Page 102 of Bride of Death

Normally, I don’t mind. I enjoy exhibitionism.

But what Sera and I have shared lately is… it’s ours.

It’s confusing.

It’s wrong.

Growling, I walk into my bathroom and directly to the shower—which starts automatically when it senses my presence. The temperature also magically adjusts to match my mood.

Which means the water is scorching hot.

I slam my palm against the rocky wall, my opposite one going to my throbbing shaft. “Fuck.” I’m furious and I’m burning. It’s a dangerous combination.

My shadows ripple across my skin, seeming to hum in response to my lethal desires.

Movement behind me has the hair along my nape standing on end.

Hades’s steps are silent, but his power is loud. It’s suffocating. It’s a presence in and of itself.

“Does she want you to kiss her?” he asks softly, his question carrying over the sound of the rainfall because his words are laced with dark energy.

I ignore him and bend my arm, leaning into the wall as I slowly stroke myself to thoughts of Sera. Her mouth is so fucking perfect. So plump and pink. The kind of lips that men dream about having wrapped around their cocks.

Styx, just thinking about that has me picturing her on her knees.

My grip tightens, my chest burning with the need for release.

But I don’t want to give Hades the satisfaction of watching me explode. Even though he should see it. Witness whathis matedoes to me. How he’s torturing me by dangling a piece of forbidden fruit just within my reach, all while holding me above the fiery pits of the afterlife.

One wrong touch and he’ll drop me.

And I’m almost beyond the point of concern.

I don’t know how it’s come to this.

Except that’s not true.

I’ve been watching this woman for months, memorizing her facial cues and speech patterns, observing her strength, noting the way she masks hurt feelings and worries.

She’s strong. Fierce. Yet soft and innocent.So fucking innocent.

“She’s not playing a game,” I grind out.

“I’m starting to wonder if that’s true,” Hades responds, reminding me that he’s intruding on my personal space.

Though, I suppose it isn’tmy space, is it?

He owns this palace.

And I’m fairly certain he thinks he owns me, too.

I finally look toward him and find him leaning against my counter, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his hands in his pockets.

He arches a brow. “Surprised?”

I’m not sure what he’s referring to. Surprised that he’s here? No. Surprised that he’s wondering if what I said is true? “Yes.”

He smirks. “Me, too.”