Page 39 of Queen of the Underworld

She held back her flinch as she uttered those words so glibly when they pained her and made her want to indulge in a rage of her own, one she felt sure might have had sharp vines bursting from beneath her feet had she had access to her powers.

Hades darkened, the sculpted angles of his face seeming to grow sharper as shadows filled the air around him, and the warm amber flames in the chandelier turned cold blue. His eyes slowly narrowed on hers. She gasped as something brushed her leg, and her head snapped downwards, her eyes widening. Shadows. Panic blasted through her as they snaked around her leg.

Persephone tried to bend to brush them away, but Hades refused to let her move.

He seized her arms in a bruising grip and his shadows tightened their hold on her too.

“You must forget this male,” he growled, his voice blacker than his realm.

“Why?” Her eyes searched his, seeking the answer in them as she tried to lean to one side to swat at the shadow that was now passing her knee, a little distracted by it. If it kept heading upwards, it would near the apex of her thighs.

His voice was all raw sexuality and wickedness as he rumbled, “You are mine now.”

Talking as if he owned her again? If he had worded his declaration more carefully, she might have been warmed by it. Her heart might have been swayed and that vicious little voice in the back of her mind that mocked her might have been silenced. But instead of complimenting her or saying how deeply he needed her, he had spoken of her as a possession.

Fear morphed into potent anger that scorched her veins.

No one wanted her because they desired her.

No one cared about her.

Everyone just wanted to move her around like a pawn, using her as a piece to win in a game she didn’t understand, treating her as if her only worth was securing them some kind of stupid victory over someone else. Her mother had done it when she had agreed to marry her off to a god of low standing, securing her position above Persephone in the pantheon and claiming a victory over Ares too, denying him what he desired. Aristaeus had done it when he had agreed to marry her, securing himself a higher position in the pantheon and strengthening his connection with her mother, ensuring he would be invited to attend feasts that had been denied him before and that more mortals would know of him and might even pray to him more often.

Now, Hades was using her, and she might not understand why yet, but she was damned if she was going to sit back and let him do as he pleased, treating her as too many had before him, as if she was inferior and should merely do as she was told, obeying her superiors.

She was done being treated as if she was worthless.

She was done being made to feel as if she had no value. No power. No use in this world.

It hurt too much. The thought that Hades didn’t really want her, that the male she desired above all others only wanted to use her, hurt too much—far worse than anyone or anything had hurt her before.

Her barriers came up hard, slamming shut around her aching heart, too late to shield it.

“I will never be yours,” she spat, the words bursting from her lips as her heart stung, a reaction she couldn’t contain as all the pain, all the harsh words and snide ones her mother and others had thrown at her, rolled into one agonising, sharp feeling inside her.

It was a push too far.

Rage blazed in his eyes and then he was gone.

Persephone gasped and sank to her knees, holding on to the doorframe for dear life as the entire tower shook and swayed, and outside one of the mountains erupted, throwing a great plume of ash and ribbons of lava into the air as crimson lightning crashed down with thunderous booms.

“Idiot,” she muttered as she clung to the tower, chastising herself for inciting his anger when she was so high above the ground.

No. She was a fool for inciting it regardless.

Persephone swallowed to wet her dry throat as the trembling finally subsided again and she sank to her backside, her spine meeting the wall near the doorframe. Her mind raced, a thousand moments colliding inside it as she tried to figure out what was wrong with her. Angering the god-king of the Underworld, a male with a legendary temper, was nothing short of suicidal.

And speaking to anyone in the way she had spoken to him wasn’t like her at all.

She had never sought to provoke anyone before.

She had always done what others wanted, seeking to please them, as if that was her lot in life. But for some reason, she couldn’t do that with him.

Whenever he issued an order or a demand, she felt compelled to do the opposite.

Just to provoke him.

And whenever he wounded her, or she felt in danger of being hurt by him, she felt compelled to lash out at him, to push him away.

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