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“Why are there dead people in your river?”
“They are the souls who were not buried with coins,” he said.
She opened on eye. “You still do that?”
He smirked. She decided she liked when he smiled. “No. Those dead are ancient.”
“And what do they do? Besides drown the living.”
“That’s all they do,” he replied, matter-of-factly, and Persephone paled. Then she realized that was their purpose. No souls in, no souls out. Anyone who found their way into the Underworld without Hades’ knowledge would have to cross the Styx, and it was not likely they would survive.
She fell silent after that. Hades finished cleaning her wound, and once again, she felt his healing warmth radiate through her. Her shoulder took far longer than her ribs, and she wondered just how bad the injury had been.
Once he finished, he placed his fingers under her chin. “Change,” he said.
“I…don’t have anything to change into.”
“I have something,” he said, helping her to her feet. He directed her behind a screen and handed her a satin robe. It was short and black.
She looked at the piece of fabric and then at him.
“I’m guessing this isn’t yours?”
“The Underworld is prepared for all manner of guests.”
“Thank you,” she said curtly. “But I don’t think I want to wear something one of your lovers has also worn.”
She wished he would have told her there were no lovers, but instead he frowned and said, “It’s either this or nothing at all, Persephone.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“What? Undress you? Happily, and with far more enthusiasm than you realize, my lady.”
She spent a moment glaring at him, and then her shoulders sagged. She was exhausted and frustrated and not interested in challenging the god. She took the robe from him.
“Fine.”
He gave her the privacy she needed to change. She stepped out from behind the partition in the robe and immediately fell under Hades’ gaze. He stared at her for a long moment before clearing his throat, taking her wet dress and hanging it over the screen.
“What now?” She asked.
“You rest,” he said and lifted her into his arms. She wanted to protest. He had healed her, and despite her weariness, she could walk, but she remained quiet, unable to speak. Hades was looking at her and carrying her to his bed. He held her gaze, even as he laid her down and drew the blankets over her body.
Her eyes were heavy with sleep.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and then noted the harsh set of his face. Frowning, she said, “You are angry.”
She reached out to smooth his knitted brows, tracing her finger along the side of his face, over his cheek, and to the corner of his lips. He did not relax under her touch, and she withdrew quickly. She closed her eyes, not wanting to witness his frustration.
“Persephone,” she said.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“I wish to be called Persephone only. Not ‘lady.’”
“Rest,” she heard him say. “I will be here when you wake.”
She didn’t fight the sleep that came.
