Page 8 of Hades and Persephone: Keeper of Sins

Still, the dark shadows seem to swim in the twisting wind, impossibly sentient.Watching me.

“What do you think?”

I blink, startled by the deep warmth within the man’s voice. It’s like being enveloped by sin and flame and the kind of darkness that makes you want to close your eyes and settle in for a long, dreamless sleep.

What the hell, Annie?

“About what?” I ask disjointedly. I can’t seem to tear my gaze from the painting to look at him. I’m held captive by the horror. Aprisoner of paint.

“The painting.” I think I hear amusement, and it’s the thing that draws my gaze to him.

I’m struck. He’s—well, he’s—I—I’m speechless.

A hot blush climbs from the deep of my belly. An inferno of dormant hormones suddenly bursting like a pin-pricked balloon in the depths of me. It paints my too-pale skin a deep shade of pink. My mouth goes bone dry.

God, save me.

As though he heard my mental plea, the corner of his full mouth twitches. He tips his head ever so slightly toward the painting, prompting in his deep timbre, “The painting.”

I blink. My mind is blank. I parrot weakly, “Th-the painting?”

The twitch of his lips tugs into a half grin. The knock I feel against my heart is physical. “What do you think of the painting?”

“Ohhh.” I cover my burning cheeks with cool hands. I can’t even blame my obliviousness on having a drink, because I didn’t have a single one.

The man slides his big hands into the pockets of his fitted suit as he waits. I can’t help but give him a quick once-over before I force my gaze back to the painting. He’sthathandsome. And that’s saying something, considering I can’t recall ever having a crush on anyone. In fact, I’d been so unmoved by attraction, for either girl or boy, that I thought I might be asexual.

If I’m taking into consideration the tingling heat I feel between my legs right now, I’m going to say I’m not asexual at all. Apparently, all I needed to get me going was a man twice my age. Okay, maybe I’m being just a tad dramatic, but the guy has to be touching thirty-five. Maybe even thirty-seven.

I can’t believe I’m entertaining these thoughts.

Things are wrong with me. Big things. Dad would lose his mind if he knew I was getting all tingly for a man in his thirties.

I do my best to banish the tingles as I consider the painting again. WhatdoI think of it?

I steal a breath that tastes oddly of woodsmoke, earth, and something else. Something unknown. Thoughts of epic tragedy fill my mind, but instead of forming an eloquent reply, I blurt, “I think the artist is crazy.” There’s a deep chuckle beside me, but I hurry to explain, “I mean, I’m not the best judge of sanity. I’m pretty sure I’m mad, too.”

What in the heck is wrong with me?Shut up, Annie. Shut. Up!

“And, might I ask, what has your sanity in question?”

I can literallyfeelmyself attempt to swallow the words, but when I open my mouth, they tumble out in a blast of truth that has the blood draining from my face in one quick whoosh. “I hear a voice in my head.”

I’ll never recover from this.

He arches a single brow. I decide I’ve already blown apart whatever interest called him over to me in the first place. I may as well continue trudging full speed down the damning tracks of truth.

This train has left the station, and there’s no going back.

Grammy always said there’s no point in being embarrassed about what has already transpired. You can’t change the past, and as long as you’re moving forward, you’re going in the right direction.

I forge ahead, lifting a single finger between us. “Just one voice. I’m not a complete lunatic. I’ve heard him since I was little.” His eyes drift over my face when I scrunch my nose. Quietly, I admit, “I can’t recall a time when I didn’t hear him.”

“What does he say to you?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t ever say anythingtome.”

His head tips, and there is curiosity in his dark eyes. “Then what do you hear?”

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