Page 30 of His in the Dark

But maybe he will not see that I gave in and tore into that pomegranate. Maybe he will not notice the missing wine. Maybe this is an acceptable sacrifice.

I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes. Ignoring his presence as best as I can.

I feel him pause, noticing his gaze hot on the curve of my body. His intentions sliding over my skin underneath the blankets.

I try not to move. Still as can be with racing thoughts as the wine works its own magic. A depth of darkness slips through me and my grip tightens on the sheet.

My breathing gets faster. The tension I feel when he’s in the room—when my heart is racing in a warning,he’s here, he’s here, he’s here—is too strong to ignore. The scent of him is subtle, butit’s there—faint and spicy, like something only the Gods could dream of having.

My entire soul centers on his next step.

Will he touch me? Will he reach over the sheet and put his hand around my throat again? Will he lay his hand on my chest to feel my heartbeat?My pulse skips at the idea of his touch, lightning fast and too strong to resist.

And yet I did resist it. I told himnoto his face.

How many more times will I have to resist? When he can make things so much easier for me? When he promises my powers, and surely, he’s demonstrated his.

As many times as it takes,I tell myself sternly.Even if I have to spend the rest of my life resisting. Even then.

This God deserves nothing but my anger. How dare he take me, as if I am some possession!

His footsteps retreat, and I exhale a sound of disappointment. I can’t stop the noise from slipping between my lips. All I manage to do is make it quieter. Then I press my face into the pillow and breathe long and slow, praying for my heart to slow.

A few minutes later, the bed dips. There are a few gentle tugs at the sheets.

He’s gotten into bed beside me. And with him, the heavy presence of a blanket. A soft, and luxurious blanket that promises warmth.

I’ve been too cold to warm the sheets myself, but his heat is an instant presence in the bed. It radiates off him. I will not go to him. I willnot.

Although I crave the comfort.

It is dark in the bedroom. The low lights that had been on all night are off.

I listen to him breathing.

The sound is welcome after hours filled with only my own screams and tears. After an eternity filled with panic and a night filled with hunger and despair. The sound of Hades’s steady breathing shouldn’t offer me any comfort, but it does. Perhaps it‘s the wine. Perhaps it’s my own curiosity. Perhaps it’s the promises he’s offered and how tempting they are.

Hot shame spreads across my face. I close my eyes and try to stop listening.

I can’t.

I resolve to listen without caring instead.

I can’t.

Another rustling sound. I peek out of the corner of my eye.

Hades has opened an arm to me, his hand nearly touching my shoulder. His masculinity is on full display with his carved muscles. A different temptation sweeps over me. Almost like protection… like a savior. I would only have to turn over, and I would be wrapped in his arms with warmth and an offering I can hardly refuse: my powers.My magic. I would barely have to lift my head, and I would be in his arms, offering.

I close my eyes again. My chest aches, needy and tired. My body wants the warmth he offers. My body is a traitor, because it already wants to bend to his demands, if only to have food and drink. If only to have a taste of the power I’d begun to lose.

Would I be able to stop if I caved? Or would I fall desperately into madness. I’ve heard tales of Hades’s brutality and surely this is weak compared to the stories. I almost tipped the bottle of wine to my mouth and splashed it all over my face in my desperation. Would I be able to hold myself back from Hades?

He sighs in the dark, a deep low sound of almost pleasure. “You will come in the night. It is not shameful.”

It is not my choice,I want to tell him, but I cannot bring myself to speak. I fear too many other words would come with that admission. I fear I would tell him of the secret shame thatgrows behind my ribs and between my legs with every minute that ticks past.

It’s the shame of wanting him. It’s the shame of wanting to give in. Everything about this is shameful. To bow down seemingly willingly although I’ve been given no choice. I have only shreds of my dignity left, and if I do not guard them with everything I have, I will be left with nothing.

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