by Eris Adderly
The wall of basalt between Hades and Persephone aligned itself to his will, choosing to occupy the available space in a manner that allowed him entrance to the chamber.
She whirled to face the sound of tumbling stone. Cushions scattered in her wake, bouncing from the platform where she’d been sitting with her back to him. The wide-eyed look of surprise—however fleeting before she controlled it—had Hades envisioning such schemes to provoke its appearance again.
The doorway knit closed behind him and Persephone nodded, composure returned. “So, that’s how you come and go,” she said.
His arrival in the light had been intentional, just as the darkness had been at their first meeting. Every part of his domain, down to the very bones of the earth, was subject to his wishes. She would see it and take heed.
“Stones part for me, little flower,” he said.
The way she sat up straighter told him the unspoken question had been clear enough. “Trees grow at the touch of my fingers in the upper realm,” she said with a shrug. “We all have our gifts.”
Quick as shadow, this one. And impertinent. Hades all but wrung his hands. He did not, however, because his hands were full.
“So we do,” he said, extending an arm in mock formality. “Goddess.”
Her eyes went to the bundle of scarlet linen he offered, but she made no other move.
“What is this?”
He hefted the folded handful again, gesturing for her to take it. Irritation painted her features, but she relented, pinching the material between two fingers of each hand so its length fell over her lap. She held up a long chiton in bloody crimson, and Hades wore a ghost of a smile.
“I believe the journey to my realm was rather unkind to your other.” One of her hands let go the new chiton and fingered the pale grey fabric of her old, where it held itself together by naught more than good intentions over her shoulder.
“Do you have an array of garments set aside,” she said, “for all the immortal women who come tumbling into the Underworld?”
“No,” said Hades, “only for you.”
“Well,” she said, words coming clipped at his sobering response, “thank you.” She refolded his offering and lay it beside her. Hands returned to her lap and waiting green eyes held his.
And Fates, such eyes.
“You don’t wish to wear it now?”
Her lips made a thin line.
Ah. She doesn’t want to undress with you here.
And where was modesty when her mouth had been accepting his at their last encounter?
She hadn’t fought his kiss like a frightened mortal, nor did she shrink away when he pressed their bodies close. When Persephone had agreed to obey, there had been fear, but it was only a solitary note. The overwhelming chorus singing in her gaze, her pulse, her breath, was of something Hades hadn’t anticipated.
Want.
There was more to the goddess’s story than ‘sequestered maiden’. He wanted her secrets. He would have them.
Hades turned from her and, clasping one of his wrists in his other hand behind his back, took up an idle pace across the room. “Tell me, Persephone, when your mother decided to keep you from Olympos, were you grateful? Did you fear the intentions of the gods who pursued you?”
She made a noise of dismissal behind him. “ ‘Grateful’ would not be the word I would use, Lord Hades.”
So. He’d made an accurate guess at where to dig.
His steps brought him to the granite bench at the opposite end of the chamber. He faced her again and sat.
“And what word would you use, then?”
“I don’t know what word I would use,” she said, a sourness ripening in her tone, “but the choice in how I might deal with the Olympians should have been mine, not hers. And not yours, either.”
When he’d caught her at the end of her fall, a singular sort of blinding drive had risen to place its demands. At the new heat in her words, it began to simmer again. This was his realm. The Goddess of Growing things would soon find he’d be making many choices for her. The idea she might still resist made his skin prickle.
“Stand up,” he said.
Her lids closed. She let out a breath through her nose. Elegant wrists unfolded from her lap and Persephone stood. Compliance given to the letter, she waited with a blank stare.
Hades rested an elbow on his knee and cradled his chin on his thumb, curled fingers in front of his lips as he appraised her stance. The silence stretched. She began to fidget with the folds of her dress.
Test her.
He sat up straighter and bent three of his dark fingers toward himself in succession, beckoning. “Come.”
A blink, but no more. Persephone remained still.
“You agreed to obey,” he said. “Or have you forgotten?”
Her jaw tightened and he saw color come to her face. She had not forgotten. Hades gave a smile and shrugged, turning his palms up to show she’d left him no other choice.
Cracks spiderwebbed beneath her feet. She yelped and hopped forward as the earth fell away at her heels. Behind her now, a dark crevasse yawned from one end of the room to the other.
Persephone swore and clutched at her chiton, and Hades held back a chuckle. Did she think some horror would ascend from the pit and drag her down with it? When she risked a terrified glance back to the abyss, he knew she would not see the bottom.
The goddess turned back to him, eyes wide. He saw fear there, and anger, of course. But something richer. Far more valuable. Gold, immortal blood surged through his veins.
She wants you to save her.
He’d been the cause of her peril, but it didn’t matter. Those eyes begged for protection. How was she every sumptuous flavor at once? Ever more complex than the cringing mortal women he’d tasted, by the Fates, she would be his!
“Will you come to me?” he said. “Or will I have to make you come?”
Her chest rose at the shameless innuendo. With a look over her shoulder at the alternative, she picked her way over the carpets.
Then stopped a full pace from where he sat. He ground his teeth.
