Because the truth was too ugly to speak aloud:
I underestimated Sloane.
I thought I could control the past.
And now it had bled into the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.
Her.
And now we stood here—two blades drawn, hearts exposed, bleeding in a war we never meant to start.
And I didn’t have a damn thing to say that would fix it.
I stared at her.
Defiant. Bleeding.
There was blood on her lip, fire in her eyes, and a heartbeat pulsing so violently at her throat I could damn near taste it in the air—copper, fury, and something sweeter that called to the darkest part of me.
She should’ve been running from me.
Instead, she was fighting me.
And I wanted to tear the world apart just to prove no one else could touch her.
The rage surged like a wildfire inside my chest, licking up my spine, turning every breath into smoke. Every accusation she threw at me struck with precision.
“Why did you let her think she could touch me?”
It wasn’t just a question. It was a wound she was opening. Deeper than the cut on her lip. It hit somewhere I didn’t want to name.
“Do you think I wanted this?” My voice came out lower than I intended—rough, raw, almost broken. “Do you think I’d ever let someone hurt you?”
She didn’t flinch.
Of course she didn’t.
Persephone Sinclair didn’t break—she shattered things.
She squared her shoulders like she was ready to take a hit. Or give one.
“I can take care of myself!” she snapped, but her voice betrayed her—barely. I heard it. The fracture.
And I couldn’t take it.
“No,” I said, firm. Final. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Her eyes widened—just for a second. Enough for me to see it.
That flicker of doubt.
That sliver of something else.
Maybe fear.
I wasn’t just the man she married under pressure.
I wasn’t just Hades fucking Sinclair.
