Page 379 of The First Taste

Persephone licks her lips, something fiery passing through her gaze. She looks directly at me, almost sneering.

“Are we done?” She swallows, as if she is trying to stay unemotional. “I agree with you. Okay? Now let me get to fucking work. The sooner I start, the sooner I can get the fuck away from you. Permanently.”

I grit my teeth. Hearing her say that is an awful lot like hearing the wordsI want to leave you.

“Go, then.” I jerk my head toward her worktable, piled high with ink, paper and paintbrushes. “Let me know?— “

She immediately starts cramming her earbuds back in her ears and gives me the cold shoulder. She’s telling me to back the fuck off.

In that moment, I understand her completely.

It’s the reaction that I hoped to provoke, after all. So why the hell do I hate it so much?

Clenching my teeth, I keep my reaction to myself. Instead, I turn and walk back to the beds, beginning to move the untouched one toward the work area.

Persephone

Squinting down at the crimson wax seal on a piece of intricately lined paper that I am attempting to replicate, I purse my lips. Spread around the delicate slip of parchment are a number of blocks of wax, a cluster of long handled metal seal markers, and a whole box full of tiny metal instruments with scoops and dull blades. Feeling stiff, I sit up and set one of the blades aside. Lacing my fingers together, I push my hands high over my head.

I’ve been working on this seal for hours now and my back throbs, angry that I have been bent over the worktable for so long. Pushing myself to my feet, I sigh. Staring at the glob, I try to figure out what is off. Something about the seal is wrong but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Have I used the wrong blend of waxes? Or do I need to use a different seal? None of the implements are quite right for the task but that’s why I’m here, I suppose. I have used the scoops and blades and a tiny blowtorch to craft the impression of a crown in wax, the Tunisian royal insignia.

But there is something different between the seal and the picture I have on my phone. And it’s driving me crazy trying to figure it out.

“Take a break.”

Hades’ sudden and unexpected nearness practically makes me jump out of my skin. I dart a glance at him, startled. He stands less than a foot away, a brow arched, holding two white paper cups.

My eye catches on the way his black button up gapes at the collar, two black buttons undone. For some reason that small lapse — either intentionally done or not — makes my cheeks fill with heat. I jerk my eyes away and touch my messy bun.

“What?” I ask.

His expression gives away exactly nothing. He lifts a cup, offering it to me. I stand up, moving a few inches closer and accepting the cup.

“Come on.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s walk outside for a minute. I’ve bought sandwiches.”

I pause, casting a glance over my shoulder at my work. It’s not going anywhere, of course. I know that.

But my brain is still stuck on the same question. What is it about that seal that’s inauthentic?

Other than the fact that I am trying to replicate it in a darkened warehouse hundreds of miles away from Tunisia, of course. I wrinkle my nose and sigh.

“Okay.”

Hades reaches for my elbow, thinking I guess to steer me out of the warehouse. But I shoot him a sharp glance, just shy of a glare, and sidestep him altogether. He lets me lead the way outside without comment, but I can feel his heavy gaze on the back of my neck as I roll aside the heavy warehouse door.

I suppress a sigh and walk outside into the dying heat of the day. It’s nearly twilight, the sun drunkenly beginning to disappear behind the broad sweep of the azure ocean. The breeze picks up as I walk toward the shore, breaking what was probably an unbearable heat. I wouldn’t know, as I was utterly absorbed in my work all day.

Hades sips his coffee, watching me out of the corner of his eye. I suck in a deep breath and taste the drink he brought me.

To my surprise, it is a creamy, milky chai latte. I tip the paper cup up and chug a little, realizing only now that it’s been forever since I have eaten or drunk anything.

He doubles down, pulling a paper bag from his pocket and offering me a piece of baguette layered with cheese and butter. I walk along the shore, practically inhaling half the sandwich and chasing it with the sweet spice of the latte.

The wind picks up, clawing at my dress, whipping the waves into a froth. My footsteps sink into the sandy shore as I walk down to where the waves crash onto the beach, skittering up the already wet ground until it just reaches my feet.

I take another bite of the sandwich and mmm a little, appreciating how buttery and cheesy it is.