Page 94 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“But you do not fear they will escape?”
His hand had been moving idly along the length of her spine. At her question, he paused, considering.
“The Underworld is not easily breached,” he said at last. “Only one has ever succeeded. But Tartarus? It is a prison without a door, and few have dared to try. Koios, the Titan of wisdom, came the closest just after their imprisonment.”
“What happened?”
He glanced down at her. Her cheek was nestled against his bicep, her gaze fixed on him, filled with quiet wonder.
“He was forced back,” Hades replied. “By Cerberus.”
At the name, her body stilled. He felt the flicker of tension in her limbs, the faint quickening of her breath.
He understood.
She had forgotten him—Cerberus. The guardian of every threshold and gate had remained hidden from her. Hades had made certain of that. The beast would come later. Not now. Not yet.
“And there are others,” she said, more realization than question.
His hand was still against her bare back, his gaze returning to her. “I do not want you frightened.”
The words were quietly spoken but edged with iron. He felt them even as he said them—that tightening within him, fierce and possessive, as he thought of her afraid. Here, in her home. Her kingdom.
Her eyes warmed. She pressed closer to his side, tucking herself further into the curve of his body. “I won’t be,” she whispered against his skin. “I wish to know.”
He watched her for a long moment before turning to his side, drawing her into him. She was small in the cradle of his arm, her body warm where it met his, their legs tangling like ivy. He let his eyes fall closed, savoring the feel of her against him.
“Kronos is there,” he said finally. “And his brothers—Hyperion, Krios, Iapetus. Atlas, son of Iapetus, suffers elsewhere, bound to his punishment. And there are others. Warlords, tyrants, beasts... creatures twisted by hate, born of evil.”
Her fingers rose, brushing the edge of his jaw. “Can a creature truly be born evil?”
Hades turned slightly into her touch. “Yes. Typhon.”
The name seemed to darken the air.
Typhon, the last monstrous child of Gaia. Born of fury, bred for ruin. The same ancient, malevolent terror who had nearly shorn Olympus from the earth.
His hand drifted absently to the old scar just beneath his collarbone. A jagged line etched deep above the plane of his pectoral, like a relic carved into stone.
She followed the motion. Then, her fingers found his, interlacing them as she guided his hand aside. “What happened here?” she asked.
He caught her wrist, rotating it until his eyes found the faint gold scar etched across her upper arm from Alecto’s whip.
“The same that happened to you,” he said darkly. “But mine came long before. In the battle against Typhon.”
Her eyes changed then—darkening, deepening like storm-touched seas. Slowly, she rose. Her thigh slid intimately against his as she pushed herself upright until she was sitting beside him. Her hair slipped forward as she leaned over him.
His gaze slid appreciatively over the curve of her breasts, the dusky peaks barely veiled by the dark cascade. The sight sent heat stirring low and sharp along his spine.
“Typhon did this to you?”
Persephone’s eyes were fixed on the old scar. He wrenched his gaze back to hers.
“Yes,” he said, rougher now. “Our battle with him was long… brutal. In the end, it was Zeus who struck the killing blow as Typhon and I grappled on Mount Orthys.” His fingers slid over her knee where it rested against his hip, tracing the curve. “We were victorious, but not without difficulty.”
She frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Typhon is a beast of unmatched fury. A hundred heads, each spitting fire and venom. His breath scorched mountains, wings blotted out the sun. On Orthys, I held him long enough for Zeus to strike.”
