Page 21 of Hades and Persephone: Keeper of Sins

His serious expression cracks with a grin that touches on exasperation. He gives his head a small shake, and commands roughly, “Hades, Persephone. You will call me Hades.”

“Of course.”God, I’m breathless.Every sense I possess is alive.

“Now that’s settled, shall I show you your room?”

“My room?” My brain is lagging, unable to keep up with this dynamic man.

“Yes, Persephone, your room.” He quirks that grin at me. The one that promises threat in the delivery of a tease. “Unless you wish to share mine.”

My heart skitters to a full stop. I’m positive the synapses in my brain sizzle, because for a moment, I am unable to form coherent thought. Then, blushing, I lift my chin. I croak, “My room, please.”

He chuckles, but places his hand on my lower back. The gesture isn’t in any way inappropriate or invasive, and yet my body heats to a near boiling point.

“Come, your room is across the hall from mine.”

Chapter

Twelve

Persephone

The room Hadesleads me to is nothing like the rest of his home. It’s nothing like I imagine a bedroom in Greece to be like. It’s nothing like the white room with the carved nooks in the walls that I share with Willa. The walls aren’t painted a storm-gray, but instead a soft, warm, sandy beige. White wainscoting delivers a richly delicate welcoming that the rest of his home does not convey. The gold metal bedframe, with all its artful twists of vines and leaves is, a statement smack in the centre of the very large room. Draped across the mattress, is a plush green blanket of soft green threaded with delicate, and sparse gold roses. A cloudof pillows tops the head of the bed, and my bones instantly attempt to liquify with the need to sink into all that comfort.

I shake off the urge and let my eyes slide to the matching blush pink lamps that perch on mismatched white bedside tables. A cream-colored desk with a rose-pink chair sits to one side of the floor-to-ceiling window, while a bookshelf packed with books on Greek lore stands to the other side. A chaise chair in a pink so soft it almost looks white, sprawls over a very lightly tinted mossy carpet. The chandelier that hangs above it all appears to be dripping gold.

“There is a bathroom through that door.” My gaze shifts to the door he gestures to. “And a closet through that one.”

I feel suddenly, unexplainably, terribly unworthy.

Stiltedly, I turn to him. “Hades, this is—it’s?—”

“Everything you deserve.” His voice is quiet, and unlike all the other people in my life, there is something about this man that makes me think he has some kind of gifted insight when it comes to my most secret, shameful thoughts. Or maybe it’s not some paranormal gift he possesses, but simply that he pays attention. He sees.He bothers to see.

I shake my head. My voice comes out softer than I intend. There is a slightly wounded ring to my refusal. “It’s too much.”

He disregards my words with a dip of his eyes tothe small bag I carry. His voice, like him, is the rough to my soft. “Is that all you brought?”

I nod. My throat feels so dry. “Yes.”

He frowns. “Do you intend to pack your outfit for the next day every day, Persephone? You are to spend six days a week here. You need more than a night bag.”

I wet my dry lips, refusing to think about the way my blood warms as his eyes chase the movement. “I have four outfits here. I left five at the room I’m keeping in the house with the other students. That’s all I have.”

His eyes move up and down the length of my body, as though searing every dip and curve to memory before he instructs, “Unpack. Get settled and meet me in the kitchen.”

With nothing more, he turns and exits the room.

Even when he’s gone, I still can’t quite catch my breath.

Everything—my whole life—feels suddenly surreal.

The shrill sound of my phone ringing snaps me out of my dazed contemplation of the twist my life has taken. I pull it from my pocket with shaking hands. Mom’s contact lights up my screen in an invitation for FaceTime that has my insides twisting violently with nerves.

I can’t answer here. This room is obviously nothing which I can afford, and I’m not ready to answer her questions. If Dad found out I was living with a man—giving him company, cooking him meals, and sleeping in his home in exchange for payment—he’d be on the next flight.

I let the call run its course and then turn my phone off.

Unpacking only takes a minute, and the closet is entirely too large for the few measly outfits I have. I feel ridiculous as I hang them in the sprawling closet that is, I hate to admit, bigger than the room I have at home in Alberta.

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