came from
different worlds. His was violent and bloody; hers was happy and peaceful. He was born in a time when the strong survived and the weak perished. She was born in a time when the weak ruled and the strong protected them. He was no stranger to war, savage in battle and merciful in death, where there was little guilt in killing. To her war was a distant concept she had never see.
He had to fight for that which he wanted, to kill those who stood in the way of his own survival.
He was born to a world where it was right to fight and be savage against equally barbaric enemies.
He could no more fit into her world than she could fit in his. They were poorly matched. But even knowing all this, he couldn’t stop watching her as she sat atop the hill with her nymph friends, one of which could’ve been the nymph in his room and two others who looked vaguely familiar.
He wanted to go to Persephone and ease the loneliness he knew she felt even among the
company of her friends, her mother, and her garden. Instead he closed his eyes, relaxed for the first time since he was a babe of three-years, and dozed.
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
Hades jerked, his body reacting to the threat before he could fully stop it. Grabbing the hand reaching out to him, he pulled her off balance. She pitched forward into his lap and he caught her against him.
She felt so good.She shifted against him, looking up at him from her place in his lap without fear or awkwardness at the strangeness of his action or her position. She was actually smiling, mirth dancing in her eyes.
“Note to self, don’t wake the sleeping warrior.”
“Sorry, I had a visitor this morning—”
“Tarma. She said something about seeing your man part?”
His face heated with embarrassment. “She woke me from sleep and I left without my
clothes.”
“Was it so bad to have a nymph in your bed?”
He coughed. What kind of woman was this! She didn’t know what a man was. But she talked
of sexual things as if…as if they were everyday things, like flowers and food. She was too innocent to realize that sitting on the lap of a Phlegethon daemon-god was no safer than
discussing a man’s nether regions.
“I didn’t invite her there and I prefer to choose my own bed partners.”
She reached out to grip his forearm and he didn’t try to stop her. He wanted to prove her touch had no power over him. Her hand rested on his arm and his skin prickled under the
strength of her power.
Liquid heat flowed through him in a single hot wave that brought instant desire to his loins.
He shifted slightly and stilled as his disobedient man part leapt with the friction, his thickening arousal pinned between their bodies. He swallowed hard and stared down at her.
Her true power, like his, was buried behind a weaker aura of magic. He stared into those
liquid eyes and knew he could deny her nothing. Her magic was a balm to his soul, unlike
anything he’d ever encountered. It tasted pleasant, sweet, and innocent, with the gentlest hint of sensuality and passion. It didn’t attack, but thrummed through the blood beating below the surface of her honeyed skin. His own magic rose to meet hers, swirling around them, enveloping them in a warm cocoon of magic.
She slid off his lap and knelt beside him so they could face each other. “May I touch your face?”
His body reacted to the soft touch of her hands skimming up his scarred arms, over his
shoulders, fingering the jagged edges of his hair, and finally resting on his face. She looked so serious as her fingers combed through his short beard. She touched the cleft in his chin, and then her own chin. She ran her fingers over his cheeks, pausing at the twin scars starting at his jaw and curving up his left cheek to his cheekbone. He waited for the disgust and the questions that would follow, or the avoidance of it.
In his youth his mother had often teased him that with his pretty face he’d be mistaken for a
different worlds. His was violent and bloody; hers was happy and peaceful. He was born in a time when the strong survived and the weak perished. She was born in a time when the weak ruled and the strong protected them. He was no stranger to war, savage in battle and merciful in death, where there was little guilt in killing. To her war was a distant concept she had never see.
He had to fight for that which he wanted, to kill those who stood in the way of his own survival.
He was born to a world where it was right to fight and be savage against equally barbaric enemies.
He could no more fit into her world than she could fit in his. They were poorly matched. But even knowing all this, he couldn’t stop watching her as she sat atop the hill with her nymph friends, one of which could’ve been the nymph in his room and two others who looked vaguely familiar.
He wanted to go to Persephone and ease the loneliness he knew she felt even among the
company of her friends, her mother, and her garden. Instead he closed his eyes, relaxed for the first time since he was a babe of three-years, and dozed.
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
Hades jerked, his body reacting to the threat before he could fully stop it. Grabbing the hand reaching out to him, he pulled her off balance. She pitched forward into his lap and he caught her against him.
She felt so good.She shifted against him, looking up at him from her place in his lap without fear or awkwardness at the strangeness of his action or her position. She was actually smiling, mirth dancing in her eyes.
“Note to self, don’t wake the sleeping warrior.”
“Sorry, I had a visitor this morning—”
“Tarma. She said something about seeing your man part?”
His face heated with embarrassment. “She woke me from sleep and I left without my
clothes.”
“Was it so bad to have a nymph in your bed?”
He coughed. What kind of woman was this! She didn’t know what a man was. But she talked
of sexual things as if…as if they were everyday things, like flowers and food. She was too innocent to realize that sitting on the lap of a Phlegethon daemon-god was no safer than
discussing a man’s nether regions.
“I didn’t invite her there and I prefer to choose my own bed partners.”
She reached out to grip his forearm and he didn’t try to stop her. He wanted to prove her touch had no power over him. Her hand rested on his arm and his skin prickled under the
strength of her power.
Liquid heat flowed through him in a single hot wave that brought instant desire to his loins.
He shifted slightly and stilled as his disobedient man part leapt with the friction, his thickening arousal pinned between their bodies. He swallowed hard and stared down at her.
Her true power, like his, was buried behind a weaker aura of magic. He stared into those
liquid eyes and knew he could deny her nothing. Her magic was a balm to his soul, unlike
anything he’d ever encountered. It tasted pleasant, sweet, and innocent, with the gentlest hint of sensuality and passion. It didn’t attack, but thrummed through the blood beating below the surface of her honeyed skin. His own magic rose to meet hers, swirling around them, enveloping them in a warm cocoon of magic.
She slid off his lap and knelt beside him so they could face each other. “May I touch your face?”
His body reacted to the soft touch of her hands skimming up his scarred arms, over his
shoulders, fingering the jagged edges of his hair, and finally resting on his face. She looked so serious as her fingers combed through his short beard. She touched the cleft in his chin, and then her own chin. She ran her fingers over his cheeks, pausing at the twin scars starting at his jaw and curving up his left cheek to his cheekbone. He waited for the disgust and the questions that would follow, or the avoidance of it.
In his youth his mother had often teased him that with his pretty face he’d be mistaken for a
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