A Touch of Malice (Hades x Persephone Saga Book 3)
A Touch of Malice: Part 1 – Chapter 1

PART I

“Changes of shape, new forms, are the theme which my spirit impels me now to recite. Inspire me, O gods, and spin me a thread from the world’s beginning down to my own lifetime…”

– OVID’S METAMORPHOSES

Rough hands parted her legs and skimmed up her thighs, lips followed—a light pressure gliding across her skin. Half-asleep, Persephone arched against the touch, restraints biting into her wrists and ankles. Confused, she tugged on them in an attempt to free her hands and feet but found the bindings would not give. There was something about this, the inability to move, to resist, to fight, that made her heart race and the blood pulse into her throat and head.

“So beautiful.” The words were a whisper against her skin and Persephone froze.

That voice.

She knew that voice.

She’d once considered its owner a friend and now he was an enemy.

“Pirithous.”

His name slipped from between her teeth—laced with rage and fear and disgust. He was the demi-god who had stalked and kidnapped her from the Acropolis.

“Shh,” he whispered, his tongue, wet and cold, slithered against her skin.

A cry tore from her throat. She pressed her thighs together, twisting against the foreign touch ghosting across her skin.

“Tell me what he does that you like,” he whispered, sticky breath bathing her ear, hand skating closer to her center. “I can do better.”

Persephone’s eyes flew open as she sat up, inhaling sharply. Her chest ached and her breathing was ragged, as if she’d just run across the Underworld with a wraith on her heels. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, to realize she was in Hades’ bed, silk sheets clinging to her dampened skin, fire blazing orange in the hearth opposite them, and beside her was the God of the Dead himself, his energy, dark and electric, charging the air, making it heavy and tangible.

“Are you well?” Hades asked.

His voice was clear, quiet—a soothing tonic she wanted to consume. She looked at him. He rested on his side; his exposed skin burnished by the firelight. His eyes glittered black, dark hair spilling over the sheets like waves in a starless sea. Hours ago, she had clutched it between her fingers as she rode him long and slow and breathless.

She swallowed; her tongue felt swollen.

This was not the first time she’d had this nightmare, nor was it the first time she’d woken to replace Hades watching.

“You haven’t slept,” she said.

“No,” He replied, and rose beside her, lifting his hand to brush her cheek. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, straight to her soul. “Tell me.”

When he spoke, it was as if his voice were magic, a spell that coaxed words from her mouth even when they seized in her throat.

“I dreamed of Pirithous again.”

Hades’ hand fell from her cheek and Persephone recognized the expression on his face, the violence in his endless eyes. She felt guilty, having unearthed a part of him that he worked so hard to control.

Pirithous haunted Hades just as much as he haunted her.

“He harms you, even in your sleep,” Hades frowned. “I failed you that day.”

“How could you have known he would take me?”

“I should have known.”

It wasn’t possible, of course, though Hades had argued that was why he had assigned Zofie as her protector, but the Aegis had been patrolling the exterior of the Acropolis during the abduction. She had also not noticed anything out of the ordinary because Pirithous’ exit had been through an underground tunnel.

Persephone shivered, thinking of how she’d thoughtlessly accepted the demi-god’s help to escape the Acropolis, all the while he’d been planning her abduction.

She would never trust blindly again.

“You are not all seeing, Hades,” Persephone attempted to soothe.

In the days following her rescue from Pirithous’ home, Hades had been in a dark mood, which had culminated in his attempt to punish Zofie by relieving her of her Aegis duties—a move Persephone had halted.

Still, even after Persephone had rejected Hades’ decree, the Amazon had argued with her.

This is my shame to carry.

The Aegis’s words had frustrated Persephone.

There is no shame. You were doing your job. You seem to think your role as my Aegis is up for discussion. It isn’t.

Zofie’s eyes had gone wide as she looked from her to Hades, uncertain, before she relented, bowing deep.

As you wish, my lady.

