“I haven’t forgotten your earlier claim.” His voice was gravelly against her ear. He was referring to the game they’d played at Sybil’s, when she’d claimed to have faked an orgasm.
“I lied,” she groaned, trying to move against him, but Hades would not budge.
“I know,” he said, and his teeth grazed her shoulder. “And I intend to discourage such lies. I will fuck you to the point that you are desperate for release—over and over again so that when you finally do come, you won’t even remember your name.”
The promise in his voice excited her.
“You think you’ll be able to stop?” she asked. “To deprive yourself of the satisfaction of my orgasm?”
Hades smirked. “If it means hearing you beg for me, darling—yes.”
He craned her neck and devoured her mouth. His tongue twined with hers, sweeping and sliding, coaxing her mouth so wide, her jaw hurt. She could not even kiss him back. This one was his and she could only cling to him. When he released her, it was to turn her around, lift her leg and entered her again. The angle let them remain close, and he covered her mouth with his, kissing her so hard she couldn’t take in air. When his lips left hers, it was to trail kisses and teeth over her neck, pausing to suck the sensitive skin until it bruised beneath his touch. When she could no longer hold herself up, he pressed her into the wall, thrusting harder, faster.
She watched his face, eyes wild and unfocused, a sheen of sweat beading across his face—until she could no longer focus on anything but the feel of him and the pleasure he wrung from within her.
“I love you,” he said. “I have only ever loved you.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Do you?” he questioned her through his teeth, but not from anger. He was straining, the veins in his neck popped, his face was flushed.
“I know,” she repeated. “I love you. I just want everything, I want more, I want all of you.”
“You have it,” he promised and kissed her again, their bodies slick and sticky. His hand moved, one pressed against the wall behind her, the other clenching her ass so tight, she knew it would bruise. Her chest felt tight, taut with the air she couldn’t release.
Then, suddenly, he tore away with a curse, teeth grazing her lips. Her guttural cry was from frustration. He really meant to torture her—but then he pulled out completely and sat her on her feet, adjusting their clothes before Hermes appeared in the kitchen.
Suddenly Persephone understood Hades’ haste.
It would be the second time the God of Mischief had interrupted them. Hades’ expression was murderous, but one look at him silenced their frustration. The golden god appeared stricken, pale.
“Hades, Persephone—Aphrodite has asked for your presence. Immediately.”
Persephone’s first thought was that this must be about Adonis—but why did Hermes look so concerned? Something wasn’t adding up.
“At this hour?” Hades’ arm tightened around Persephone.
“Hades,” Hermes said, his face ashen. “It’s...not good.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Her home.”
There were no more questions—just the smell of sharp winter air and ash as they teleported.
CHAPTER VII – A TOUCH OF TERROR
They appeared in a large room that Persephone thought must be a study. The light was muted, making the walls look dark teal in color. Chestnut colored bookcases lined with leather-bound tombs boxed in a desk of the same color. Thick frames of antique gold hung on the wall, encasing paintings depicting naked nymphs, winged cherubs, and lovers beneath trees. The opposite wall was all windows, bare, leaving them exposed to the freezing night.
The decor was not at all like Aphrodite’s—no plush rugs, crystals, or pearls—and for a moment, Persephone thought they had arrived at the wrong location, but her eyes soon found the Goddess of Love sitting on the edge of a chaise in the center of the room. She was dressed in a light blue, silk nightgown and sheer robe. Her body was twisted toward a woman who lay draped beside her.
Persephone did not recognize her, but thought she had hints of Aphrodite’s features—in the curve of her lips, the arch of her brow, the tilt of her nose. She was pale, battered and beaten. Her hands, which lay curled upon her rising stomach were bloodied, nails broken and jagged.
But what caused Persephone’s stomach to coil were the goddess’s horns. Two bits of mutilated bone protruded from her muddy and knotted honey colored hair. A small dog with dirty, white fur was curled up tightly beside her, shivering.
This was not at all what Persephone had expected. This goddess had fought for her life, and if she had not been able to sense life, she would have thought the goddess was dead because her breathing was so shallow.
“Oh my gods,” Persephone’s hands went to her mouth and something thick and sour gathered in the back of her throat. She rushed to them, and knelt, taking Aphrodite’s hand in hers.
The goddess of love looked at Persephone, her eyes red and face splotchy. It was hard to see her so emotional. Aphrodite usually tried her best to repress her feelings, the most she conveyed was anger, and if that began to melt her frigid exterior, she shut down, but this—this had destroyed her defenses. Whoever this goddess was, she was important to her.
“What happened?” Hades asked the question, filling the room with a dark tension that seemed to curl into her lungs and steal her breath. There was an edge to his voice, a shudder of violence, and it trickled down her spine.
“We don’t know for certain,” a voice answered, startling Persephone. She realized Hades hadn’t been taking to Aphrodite or Hermes but another—a man who loomed in the corner near the doors. It was as if he were prepared to make a quick exit, except that he also looked at ease, leaning against the wall, thick arms crossed over his chest. He was near-equal in size to Hades, but he did not dress like any god she had ever seen. He wore a beige, thread-bare tunic and a pair of trousers that came to his calves. Despite his simplicity in clothing, his blond beard and hair were well-manicured and almost silky in appearance.
She thought she could guess who this was as her gaze dropped to his feet where a gold prosthetic leg peeked out from his pant leg. This was Hephaestus, God of Fire, and Aphrodite’s absent husband—or so the rumors said.
But if he was absent, what was he doing here now?
Hephaestus continued speaking, his voice like a match struck in silence.
“We believe she was walking her dog, Opal, when she was attacked and had just enough strength to teleport here. When she arrived, she was not conscious, and we have not been able to rouse her.”
“Whoever did this will suffer,” said Hermes.
It was strange to see the usually gleeful god so serious.
She looked from Hermes to Hades, then to Hephaestus, noting their fierce gazes. Persephone turned to the woman lying on the chaise and asked, “Who is she?”
This time, Aphrodite spoke, her voice thick with emotion.
“My sister, Harmonia.”
Harmonia, Goddess of Harmony—she was the least combative of the gods, not even an Olympian. Persephone had never met her, nor had she realized her connection to Aphrodite.
She turned to Hades. “Can you heal her?”