Page 106 of Hades

My eyes met his. Something flickered in my chest. Surprise maybe, disbelief. A desperate, pathetic hope that maybe he meant it.

“I’m serious,” he continued. “You’re sitting here in your kitchen, eating lunch, looking distracted as hell. And all I can think about is how fucking perfect you are.”

“I’m not perfect.” I picked up my fork again and took another bite, but my hands were shaking slightly. My heart was racing.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said, digging into his plate again.

We finished eating in comfortable silence. The kind that felt earned rather than awkward. When I stood to clear the plates, he stood with me. Our movements synchronized in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for two people who barely knew each other.

He carried his plate to the sink. I followed with mine. Our shoulders brushed as we stood side by side at the counter, and the contact sent electricity through my skin.

“I’ll wash,” he said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Something about those three words made my throat tight. I want to. Not because he had to. Not because I asked. Because he wanted to be here, in my kitchen, washing dishes, being domestic and normal and everything I’d never had with anyone.

I grabbed a dish towel and stood beside him. He washed. I dried. The warm water ran over his hands as he scrubbed each plate with careful attention. His fingers were long and scarred. Capable of violence, but also of tenderness.

I watched the way soap suds clung to his forearms. The way his muscles flexed as he worked. The way he moved with purpose and precision even in something as mundane as cleaning dishes.

“Is your mom sleeping?” he asked without looking at me.

“In her room, yeah.”

“How long?”

“A couple hours. Maybe three.” I set a dried plate in the cabinet. “The tea I gave her helps her rest.”

He glanced at me, and I held my breath. Waiting. He’d seen me add the extract to her tea but hadn’t asked me what it was.

Watching his face, I searched for something I couldn’t quite name. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was asking him to recognize. Just that I needed him to see it. To see the version of me that wasn’t sweet or soft or safe.

My hands trembled as I dried the next plate. Uncertainty crawled up my spine. What if he was just being kind? What if he didn’t actually understand? What if he was already calculating how to use this against me?

“So we’re alone,” he said.

“Yes.”

He turned off the water and dried his hands on the towel I was holding. His fingers brushed mine. Lingered.

“Good.”

The word hung between us, heavy with promise and threat and everything I’d been trying not to think about since he’d sat down at my table.

He took the towel from my hands and set it on the counter. Then he turned to face me fully, his body crowding mine against the sink. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“I need you to understand something,” he said, his voice low and rough. “When I said you’re mine, I meant it. Not as a threat. Not as control. As a fucking promise.”

My breath caught. “Brock⁠—”

“No.” He cupped my face with both hands and tilted my head back so I had to look at him. “You don’t get to argue this. You don’t get to tell me I’m wrong. Because I’ve never been more right about anything in my entire fucking life.”

His thumb traced my bottom lip, the touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes.

“You’re mine, Lettie.”