Page 355 of The First Taste

As I take off my boxer briefs, I try not to shiver at the unusual sensation of wind brushing against my back. The scars on my back form an intricate, crisscrossed pattern, all the way from one side of my back to the other. There are even some stray marks that go down to my elbows and even my wrists.

My father was too drunk to be careful when he beat me. And he left behind traces of exactly how weak I was.

The fucking bully in him couldn’t bear to see my weakness.

So, he left me with these scars. Scars that I don’t like anyone to see. Not even my brothers, who were there when the scars were still fresh abrasions and welts.

I prided myself on never flinching or showing any pain then. And my choices in adulthood have only doubled down on that.

No mercy.

No weakness.

No justice. No judges either.

I live my life on the brink of everything. Just outside of normal people’s field of vision, unafraid of their judgements.

I stride coolly down to the water, sinking in as soon as I can. The water is not refreshing, exactly. But it is warm, warmer even than skin temperature, like being in a giant bathtub that’s only just started to cool off. I swim out, freestyle stroke, hand over hand, splashing quietly in the water. I don’t keep track of the distance, merely swimming at a breakneck pace until I have to stop, treading water and gasping for breath.

I dip my head under the water and then resurface, pulling in heavy gasps of air. How alone I am right now, I think. Would anyone really care if I simply did not ever make it back to the shore?

I probably couldn’t kill myself like this. As I tread water, I think about my brothers. They still need me, whether they’d like to admit it or not. And there is my enemy, Constantine.

I feel the prickling, burning need to see his little empire burn to the ground. It would happen. That much was certain.

All that was left was for me to watch, like Nero watching Rome crumble before his very eyes.

I turn around, bobbing my head under the water one last time. Then I swim back to shore, moving more slowly this time. When my feet hit the sandy ocean shore, I dash the water from my face. I make it halfway out of the water before I realize I am not alone.

Standing next to my pile of discarded clothes is Persephone. She cocks her head and takes in my naked torso, glistening and bare under the sultry glow of the moon.

She’s wearing the silky black dress that I remember seeing earlier, her breasts only held in place by the fragile spaghetti straps of her top. The sweater that I remember is nowhere to be seen. She seems to glow in the moonlight, as if lit from within.

“I wondered whether you were awake,” she ventures, her voice carrying the ten yards between us with ease.

“And now that ye’ve found me… are ye satisfied?” I ask. I realize that I am hovering in the water, behaving like an idiot. Like a teenaged boy, too scared of being naked in front of a girl.

That won’t do.

I surge forward, moving out of the water. Persephone licks her lips, glancing nervously toward my cock once. Her pupils dilate, just a hair. Then she flushes and diverts her gaze.

She doesn’t leave, though. She just… waits.

I stalk up the beach, snatching my black boxer briefs off the ground and stepping into them. Once I have them on, I pick up my shirt. Persephone turns and her eye catches on the scars covering my back.

Her jaw goes slack. She reaches out, her fingers barely touching the back of my muscular arm. “What… what?”

“Stop,” I warn her, pulling away. My tone turns lethal. “Dinnae touch me.”

Her hazel eyes are wide with disbelief as she keeps looking. “Does… does that hurt?”

“It’s fine,” I hiss. I yank at my shirt, but my wet skin stops it on my forearms. It’s halfway on and my hands are shaky as they pull at the material. “Fucking hell.”

“Hades,” she says, her voice plaintive. “Wait. Please.”

At that, my breath seizes. I grimace at the ground, torn.

I want her to look away. I want her to not have seen the scars.