Page 30 of Where Darkness Bloomed
He wanted to move—needed to. To cross the space between them, to gather her against him and shield her from her own panic.
But he was still, holding the silence, letting it settle between them.
Her breath slowly fought its way back to steadiness. She stared up at him from the floor—wide-eyed, drowning—and he watched her, unwavering.
Only when the stillness had seeped into the bones of the hall did he move.
He straightened, then stepped from behind the throne, slow, measured steps carrying him down the dais. Yet each soft footfall seemed to push her deeper into panic as he approached.
When he reached her, he knelt.
Even so, he towered over her, swallowing the space between them like the tide overtaking the shore. His hands moved with care, brushing the fevered warmth of her arms—
And she broke.
“No!”
The word burst from her, a shattered cry. She thrashed as he drew her up from the floor, fists shoving against his chest.
“Let me go!”
A sharp breath cut through his teeth. Then his voice fell over her, low and deep, a command laced in iron.
“Peace.”
It struck her still. Her breath still came in jagged pulls, her chest rising too fast. Tears silvered her eyes as she looked up at him.
And then—he saw it.
The realization struck him hard. A brutal spear to the chest.
The violence of her terror. The way she trembled against him. The blanket slipping from her shoulders, baring too much soft skin.
She thought he meant to take her. To strip the blanket away and force her beneath him. Here, on the floor of his throne room.
His hands went still.
“Please,” she whispered, the word splintering. She shook violently in his grasp, tears slipping freely down her face. “Let me go.”
His jaw locked so tightly it hurt.
She did not know. She had no understanding of how long he’d borne the ache of her absence. How long it had been since he had first heard hername spoken, proclaimed by the Fates at her birth. That he would sooner burn the Underworld to ash than bring her harm.
A storm howled within him, but he chained it down.
His hands gentled, his fingers easing against her arms. A touch meant to steady, not to capture.
“Peace, Persephone,” he murmured, the iron gone from his voice. “Be still.”
Then, with deliberate care, he drew her closer, guiding her into the shelter of his arms.
At first, she stood rigid, her body strung tight. He did not move, didn’t speak. He simply remained there, holding her against him in the quiet of the throne room.
Like frost melting from a branch, the tension gradually began to thaw. Her limbs slackened, her breath easing. And, at last, the weight of exhaustion brought her closer, her body leaning into him.
Every part of him answered her. A fire, deep and wordless, leapt inside him, whispering that she belonged here, in his arms. That no god, no force of fate would unmake what she was to him now.
But he said nothing.
