And I hated him for it.
But worse? I hated that I didn’t hate him enough.
Every step I took away from him made it harder to breathe, like I was walking with chains around my ribs. He’d pushed me—again. Pulled me too close, then let me walk away like it was a favor.
My wrist still tingled where he touched me.
I rubbed the spot like I could erase it. Like maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, I’d feel clean again. But I didn’t. I just felt owned. Marked.
Why the hell do you care?
He’s a man who thrives on chaos. Who wears cruelty like a crown. He doesn’t protect people—he owns them. Breaks them. Enjoys the sound they make when they shatter.
And yet…
What the hell just happened in that locker room?
I almost said it.
Almost whispered thank you like it would’ve made any of this better.
Thank you for punching him.
Thank you for silencing that bastard.
Thank you for?—
I bit the words back before they could crawl out and disgrace me.
Logan’s voice echoed in my head, cruel and smug: sold with a bow or a leash.
The memory made me flinch, bile rising.
No amount of blood spilled in my name could erase what I was now. Hades’s wife.
By contract. By force. By design.
But it was something more now, wasn’t it?
That room—that stare—it had felt like something was shifting. Like the game was changing. Like I wasn’t just his problem anymore. I was his possession. And worse?
Part of me wanted to know what it meant to be claimed.
I stopped walking. Pressed myself against the nearest wall. Let the cold seep into my back while fire burned through the rest of me.
I hate him; I told myself. I hate him.
But the truth curled sharp behind my teeth like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.
I hated that I didn't hate him enough.
I stumbled through the door, breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
The air inside was heavy—stagnant with the weight of everything I hadn’t said. It felt like the chaos from the locker room had followed me home, curled into the corners of the room like smoke I couldn’t clear.
I kicked off my shoes, barely registering the thud as they hit the wall. My hands were already at the hem of the jersey—his jersey—yanking it over my head like it was burning me. Like I could peel him off my skin with it.
The fabric bunched in my fists. Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
