CHAPTER IX: A GAME OF FEAR & FURY

CHAPTER IX – A GAME OF FEAR & FURY

As soon as Hades’ feet touched Underworld soil, he could sense Persephone. Her presence in his realm was like an extension of himself. It weighted on his chest just as heavily as the thread that connected them.

He teleported again and appeared in the Fields of Mourning, where shoots of white gladioli and orchids grew. The Fields were once reserved for those who had wasted their lives on unrequited love. It had been one of the decisions Hades had made early in his reign and was born from his anger toward the Fates. If he was not destined to love, then he would punish those who had died because of it. He had since sent the souls who once resided here to other parts of the Underworld, letting the field remain beautifully landscaped, as it was the view the souls were treated to on their way to the Field of Judgement.

A few feet from where he had appeared, lying on the bank of the Styx, was Persephone. He attempted to absorb the scene through his rage—Persephone was on her back, her hair was wet, and she was covered with Hermes’ gold cloak, the thin, metallic material clinging to her damp body. Hermes knelt over her; his lips curled in a smile. He was clearly interested in Persephone, and he watched as the god tapped his lips, spoke, and made Persephone laugh.

That was when Hades decided to separate them.

He sent a burst of power barreling toward the god, who went flying halfway across the Underworld. Still, Hades frowned when Hermes did not land as far away as he had hoped, but the impact of his body hitting the ground was satisfying enough.

Hades strolled toward Persephone, who rose and turned, craning her neck to meet his gaze. She shifted Hermes’ cloak so that it draped over her shoulders, revealing the dress she had worn to his club—a thin, silver number with a neckline that teased the curve of her breasts. Now that it was wet, it clung to them, accentuating the peaks of her hard nipples.

Fucking Fates, Hades thought as a fire burned a path down his chest straight to his groin.

“Why did you do that?” Persephone demanded.

The god frowned, clenching his jaw. He could not tell if it was to suppress his reaction to her body or the fact that she was angry about Hermes.

“Your try my patience, goddess, and my favor,” he replied.

“So you are a goddess!” Hermes shouted enthusiastically, despite crawling from the pit his body had made upon impact.

Persephone narrowed her eyes, and Hades realized that he had only succeeded in making her more frustrated by outing her.

“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.