Page 82 of Seduced

Poppy

Instead of spending the rest of the night crying, Poppy ended up spending it with Rania, two of her dancer friends, and Dante, doing the one thing she had been denied her whole life: just being a girl.

Pure, easy, silly friendship was more of a medicine for her aching soul than anything else could have been right then. After years and years of loneliness, this was heaven.

Had Hades known this was exactly what she needed?

Was it possible that he had removed himself from the room for that purpose? So that he could give her room to grieve? To heal?

Well, whether it was by accident or by design, he had saved her once more.

But she could not think about him now. She, Dante and Rania collapsed on Hades’ bed sometime in the afternoon, stomachs full of food, mouths full of laughter, hearts full of contentment, and slept deeply until the early afternoon.

Poppy woke up completely disoriented at some undecipherable time to the sounds of Dante’s soft snoring. She sat up in bed, the goose-feather covers swallowing her, just in time to see the retreating back of Rania’s dress as she left the room, softly closing the door behind her. The sound must have been what woke Poppy.

She wondered idly what time it was, and how one could possibly tell in here, with the complete lack of windows and natural light. It seemed like everyone down here lived in a separate world of their own, awake all night, resting all day, as if the rules of society did not apply, and everyone could do whatever they wanted. Her brother—she herself—would think that that was too much freedom, leading to all kinds of sin, but she could not think like that any longer. She had gotten what she needed down here, and what she needed was affection and care.

Unable to sleep a moment longer, Poppy climbed out of her bed as quietly as she could, drawing a shawl close about her shoulders. She had changed into a nightgown at some point, even though it was day, and now that she was out of the warm bed, she felt the chill penetrate her bones. Had it stopped snowing? She was fumbling around in the semi-darkness for her dress, when she heard a low thump coming from outside.

She froze, listening.

The sound came again and again, in some sort of building rhythm. It wasn’t too loud, but it was powerful, the ground almost quaking with it.

Poppy walked to the door, stumbling in the dark, and opened it.

The thumping grew louder and she followed it. Out in the hall, there were candelabras lit all times of the day, lining the long corridor with warm yellow light and the carpet was thick underneath her bare feet.

She followed the sound further down the hall and it quickly became apparent that the thuds were the sound of someone hitting something. Or being hit. Poppy picked up her pace, almost running now, until she found the source of the sound. She opened the door, and a scream died in her throat.

Hades was on his knees on the floor, a growing pool of blood around him.

His hair was a wet mess, his chest bare, his muscles glistening with sweat. And he was being beaten to a pulp by three of his guards.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Poppy shouted, but no one heard her over the sounds of fists meeting flesh. “You’re killing him, stop it!”

One of the men’s knuckles met Hade’s jawbone, sending him sprawling on the floor. Hades’ back was blooming with bruises as well, and Poppy felt sick at the sight of blood dripping from a split above his eyebrow and another on his lip. His eyes were unfocused, bleary, and at once, in a split second, Poppy recognized that look. It was the same one she had seen in DeVere’s eyes, a few hours before he almost killed himself: a look of desperation coupled with mad courage and a dash of self-loathing. A deadly combination.

“Stop it!” she cried again, even louder, but the men were bent at the waist, beating Hades’ fallen body, and he did not lift a hand to defeat himself. “For God’s sake, stop!”

Nothing happened.

The blows kept falling over Hades’ prone form, tossing him this way and that, as if he were a rag doll.

Poppy knew from her brother’s failed pugilistic efforts a couple of years ago, that Hades was dressed for the boxing. He wore loose pantaloons, his feet were bare, and he had ribbons woven through his fingers. But these were now bloody, as if he had tried and failed to defend himself. And how could he possibly succeed? There were three men, all bigger, older, and probably better trained than him, circling him with the coordination of a macabre dance.

And beating the living daylights out of him.

And Hades didn’t do a thing to defend himself.

Was it because he couldn’t? Or because he didn’t want to?

The answer to either of these questions terrified Poppy, but not as much as it terrified her to keep watching him being beaten to death and not do a thing about it.

So she did something about it.

Alexei

He was hearing her voice in his head.

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