A Touch of Ruin (Hades & Persephone #2) - Scarlett St. Clair Page 0,20

next thought: You shouldn’t have mentioned Apollo in my bedchamber, either.

His words fueled her anger, and she felt her power moving in her veins.

“He won’t get away with this, Hades!”

She didn’t add that she really needed this story—that it would provide a diversion for what her boss really wanted—a story about them. Hades must have sensed the change in her power, because when he spoke again, his words were careful and calm.

“I’m not disagreeing with you, but you aren’t going to be the one to serve justice, Persephone.”

“Who, if not me? No one else is willing to challenge him. The public adores him.”

She didn’t understand how they could love Apollo and fear Hades.

“All the more reason for you to be strategic,” Hades reasoned. “There are other ways to have your justice.”

Persephone wasn’t sure she liked what Hades was insinuating.

She glared at him. “What are you so afraid of? I wrote about you and look at the good that came out of it.”

“I am a reasonable god,” he said. “Not to mention you intrigued me. I do not want Apollo intrigued by you.”

Persephone didn’t care if Apollo became intrigued by her or not—the God of Music wouldn’t get anywhere with her.

“You know I’ll be careful,” she said. “Besides, would Apollo really mess with what’s yours?”

Hades lips thinned, and he held out his hand for her to take.

“Come,” he said, sitting in a chair before the fire.

She approached as if his words were magnetic and she were steel. Hades’ fingers wrapped around hers and he pulled her to him, her knees on either side of his thighs. Every curve melded to his hard frame. She kept his dark gaze as he spoke.

“You do not understand the Divine. I cannot protect you from another god. It is a fight you would have to win on your own.”

Persephone’s confidence wavered. There were a lot of rules that bound gods—promises and contracts and favors—and they all had one thing in common—they were unbreakable.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t fight for me?”

Hades sighed and brushed his finger along her cheek. “Darling, I would burn this world for you.”

He kissed her fiercely, violently, leaving her lips raw. When he broke away, she was breathless, and his hands were pressed so firmly into her skin, it was like he was holding her bones.

“I am begging you—do not write about the God of Music.”

She found herself nodding, transfixed by the vulnerable look in Hades’ dark eyes. He hadn’t been near as desperate to stop her from writing about himself.

“But what about Sybil?” she asked. “If I do not expose him, who will help her?”

Hades eyes softened. “You cannot save everyone, my darling.”

“I’m not trying to save everyone, just the ones who are wronged by the gods.”

He studied her for a moment and then brushed a piece of her hair from her face.

“This world does not deserve you.”

“Yes, they do,” she answered. “Everyone deserves compassion, Hades. Even in death.”

“But you are not talking about compassion,” he said, his thumb brushed her cheek. “You are hoping to rescue mortals from the punishment of gods. It is as vain as promising to bring the dead back to life.”

“Because you have deemed it so,” she argued.

Hades looked away, clenching his jaw. She had obviously struck a chord. Guilt made her stomach turn. She knew she was being unfair. The Underworld had rules and a balance of power she didn’t completely understand.

She hadn’t meant to upset him, but she really wanted change.

She reached for him, guiding his eyes back to hers.

“I won’t write about Apollo,” she said.

He relaxed a little, but his face was still hard.

“I know you wish for justice, but trust me on this, Persephone.”

“I trust you.”

His expression was blank, and it felt a little like he didn’t believe her. That thought was fleeting as he lifted her into his arms, holding her gaze, and moving toward the bed.

He sat her on the edge, helped her out of her clothes, and guided her to her back. He knelt between her legs, and his mouth descended lapping at the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. Persephone arched off the bed, her head digging into the mattress, her hands tangling in the sea of sheets around her. She struggled to catch her breath.

“Hades!”

Her cries seemed to have no effect on him as he kept his languorous, torturous pace. Soon his fingers parted her hot flesh, joining his tongue. He stroked and stretched her, moving in tandem with her breathing until she