That someone could fix this.
That someone could take me by the hand and pull me out of Hades Sinclair’s orbit like it was that simple.
But I knew better.
Still… I didn’t let go of Cliff’s hand.
And he didn’t let go of mine.
We stood there in the entryway, fingers locked, my pulse thudding in my ears and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
The front door swung open without a knock.
Just a single click—the sound of power reasserting itself.
Of ownership coming home.
And then he was there.
Hades.
His presence hit the room like a shift in gravity. The kind you felt before a storm. Before something snapped.
Sweat clung to his skin, glistening over muscles taut from practice. His gear hung off him, damp and dark, like a second skin molded to violence. He looked feral. Lethal.
And my stomach twisted.
“Funny,” he said, voice smooth like silk pulled taut across broken glass. “I don’t remember inviting guests.”
Cliff tensed beside me.
I felt the shift before I saw it—his stance turning solid, protective, like a wall raising itself brick by brick.
He stepped in front of me.
I wanted to move.
To tell him I didn’t need the shield.
That I could face Hades on my own.
But I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because Hades wasn’t just angry. He was controlled—and that was worse.
“Did you bring him into my house, Persephone?” he asked, not raising his voice. “Into our home?”
The word our tasted like poison in the air.
Cliff squared his shoulders. “She asked for help.”
The silence that followed was thick—suffocating.
Hades didn’t flinch.
He just tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on Cliff like he was measuring the size of the body he’d have to bury.
