He wasn’t going to ask for my compliance; he was going to wait. Wait until I was broken enough to pick up that pen myself.
I glanced back at the documents sprawled before me, dread curling in my stomach like smoke rising from a dying fire. My heart raced with each passing second as if trying to outrun the truth lurking behind those words—my name etched into that contract alongside his, binding us together in ways I couldn’t yet comprehend.
Every breath felt heavy, weighted by the enormity of what this meant for me. I wanted to scream, to shatter this fragile silence with my rage and defiance, but all that escaped was a choked breath caught somewhere between anger and fear.
The ring gleamed mockingly in its box, its presence both beautiful and terrifying. It represented everything I had fought against—the shackles of expectation, the cage of obligation closing in around me.
As I continued to stare at that ring and contract, despair threatened to swallow me whole. The world outside faded into a blur; nothing existed beyond these walls except for this suffocating reality.
I drew in a shaky breath, knowing deep down that each moment spent here only solidified his control over me—a calculated move in his twisted game where he would eventually win.
I returned to my room; the door clicking shut behind me like the finality of a prison cell locking. The silence pressed against my ears, heavy and stifling. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the cool fabric beneath me as I cradled the ring box in my lap.
Thoughts spiraled in my mind like a tempest, each one more chaotic than the last.
This was never about Callista. It had never been about her perfect smile or dutiful nature. No, Hades wanted me for entirely different reasons.
He never wanted someone obedient.
He wanted me because I resisted.
Because I burned.
The ring shimmered in the dim light, mocking me with its polished beauty. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from it, each facet catching stray beams like it was alive with potential—a potential that now felt tainted by his ownership.
“You want to make me yours?” I whispered to myself, almost daring him to hear me beyond these walls. “I’ll let you think you’ve succeeded.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue but held a kind of power that sent a thrill down my spine. “And then I’ll ruin you from the inside out.”
With deliberate care, I placed the ring back into its box, setting it gently on my nightstand—not because I accepted it, but because I wanted to see the look on his face when he realized I wasn’t playing to win anymore—I was playing to destroy.
I leaned back against the headboard and stared at that box. The silence of the room thickened around me, yet something inside shifted; a spark ignited within my chest. Hades could have his game, his calculated moves and plans that stretched far beyond what any normal person would dare to imagine.
But he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
Each moment spent plotting and scheming against him only fed this fire within me—a fire that refused to be extinguished no matter how many times he tried to control it.
Tonight would be just one of many steps in a dance that only we could choreograph; I smiled faintly at the thought as determination washed over me like a wave crashing against unforgiving rocks.
Chapter 6
Hades
The ice welcomed me like an old friend with a grudge—cold, slick, and just waiting for someone to bleed.
I stepped onto the rink like a king returning to his throne, blades cutting across the surface with the kind of precision that came from years of warfare disguised as sport. Morning light knifed through the arena windows, casting long shadows across the Castle Rock Inferno—my little band of beautiful degenerates.
In the locker room, chaos bloomed like it always did—loud, crude, and humming with testosterone. Banter flying faster than pucks, egos clashing like blades in a back alley brawl. It wasn’t order. It was something better.
Controlled destruction.
These weren’t teammates.
They were wolves I hand-fed.
And leading the pack, of course, was Gideon Jones—shirtless, smug, and louder than sin. Flexing like a Greek statue possessed by a frat boy.
“Behold this god-tier physique,” he declared, striking a pose with all the grace of a thunderclap in a glass house. “Tell me I’m not a divine gift to mankind.”
“Oh, you’re a gift, all right,” Scar muttered, not looking up from taping his stick. “One of those cursed ones that ruins your life when you open it.”
