Page 93 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“I had time,” he replied wryly. “But, yes.”
She stood still, her gaze sweeping the landscape—its vastness, the weight of eons etched into its bones. Then, with a slowness that sent heat rising in him, she leaned back. Her head rested against his chest, her body softening in his arms.
It was a small gesture, yet it was everything. An offering of trust, quiet and sincere.
His hands slid down the length of her arms, settling at her waist. Fingers tightening slightly, he turned her to face him with the kind of gentleness only she had ever drawn from him.
“Last night...” His voice was rough. “If I caused you pain... if I frightened you—it was never my intent.”
A faint flush rose to her face, soft as sunlight on water. But she didn’t look way. Instead, her hand came to rest on his chest, her palm resting flat above his heart.
“I am not hurt,” she said quietly. “Nor frightened.”
The words fell like warm rain on dry ground. They slipped beneath his ribs, easing something clenched there, ancient and aching.
Her gaze dropped—first to his mouth, then to the hollow of his throat, the cut of his shoulders, bare beneath his himation. Her hand moved again, fingers whispering over the curve of his bicep, tracing the strength beneath his skin. A tender touch, quietly curious.
He should have let her continue. Let her touch him slowly, take what she wished from him with the quiet boldness blooming behind her touch. But the burn in his blood rose too hot, too fierce, desire pounding through him like a war drum.
He tugged her closer, tilting her mouth to his—and kissed her.
It was deep, searing, filled with everything he hadn’t said: the hunger, the devotion, the restraint worn raw. She answered with a soft, aching sound that curled hotly in his chest.
When he lifted her, she came easily, arms winding around him. The blanket slipped from her body, falling to the ground forgotten.
Lying against the bed inside, she was gilded in morning gold and the slow drift of shadow. She looked up at him, and the invitation in her eyes struck him still. A look he had longed to see since he’d first touched her at the solstice.
He drank it in like sacred wine, then came to her. One knee pressed to the bed, then the other as he rose over her. His hand glided up the soft flesh of her thigh, fingers spreading wide to cradle the curve of her hip as she opened to him.
Sinking into her was a slow, exquisite agony, a merciless unraveling that drew a groan from them both. Bliss laced with the bite of ache, as the air between them drew taut, heavy with need.
It was no echo of the night before. No gentle discovery. No uncertain offering. She was fire beneath him, his hunger met and matched.
Tenderness swiftly gave way to something rougher, wild and sweet. They moved together with fevered urgency, sweat blooming on skin, breath catching sharp between moans and gasps.
There was no drawing it out. Need bloomed too bright, too sharp between them. She broke apart in shaking waves, her cry muffled against his shoulder. And that was all it took.
Her release ignited his own, tearing the breath from his lungs. A sound broke from his throat, harsh and unbidden, his rhythm deepening as he found the edge she had already crossed.
Then it broke. Heat and light, a storm loosed in his blood, tearing through him in waves. He bowed into her, hands fisted in the sheets, a snarl ripped from him as he emptied himself into her—his seed, his breath, his soul.
The world slowed, its edges softening.
A few moments later, she lay draped across his chest, utterly beautiful in abandon. Her breath warmed his chest, her dark hair spilling over his shoulder, sweat-damp at the temples.
He exhaled slowly, the warmth of her sinking into him, melting the tension from his limbs. Still misted with sweat from their coupling, she molded to his form like she had always been meant to lie in his arms like this. Warm, sated, held against him.
She was sweet—sweeter than he’d ever imagined possible. A balm to an ache he had not realized ran so deep. She soothed and unsettled him all at once, a presence more potent than ambrosia, headier than the richest wine.
The silence was sacred, a quiet harmony of heartbeats and breath. But at last, she stirred.
Her head lifted from his chest, her hair falling like a veil. Her lips were still kiss-swollen as she asked, “What of Tartarus? Where is it?”
Hades brushed a strand of hair back from her brow. “Beyond the temple. It is set apart and within my sight. Its prisoners require... a closer guard.”
She studied him, brow faintly furrowed. “Do you fear them? The Titans?”
“No.” He shifted, tucking one arm behind his head. “They were defeated long ago.”
