the Underworld, then she would have to do it in the ashy soil of the Underworld.
“I still don’t understand,” Persephone said. “Illusion or not, you have all of this beauty. Why demand this of me?”
Because it is the will of your soul, he thought.
“If you do not wish to fulfill the terms of our contract, you have only to say so, Lady Persephone. I can have a suite prepared for you in less than an hour.”
“We do not get along well enough to be housemates, Hades.”
Her comment inspired a few salacious images—bare skin and breathy moans.
He disagreed.
“How often am I allowed to come here and work?”
“As often as you want,” he said, because after today, he would ensure she never took that portal again. “I know you are eager to complete your task.”
Her gaze fell to the ground, and she bent to scoop up a handful of sand. It was not meant to nurture life, the texture like ground bone. She rose to her feet again.
“And…how shall I enter the Underworld?” she asked. “I’m assuming you don’t want me to return the way I came?”
“Hmm.” It was the question he had been waiting for, and his answer made his body tight with anticipation. He tilted his head to the side, and she stared back, lips parting.
It was enough of an invitation.
He gripped her shoulders and pulled her flush against him, bringing his mouth to hers. He could have offered her favor without laying so much as a finger on her, but it was an excuse to touch her. Given that, he should have been gentle, but he found he was anything but tame. His body reacted like it was on fire and desperate to be smothered. He felt ridiculous; he had kissed and fucked, but he had never felt this…whatever it was. This burning desire, this desperate wish to claim and protect and to love.
Then again, he had never kissed or fucked a woman destined to be his lover. Was the thread the reason he felt so…uncontrolled?
He urged her lips apart, his tongue gliding against hers, his teeth grazing her lips. She tasted like wine and salt, and smelled like a bed of sweet roses. Her body trembled, and he held her tighter so that there was no space between them, feeling all her soft curves against the hard contours of his own body. She was just as enthusiastic, kissing him with unabashed abandon. He got the sense that she would not have appreciated gentle, that she craved passion, rough and raw.
Her arms wound around his neck, and he groaned, the sound coming from somewhere deep and long asleep. He moved, directing her until she was pressed into the stone. His hands drifted down her waist and over her round bottom, where he gripped and lifted her from the ground. With her legs planted around his waist, her heels digging into his back, his erection grinding into her most sensitive place, he let his lips wander, trailing her jaw, nipping her ear, kissing down her neck. Now and then he would pause and taste her skin, salty from the river. She arched beneath him, gasping until she took control, driving her hands through his hair, loosening the strands until it fell in layers around his face. It was his hair she used to control him, because as his hands slipped beneath her robe, grazing the hot and tender skin between her thighs, she gripped it harder, and it was that sharp pull that brought him back to reality.
He had gone too far. He broke their kiss, breathing hard, struggling to contain his lust. He had meant to tease her to gauge her desire, but it had turned into something more. Even now he continued to hold her, fighting the urge to begin where they ended. All he had to do was shift his hand ever so slightly, part her damp flesh with his fingers, and he would be inside her.
But this was not how it should be. She had no reason to trust him with her body, no reason to trust him at all. He would not let her regret their time together, and when he made love to her, it would not be against a garden wall.
That would come later.
He lowered her to the ground but did not release her.
“Once you enter Nevernight, you have only to snap your fingers, and you will be brought here.”
He knew he had said something wrong when the color drained from her face and she attempted to shoved him away, demanding, “Can’t you offer favor another way?”
“You didn’t seem to mind,” he pointed out, liking the flush that touched her cheeks and elegant neck. He wanted to tell her she should not be embarrassed, but when she touched her lips with shaking fingers, he lost his train of thought.
“I should go,” she said.
Hades nodded in agreement. If she did not leave now, he would rescind his earlier statement.
Fuck waiting to love her elsewhere, the garden is perfect.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as his arm tightened around her waist.
He was silent, snapping his fingers and teleporting. When they appeared in Persephone’s room, she was gripping his arms like a cat who had been frightened. He waited for her to adjust, her head turning slowly, and as she recognized her surroundings, she pried her fingers from his skin one by one.
“Persephone.” There was one more thing she needed to know before he left her for the night. “Never bring a mortal to my realm again, especially Adonis. Stay away from him.”
Her eyes narrowed, glinting with defiance. “How do you know him?”
“That is not relevant.”
He felt her attempt to pull away, but he held her in place. This was important. He had not saved her from Underworld monsters just to have her hurt by mortal ones.
“I work with him, Hades.”
He ignored the pleasure he got from the sound of his name on her lips.
“Besides, you can’t give me orders.”
“I’m not giving you orders. I am asking.”
“Asking implies there’s a choice.”
His grip increased, and he leaned over her, nearly bending her backward so their faces were inches apart. Again, Hades thought of her lips, her taste, her touch, and he knew she was having similar thoughts because she closed her eyes and swallowed.
He spoke in the silence between them.
“You have a choice, but if you choose him, I will fetch you and I might not let you leave the Underworld.”
Her eyes flew open. “You wouldn’t,” she hissed.
Hades chuckled, his breath caressing her lips as he spoke. “Oh, darling. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
Then he vanished like smoke fading into the sky.
CHAPTER XI – A GAME FOR A GOD
“I asked for a weapon, Hephaestus.”
Hades stared at the small, octagon-shaped box the God of Fire held out to him. It was beautiful—obsidian and inlaid with jade and gold—but it did not look like something that could restrain a god.
When Hades met Hephaestus’ grey eyes, he knew he had missed something. The corner of his mouth lifted, and he dropped the box at Hades’ feet. In the next second, heavy manacles clamped down upon his wrists, their weight keeping his arms fastened at his sides, and when he tried to lift them, he found it was impossible.
“And so I have granted you chains,” the god replied.
Hades tried to lift his arms again, and his muscles tightened, veins rising to the surface of his skin, but it seemed like the more force he exerted, the more the chains oppressed.
“Tell me what you think of them,” Hephaestus said.
“Brilliant,” Hades answered, the word falling out his mouth before he even had a chance to think—and he remembered what he’d requested of the God of Fire—a weapon that could subdue violence and encourage truth. Hades smiled despite feeling like a lab rat. Hephaestus’ ability to create and innovate never ceased to impress.