Flames of creation, she might match you for obstinance.
Hades let the remainder of the floor behind her disintegrate, sending rugs fluttering to the abyss.
No hesitation. Persephone leapt without thought and pressed urgent limbs against him; stood rigid on tiptoe between his knees. The black wool of his chlamys bunched in desperate fists—anything to prevent a fall.
As she caught her breath and realized where she stood, her eyes came down to his. He did nothing to hold back the smug grin when she relaxed her grip. There was nowhere left for her to stand but in extreme proximity.
“Now.” He traced nails down her arms, reveling in the first opportunity for touch. When Hades arrived at her palms, he laced their fingers together, dark and light. “What were we talking about? Ah yes, your lack of experience.”
His eyes painted a licentious trail to match his words, from her thighs wedged between his, to the curve of her hips and breasts, up around her slender neck. By the time he arrived at her eyes, only one word swelled in his mind.
Devour.
She was so … so …
Consume. Possess. Own her. You must!
Perhaps more than one word, then.
He inhaled. Exhaled.
Control yourself, immortal.
Hades moved backward on the bench, creating a vacancy on the granite between his legs.
“Since we’ll be here until I decide otherwise”—he tugged on her hands—“why don’t you have a seat?”
He saw something break in the way she held her shoulders. Something small, almost unnoticeable, but with it came resignation. Persephone extracted her fingers from his, turned, and sat. His thighs knew a delightful pressure from the body they now surrounded, but the goddess sat upright, arms folded once again. She would make him work, but he would enjoy it.
He leaned forward, hands on his knees, making contact be
tween her back and his chest unavoidable. This close, her scent rose to him, woody and damp, and he fought to remain collected.
“I think I may disappoint,” she said, ignoring his attempts to fluster her. “The prize you hope to claim has long been given away.”
“Oh? And what prize is that?”
“A maiden goddess for your bride.”
“So your mother didn’t hide you away in time. A rumor proves false,” he said near her ear. “Interesting. It wasn’t Hermes, of course. Apollo then?” That pretty face and regal manner—Phoebus may have had enough to succeed where another hadn’t.
“No,” she said, and now he could hear the clever smile. “My mother has been as vigilant as any gossip you’ve heard, I’m sure. No immortal has managed to touch me.”
His brows rose to look for the rest. “And yet …”
“Demeter spent her efforts keeping me out of Olympos. She paid no attention to my travels among the cities of men.” The last word carried a note of triumph. She thought to deny him some thrill, did she? Dampen the heat of his conquest? She would find herself mistaken.
“So,” he said, sweeping her hair away from her neck, “you’re familiar, then, with the things a man will want of you?”
“Oh yes,” she said, ignoring his tactics for her own. “Athenai. Thebes. I know their streets. The sons of man have amused me for ages.”
“Have they.” Hades shifted closer. “I wonder how that compares,” he said, “to what a god will want from you?”
“I imagine if they’re anything alike, the amount of fuss my mother has made has been all out of proportion.”
He couldn’t help a chuckle at this.
You’ve never taken an immortal lover, either.
It was true. He had satisfied those urges he couldn’t meet on his own by ascending to the mortal plane to play out his lusts with the daughters of men. Disguised as a handsome mortal, he could convince and coax; make them giggle and squeal at his touch.
Or, during darker moods, he would show himself for who he was: Hades, Lord of the Dead. Their cries and pleas to the god they feared filled a hidden well in his soul. There were times he felt shame after such nefarious exploits.
There were times he did not.
It troubled him not to know which road he would travel today.
He turned his hands palm-up on his knees.
“Persephone,” he said, “will you allow me to touch you?”
“What?” Of all things, this broke her calm.
“Will you allow me”—he let his chest slide against her back—“to touch you?”
“Why bother with permission now?” Her heart thundered through her ribs and into his.
“You agreed to obey,” he replied. “I never said every single interaction would involve a command. Perhaps only when you need a nudge, yes?”
Why it was so important at this moment to persuade and not force, Hades couldn’t have said.
“May I?”
He felt her body expand in a controlled breath. A single nod was her only answer. Restraint took every effort he had.
His right hand rose to a wrist she had tucked into her folded arms. She allowed him to tug it loose and draw it away from her breast. He did the same for the left, and hooked thumbs under both her palms, turning them to face the ceiling. With the backs of her hands cupped in his, he returned them to rest on his thighs.
Her muscles were tense; no doubt prepared for crude handling to come, but he met her with none. Her upturned, open hands rested in his, and he left them there. A more significant lesson lay in his choice.
His arms and hands would remain open, as would hers. This had happened because she had allowed it.
“Goddess.”
She gave a start. Such was the point to which the moment had tightened.
“Before your mother’s edict,” he went on, “Apollo and Hermes sought your eye. Did you find their attentions flattering?”
“Of course”—he felt her swallow and try again, having to work hard to speak above a whisper—“of course I found it flattering. I’d never been courted and here were two of Olympos’s favored sons. They had songs, they went on and on about my beauty …” She shrugged against him.
“And had Demeter not intervened, you would have considered them?”