After, she’d turned to Hades. I expect to be informed before you attempt to dismiss anyone under my care.

Hades’ brows rose, his lips twitched, and he countered. I hired her.

I’m glad you brought that up, she’d said. The next time you decide I need staff, I also expect to be included in the decision making.

Of course, darling. How shall I apologize?

They’d spent the rest of the evening in bed, but even as he made love to her, she knew he struggled, just like she knew he struggled now.

“You are right,” Hades replied. “Perhaps I should punish Helios, then.”

She gave him a wry look. Hades had made comments before regarding the God of the Sun. It was clear neither of them cared for one another.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“No, but it would be fun,” Hades replied, his voice contradicting his words, sounding more ominous than excited.

Persephone was well aware of Hades proclivity toward violence and his earlier comment on punishment reminded her of the promise she had extracted from him after she’d been rescued—when you torture Pirithous, I get to join. She knew Hades had gone to Tartarus that night to torment the demi-god, knew that he had gone since—but she had never asked to accompany him.

But now she wondered if that was why Pirithous haunted her dreams. Perhaps seeing him in Tartarus—bloodied, broken, tortured—would end these nightmares.

She looked at Hades again and gave her order. “I wish to see him.”

Hades’ expression did not change, but she thought she could feel his emotions in that moment—anger, guilt, and apprehension—but not apprehension at allowing her to face her attacker, apprehension at having her in Tartarus at all. She knew that a part of him feared to show her this side of him, feared what she would think—and yet, he would not deny her.

“As you wish, darling.”

***

Persephone and Hades manifested in Tartarus, in a windowless, white room so bright, it hurt. As her eyes adjusted, they widened, welded to the spot where Pirithous was restrained in a chair at the center of the room. It had been weeks since she’d seen the demi-god. He appeared to be asleep, chin resting on his chest, eyes closed. She’d once thought he was handsome, but now those sharp cheekbones were hollow, his face wan and ashy.

And the smell.

It wasn’t decay, exactly, but it was acidic and sharp, and it burned her nose.

Her stomach roiled, souring at the sight of him.

“Is he dead?” She could not bring her voice above a whisper just in case—she was not ready to see his eyes. She knew she asked a strange question, given that they stood in Tartarus, in the Underworld, but Persephone was aware of Hades’ preferred methods of torture, knew that he would give life only to extinguish it through a series of harrowing punishments.

“He breathes if I say so,” Hades replied.

Persephone did not respond immediately. Instead, she approached the soul, pausing a few feet from him. Up close, he looked like a wax figure that had grown too soft under the heat, slouched and frowning. Still, he was solid, and all-to-real.

Before she had visited the Underworld, Persephone had thought souls were shades—shadows of themselves—instead they were corporeal, as solid as the day they’d died, though that had not always been the case. Once, the souls of Hades’ realm had lived a bland and crowded existence under his rule.

Hades had never confirmed what had changed his mind—why he’d decided to give both the Underworld and the souls color and the illusion of life. He’d often said that the Underworld merely evolved as the Upperworld did, but Persephone knew Hades. He had a conscious, he felt regret for his beginning as King of the Underworld. He’d done those things as a kindness, as a way to atone.

Despite this, he would never forgive himself for his past and it was that knowledge that hurt her heart.

“Does it help?” she asked Hades, unsure if she wanted an answer. “The torture?”

She looked at the god, who still stood where they had manifested, hair unbound, horns on display, looking dark and beautiful and violent. She could not imagine what being here did to him, but she remembered the look on his face when he had found her in Pirithous’ lair. She had never seen his rage manifest in such a way, never seen him look so horrified and broken.

“I cannot say.”

“Then why do you do it?” She walked around Pirithous, pausing behind him and meeting Hades’ gaze.

“Control,” Hades answered.

Persephone had not always understood Hades’ need for control, but in the months since they’d met, she was starting to desire that very thing. She knew what it was to be a prisoner, to be powerless, to be caught between two horrible choices—and still choose wrong.

