My gaze dropped. The box sat beside me like a trap.
But I opened it anyway.
Inside was his jersey.
Black and gold. Heavy. Warm.
His name.
Sinclair.
Stitched across the back like a brand.
My stomach twisted.
“You’ll be at the game tomorrow,” he continued, casually, like he was ordering wine. “Wearing that.”
A pause.
“And the choker."
Another pause.
“And the ring.”
My chest rose sharply, air suddenly feeling too thick. I spun to face him.
He hadn’t moved from the doorway. Just stood there, watching—arms crossed, jaw sharp, eyes darker than the night behind me. Like he was measuring how much fight I had left.
“You think I’d wear this?” My voice came out clipped, sharp with disbelief. “You think you can dress me up like some prize and parade me around like I belong to you?”
That smirk.
I hated that smirk.
“Oh, little Persephone,” he said, stepping into the room, slow and lethal. “I don’t think." He stopped two feet away. “I know.”
I backed up before I even realized it, hitting the cold railing behind me. He kept coming, every step measured, quiet, cruel.
“Try refusing me,” he whispered, now close enough that I could smell the ice on his breath, the sweat from practice still clinging to his skin. “Please.” A smile ghosted across his lips. “Make me prove it.”
My breath caught in my throat—rage and fear colliding like sparks. I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw that jersey into pieces and throw it in his face.
But my fingers were still touching the fabric.
Still holding on.
And he saw it.
Because Hades didn’t gamble.
He calculated.
And I was already playing a game I never agreed to join.
I stood frozen, heart pounding in my chest, every nerve ending alive under his gaze. Hades loomed over me, a dark shadow blocking out the light. His presence was suffocating and intoxicating, a contradiction I didn’t know how to process.
“Already so desperate to go back to the edge?” he murmured, his breath ghosting against my ear. I felt the heat of him without needing him to touch me.
