“Don’t you ever touch me again!” she shouted, voice laced with fury sharp enough to flay skin. The air between us fractured.
I had kissed her to claim what was mine.
But all it did was unleash her fire.
Good.
Let her burn me.
Because I deserved every fucking flame.
Her eyes blazed as she shoved me back with her words, no sugar-coating this time. No restraint. Just raw, righteous rage.
“How could you let Sloane in?” she snarled. “How could you let that woman get close enough to touch me?”
Each syllable slammed into my chest like a fist.
Sloane.
The name alone made my pulse spike.
That venomous ghost I should’ve buried long ago.
“You brought that poison into my home,” she spat. “You brought her into my space.”
“Did she hit you?” I asked, my voice eerily calm—but inside?
Inside, I was already reaching for blood.
“Yes!”
The answer hit harder than the slap.
My jaw locked. “And you bled.”
I said it like a death sentence—because it was one.
Not for her.
For me.
For the version of myself that failed to protect what was mine.
Her breath hitched like my words physically hurt.
“What does that matter?” she snapped. “You didn’t even care enough to tell me that she would?—"
“Don’t twist this—” My voice broke. I clenched my fists at my sides to keep from grabbing the nearest wall and tearing through it. “You think I wanted that? That I’d ever allow?—”
“Then why did you?” she screamed, stepping closer. “Why did you let her think she could walk through our door? Why didn’t you stop it before you decided to marry me? What the hell am I supposed to think, Hades?"
Each accusation cut deeper than the last.
She wasn’t just angry. She was betrayed.
And every inch of me wanted to throw the world at her feet to make it right.
But she didn’t want apologies. She wanted answers I didn’t have.