“I want control,” she whispered.

Hades stared at her for a beat, and then held out his hand.

“I will help you claim it.”

His voice rumbled in the space between them, warming her chest. She approached him again and he drew her close, back to his chest.

Suddenly, Pirithous inhaled. Persephone’s heart raced as she watched him stir. His head lulled and his eyes blinked open, sleepy and confused.

Again, that fear of seeing his gaze slashed through her, shaking her insides. Hades gave her a reassuring squeeze about the waist, as if to remind her that she was safe, and dipped his head; his breath teased her ear.

“Do you remember when I taught you to harness your magic?”

He was referring to their time in her grove, after Apollo had left with this favor from Hades and a promise from Persephone that she wouldn’t write about him. She had sought comfort among the trees and flowers but only found disappointment when she could not bring life to a parched patch of ground. Hades had come then, appearing like the shadows he bent to his will and helped her harness her magic and heal the ground. He had been seductive in his instruction, lighting a fire wherever he touched.

Her body pricked with chills at the thought and her words hissed from between her teeth.

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, lips grazing the column of her neck.

“Persephone?” Pirithous’ voice was hoarse.

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, focusing instead on Hades’ touch.

“What do you feel?” His hand drifted down her shoulder, the fingers of his other arm, firm around her waist, splayed possessively.

This question was not so easy—she felt many things. For Hades, passion and arousal. For Pirithous, anger and fear, grief and betrayal. It was a vortex, a dark abyss with no end—and then the demi-god said her name again.

“Persephone, please. I—I am sorry.”

His words struck her, a lance to her chest, and as she spoke, she opened her eyes.

“Violent.”

“Focus on it,” he instructed, his hand pressed into her belly, the other laced with her fingers.

Pirithous remained slouched in his metal chair, restrained and jaundiced, and the eyes she had feared stared back now, watery and afraid.

They had switched places, she realized, and there was a moment when she hesitated, questioning whether or not she could hurt him. Then Hades spoke.

“Feed it.”

With their fingers twined, she felt power gather in her palm, an energy that scorched her skin.

“Where do you wish to cause him pain?” Hades asked.

“This isn’t you,” Pirithous said. “I know you. I watched you!”

A roar started in her ears, and her eyes burned, the power inside her a heat she could scare contain.

He had left strange gifts, stalked her, taken pictures of her in a space that was supposed to be safe. He had taken away her sense of security, even in sleep.

“He’d wanted to use his cock as a weapon,” she said. “And I want it to burn.”

“No! Please, Persephone. Persephone!”

“Then make him burn.”

The energy pooling in her hand was electric, and as her fingers slipped from Hades’, she imagined the magic gathered there blasting toward Pirithous in an endless lava-hot stream.

“This isn’t—”

Pirithous’ words were cut short as the magic took root. There was no outward indication that anything was wrong with him—no flames leapt from his crotch, but it was clear he felt her magic. His feet dug into the ground, he bucked against his restraints, his teeth were clenched, the veins in his head and neck popped.

Still, he managed to speak through gritted teeth.

“This isn’t you.”

“I am not sure who you think I am,” she said. “But let me be clear—I am Persephone, future Queen of the Underworld, Lady of Your Fate—may you come to dread my presence.”

Crimson dripped from Pirithous’ nose and mouth, his chest rose and fell rapidly, but he did not speak again.

“How long will he stay like this?” Persephone asked, watching as Pirithous’ body continued to arch and strain against the pain. His eyes began to bulge from their sockets and a sheen of sweat broke out across his skin, making him look green in color.

“Until he dies,” Hades replied simply, watching with an expression of disinterest.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t feel, didn’t ask to leave until Pirithous was silent and limp once more. She considered her earlier question to Hades—does it help? In the aftermath, she had no answer, save for the knowledge that a part of her had wilted and that if she did this enough, the rest of her would wither away.