Page 104 of Hades

He’d set the table for us.

Such a small thing. Such a simple gesture. But no one had ever done that for me before. No one had ever thought to prepare something for me while I was taking care of someone else. No one had ever considered that I might need care too.

I stopped in the doorway. Frozen. I couldn’t make myself move forward, afraid if I did, this moment might end. This fragile, unexpected tenderness might shatter, and I’d be left with the reality that men like Brock Davis didn’t do things like this. Didn’t think about comfort or proximity or whether someone might need a glass of water waiting for them.

But he had.

He was looking at me now. Those dark eyes reading me the way he always did, like I was a book written in a language only he understood.

“You set the table,” I said quietly. My voice came out softer than I intended. More vulnerable.

“Yeah.”

One word. But the way he said it. The way he watched me. Like this was normal. Like this was what he did. Like taking care of me was as natural as breathing.

I moved into the kitchen slowly. My legs felt unsteady. My heart was doing something strange in my chest, beating too fast, too hard. Like it was trying to tell me something my brain refused to acknowledge.

I sat down in the chair he’d pulled out. The one he’d chosen for me. And when I looked at him, really looked at him, I saw something in his expression that made my breath catch.

Possession, yes. That was always there. That dark, consuming need to own and claim and keep.

But underneath it, beneath all that intensity and violence and barely controlled hunger, something else.

Tenderness.

He took a bite of the stir fry. His eyes closed briefly, and a low sound of appreciation rumbled in his chest.

“This is fucking incredible,” he said.

The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. I’d been cooking for years. I knew I was good at it. But hearing it from him. Watching the genuine pleasure on his face as he ate something I’d made. It mattered more than I realized.

“Thank you,” I said.

I picked up my fork and pushed food around my plate, taking small bites I barely tasted. My mind was spinning, racing, trying to process what was happening here. What this meant.

He’d set the table.

He’d waited for me.

He was sitting here eating lunch with me like we were a couple. Like this was normal. Like we did this every day.

“You okay?” he asked.

I set my fork down and took a deep breath, letting the question I’d been holding back finally surface.

“What about me?” I asked.

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Everything inside me felt too tight. Too exposed. Like I was standing naked in front of him and he could see every scar, every wound, every broken piece I’d spent years hiding.

“If I accept your claim⁠—”

“Baby, there is no accepting it. You are my old lady, my queen.”

The words hit me with force. My gaze snapped to his. Heat flooded my face. Anger and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

“What if I don’t want to be claimed? What if I don’t want a prospect following me around? Do I not get a say in my own life?”