A Game of Fate (Hades Saga #1)(29)

“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.”