“Perhaps to enjoy a flirtation. Beyond that?” A small shake of her head. “They weren’t for me.”
“Why not?”
She sighed. Relaxed into him the slightest measure. “I suppose Hermes might have made an entertaining lover,” she said. “He was witty enough. And a tongue like that outside the bedchamber?” She let out a huff of rueful amusement.
Hades let his thumbs fold back over the sides of her hands. He began to trace circles in the center of each palm.
“You didn’t wish to sample his offerings? Not even once, to see for yourself?”
Even from the side, he could see she made a face. “Do we have time for me to recite a list of his lovers? No, the only thing constant about that one is his ability to lose interest. And for him I have none.”
So, she preferred an attention span. A mark in her favor.
“And Apollo? He was never so fickle, was he?”
“I see you leave no stone unturned,” she said. “No, he might have been faithful. Perhaps.”
“What was wrong with him then?” Hades made his caress into a momentary squeeze.
“Oh, nothing.”
His brows rose. “Nothing?”
“He was charming,” she said. “Generous. Handsome as the day is long. Everything a goddess could want.” Persephone began to lean into the curve of his chest now, somehow negating the frustration her answers brought him.
“You must know how thrilling it is,” he said, nuzzling the side of her face with his jaw, “for an immortal to have the goddess he’s attempting to seduce sitting on his lap, listing the better qualities of his rivals.”
Persephone stiffened, but didn’t pull away her hands. “First, he is not your rival. Second,” she said, words cutting the air, “this is not your lap, it’s a stone bench. And third, is that what this is? A seduction? I thought you were attempting to ‘court’ me.”
His grin widened at her fire to the point of showing teeth. “That you assume a distinction between those two things is evidence the Sons of Olympos have done you a disservice.” He took hold of her hands and flipped them face down on his thighs, covering her fingers in the pressure and heat of his. “If I still have your obedience, Persephone, I will show you what it is to be courted by a lord of a realm.”
She tugged to free herself and, for a moment, he held her in place, making his point. When he let go, she drew back her hands, but once he restored his to their former place at his knees, palms turned up, Persephone surprised him.
With no little trepidation, she laid her hands back in his.
Hades steeled himself against a reckless pace.
“So Apollo was a shining example of godhood, was he?” He took her right hand and lifted it to cover her breastbone, his fingers splaying to flatten hers against her own heartbeat. “And I’m to believe you don’t pine for him?”
“As I said, nothing was wrong with him.” She gestured with her free left hand. “He was so gallant and so blinding bright. I’m to take someone like that seriously?” The goddess gave a shake of her head. “I can’t put a name on it, but he felt … wrong. There was no friction. He was so smooth you would slide right off!”
Hades let go the hand at her chest, only to come up from under her arm and seize a new grip at her shoulder. She gasped as he hauled her close, his next question low and dangerous.
“And you would have liked it a bit more … rough, Persephone?” He laced their left hands together, squeezing to a point just the wrong side of friendly warmth.
“I … don’t know?”
Sweet Fates, could he be the one to show her?
“Tell me what your mother was so afraid of,” he said.
“That y
ou would ruin me.”
Her head had fallen back onto his shoulder, the dark waves of her hair spilling over them both. She recited Demeter’s fear of Olympians in general, but somehow the words seemed tailored for none but the Lord of the Dead.
“Ruin?” he said. “Oh, no. Never that.” The wood fibula holding her chiton in place was just beneath his fingers. He tugged it loose and the linen fell away from her shoulder. “Challenge, absolutely.” Hades bent to press his lips against the silken skin there. “Has anyone ever tested your limits, Persephone?”
She shivered. “Limits?”
Did her imagination run in frantic circles, as he hoped?
“Those boundaries beyond which you refuse to cross.” His mouth moved to the column of her throat. “When we discover them, little flower, you will tell me to stop.”
Her pulse fluttered under his mouth, but her right hand had risen to rest over his at her shoulder. Hades let his teeth graze her neck, and when she hissed in response he wanted to abandon every careful plan he had.
Instead, he spanned her collarbones with his fingers and brought her back full against his chest.
“Can you feel that?” he said.
“Feel?” She sounded hazy and faraway. Was it her lust clouding perception? Or his?
“My heartbeat. Do you feel it?”
Two breaths later: “Yes.”
He let go her left hand to trace nails along her thigh. When he met the curve of a hip, he pulled her to him at the waist.
“And this?” His arousal pressed between them. “What do you feel?”
The goddess nearly choked on her breath. “Hades!”
“That’s right,” he said, grinding further against her backside. “That’s. Right.”
Could she know how his name on her lips affected him?
“A seduction works in both directions,” he said, “or weren’t you aware?”
A distracted hum was all the answer he received, but she rolled her head to lay her temple along his jaw. The flushed pink of parted lips bloomed close and tempting. All traces of tension had gone from her limbs. The Lord of the Dead sat with a Daughter of Olympos draped in his arms, and she made no moves to fend off his advances. Were he not able to feel her weight, breathe her scent, he might have written off the whole of it as nothing more than a fantasy with which to torture himself.
