A Touch of Ruin (Hades x Persephone #2)(58)

“You dance,” Leuce answered. “If they’re interested, they’ll come to you.”

Persephone glanced over her shoulder where hundreds of people were crammed together on the floor.

“Are you telling me all these people are here for the same thing?”

“Not the same thing,” she said. “But they’re here because they want something.”

“Leuce, what else goes on here other than illegal magic?”

“That’s not a conversation you want to have, Persephone. Trust me.”

She was gone then, and Persephone was swallowed by the crowd. For a few seconds, it was like fighting a current, graceless and panicked, but like earlier, she found there was something bewitching about the music. It seemed to dance along her skin, seep through her pours, until she moved with the beat, rocking her hips and raising her arms over her head. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and images of sensual nights with Hades reeled through her head—his soft mouth on hers, his silken tongue lapping at sensitive skin, his body glistening and hot, his cock filling, stretching, demanding. Her breath was short, and a moan escaped from her mouth.

She felt rabid, starved, desperate.

It got worse.

Her memories were suddenly infiltrated by another face—it wasn’t her body beneath Hades’—it was Leuce, her back was arched, her head thrown back, her mouth open as she screamed her lover’s name.

It was enough to break the spell the music had cast upon Persephone. Suddenly, she was aware of her surroundings again—the bodies crowded her, their sweat-soaked skin brushing hers.

Hands gripped her hips and a body moved behind her. She turned to face a man dressed in dark clothing, and in the red light, his eyes were black. At first, she wondered if he was here to summon her, but his hand remained fastened on her hips. She pushed him back, intending to break contact with him, when another set of hands clasped her shoulders.

Persephone wrenched from his grip, her heart raced, her magic igniting in her blood, but as she turned to look at the other person who had touched her, both men disappeared into the crowd.

Unnerved, she pushed through the mass of people until she reached the outer edge of the dance floor. She sought darkness, wishing to become shadow, and she found it as she rested against a wall at the mouth of a hallway.

Her body still shook from the memories she’d recalled on the dance floor. She was both aroused and pissed. What sort of horrible magic encouraged such salacious thoughts? And why had they morphed into something that made her want to vomit? She didn’t want to think of Leuce and Hades together. She didn’t want to think that what they had in common was that they both knew Hades’ body so well.

She liked to think she knew a different Hades, and that the way he coaxed her to orgasm was different than how he’d treated others.

She felt ridiculous as these thoughts rolled through her head. Perhaps whatever magic had overcome her on the dance floor was still clinging to her aura.

As she hid there in the darkness, the crowd pulsing on the dance floor in front of her, something was suddenly thrust in her closed fist. The feeling was strange and sudden—magic, she realized as she opened her hand, and found a piece of paper. Unfolding it, there was a number written in ink. 777. Below the number was an arrow, as if directing her to walk down the hallway.

She looked around and saw nothing but felt as if the whole room were watching her, even as she lurked in the darkness. Peeling away from the wall, she followed the arrow down the dark hall and happened upon an elevator, only visible because the numbers and doors were alight in red.

She pressed the button and the elevator opened soundlessly.

Inside, she noted the floors only went up to eight. She assumed that she needed the seventh floor and that the number on the paper was a room.

After the roar on the dance floor, the silence in the elevator pushed against her ears. It unsettled her and left her to focus on what was ahead—the unknown. What if Leuce was wrong about the Magi? What if they wanted something she couldn’t give? What if they couldn’t help her?

When the elevator doors opened, she was let out into a hallway that led straight to a black door. She approached hesitantly, fear warring with the guilt in her mind. Finally, she knocked and a voice on the other side directed her to come inside.

The handle was cold and made her skin prick as she entered. The room was dim and had black marble floors and dark walls. The only source of light came from the center of the room. It illuminated a raised, round platform and a large, plush chair upon which a familiar man was seated.

He was Kal Stavros.

He looked exactly like his pictures in the tabloids. He had a perfect, square face, a swath of thick, black hair, and blue eyes.

She hated his face.

Persephone narrowed her eyes, fingers tightening into fists. The surge of anger she felt at seeing this man was acute. It drove her magic wild.

“Persephone,” Kal purred.

Was it possible to reach into his mouth and yank her name from it? Persephone thought.

“I hope Alec and Cy didn’t frighten you, but I had to be sure it was you.”

So those men from the dance floor worked for him.

"I can see why Hades is taken with you," he said, his eyes trailed her body, making her feel sick to her stomach. “Beauty and spirit, well-spoken and opinionated. Qualities I admire.”

“Don’t make me vomit,” she said. “Just tell me what you want.”