Page 17 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

From the shadows behind his onyx throne, Hades stood unmoving.

The sound of bare feet striking stone echoed softly through the cavernous silence. A breath later, Persephone burst into the throne room.

She was still wrapped in the blanket, her breath unsteady and eyes wild as they swept the hall.

It was blessedly empty. Except for him.

She had not noticed him yet, but he saw everything. The way her fingers gripped the blanket, knuckles white. The tremble in her limbs. The panicked gasps that made her chest heave.

Then she turned—and her gaze collided with his.

A broken sound came from her throat, and she froze. Fear bloomed in her eyes, sharp and unforgiving as a dagger driven into his ribs.

She took a step back from him. Then another.

He remained where he was, forearms braced against the throne’s back. Every instinct demanded he step forward, that he offer low assurances to draw her from the icy grip of fear.

But the look of terror in her eyes held him still. So different to how she had looked at him on Olympus.

The silence between them thickened.

She stepped back again. Too fast—her foot snagged against the trailing end of the blanket.

The fall was swift, brutal.

She crashed to the stone floor with a breathless cry, the blanket twisting around her like a snare. Her hair spilled in waves over her bare shoulders, wild and unbound.

On the dais, Hades gripped the stone hard enough that it groaned in protest beneath his hands. A slow ache curled in his chest, spreading like a relentless tide, threatening to crack the control he wore like armor.

He wanted to move—needed to. To cross the space between them, to gather her against him and shield her from her own panic.

But he was still, holding the silence, letting it settle between them.

Her breath slowly fought its way back to steadiness. She stared up at him from the floor—wide-eyed, drowning—and he watched her, unwavering.

Only when the stillness had seeped into the bones of the hall did he move.

He straightened, then stepped from behind the throne, slow, measured steps carrying him down the dais. Yet each soft footfall seemed to push her deeper into panic as he approached.

When he reached her, he knelt.

Even so, he towered over her, swallowing the space between them like the tide overtaking the shore. His hands moved with care, brushing the fevered warmth of her arms—

And she broke.

“No!”

The word burst from her, a shattered cry. She thrashed as he drew her up from the floor, fists shoving against his chest.

“Let me go!”

A sharp breath cut through his teeth. Then his voice fell over her, low and deep, a command laced in iron.

“Peace.”

It struck her still. Her breath still came in jagged pulls, her chest rising too fast. Tears silvered her eyes as she looked up at him.

And then—he saw it.

The realization struck him hard. A brutal spear to the chest.

The violence of her terror. The way she trembled against him. The blanket slipping from her shoulders, baring too much soft skin.

She thought he meant to take her. To strip the blanket away and force her beneath him. Here, on the floor of his throne room.

His hands went still.

“Please,” she whispered, the word splintering. She shook violently in his grasp, tears slipping freely down her face. “Let me go.”

His jaw locked so tightly it hurt.

She did not know. She had no understanding of how long he’d borne the ache of her absence. How long it had been since he had first heard her name spoken, proclaimed by the Fates at her birth. That he would sooner burn the Underworld to ash than bring her harm.

A storm howled within him, but he chained it down.

His hands gentled, his fingers easing against her arms. A touch meant to steady, not to capture.

“Peace, Persephone,” he murmured, the iron gone from his voice. “Be still.”

Then, with deliberate care, he drew her closer, guiding her into the shelter of his arms.

At first, she stood rigid, her body strung tight. He did not move, didn’t speak. He simply remained there, holding her against him in the quiet of the throne room.

Like frost melting from a branch, the tension gradually began to thaw. Her limbs slackened, her breath easing. And, at last, the weight of exhaustion brought her closer, her body leaning into him.

Every part of him answered her. A fire, deep and wordless, leapt inside him, whispering that she belonged here, in his arms. That no god, no force of fate would unmake what she was to him now.

But he said nothing.

He lifted her into his arms, and with steady steps, he carried her through the empty hall, back to her bedchamber.

Inside, he set her down. His fingertips lingered just a moment, brushing against her bare skin, aching to remain—then withdrew.

She clutched the blanket tighter to her chest, shrinking behind it. Her gaze dropped, avoiding his. A retreat.

Slowly, he reached out. Just as he had on Olympus, he gently touched her chin, bringing her eyes to his. A storm raged in the depths. Confusion. Fear. And buried somewhere beneath it, a spark yet unnamed. The same he’d witnessed at the solstice, flickering like a flame not yet fed.

“You need not fear me.”

A trembling breath parted her lips. “My mother will be looking for me,” she whispered. “I must return home… please.”

The plea curled in the space between them, raw and desperate. A tear slipped down her cheek, glistening like starlight. Before he could think better of it, Hades brushed it away with a touch so gentle it startled even him.

Then, quietly—irrevocably: “My lady, we wed in two days.”

Persephone paled. Her breath caught as though the air had snatched it away .

Hades forced himself to step back. To turn away. To put distance between them, though everything inside him demanded otherwise.

Then—

“Bargain with me!”

The words rang out sharply, stopping him cold at the threshold.

He turned slowly.

Persephone stood watching him with bright eyes. “You have bargained with mortals before. Those who sought to leave the Underworld. I’ve heard the stories.”

He didn’t miss the tremor in her voice, the note of uncertainty clinging to her words.

Hades studied her. “Have you?” he asked quietly, facing her fully now. “Then you know none have succeeded.”

Her composure cracked, just slightly.

“It is difficult to win a bargain struck with me,” he said truthfully, though not unkindly. Then he paused, folding his arms over his chest. “But tell me... what terms would you offer?”

She stood before him with nothing. No leverage, nothing to barter.

He waited, watching the realization dawn on her. Her eyes darted around the chamber, then landed on him once more.

Slowly, her fingers loosened. The blanket around her slid away, falling to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

Her bare skin glowed in the hearth’s light, the soft rise of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the warm color rising in her face.

Hades was still as stone, gaze sweeping over her, slow and consuming.

The strain pulsed through him—hardening muscle, tightening breath, desire igniting like molten metal poured down his spine.

His body answered her with primal certainty, aching to bridge the space between them.

To touch her, to claim what she offered.

To worship her in his bed until her cries echoed through the temple. Through all the Underworld.

But restraint gripped him with iron hands.

When he finally spoke, the words left him in a quiet command.

“Come here.”

A shiver ghosted down her spine. He followed its path, feeling the echo deep in his core.

Slowly, she stepped toward him. Each step was a silent surrender, bringing her closer to him.

When she stopped, the warmth of her skin grazed his, her breasts nearly grazing his chest. Still holding her gaze, he reached for the gold clasp at his shoulder.

The himation slid from his shoulder. He drew it away, baring the carved planes of his naked chest and shoulders.

Her breath hitched. Then her teeth sank into her bottom lip—too hard. A bead of golden blood welled there, glittering like a jewel against the softness of her mouth.

Arousal struck deep, sudden and sharp.

Lifting his hand, Hades swept his thumb softly against her mouth, wiping the drop away. Her lips parted under his touch, and his willpower groaned. His own breath became ragged in his throat, his thumb lingering long enough to betray the storm rising within him.

“Enough,” he murmured to himself, and let his hand fall.

Stepping forward, he drew his himation around her. The heavy fabric settled over her bare skin, cloaking her in him—his warmth, his scent, the memory of his body still clinging to the cloth.

Her eyes lifted to his, startled and searching.

His hands remained at her shoulders. Then Hades leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed his lips.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “I do not accept your terms.”

He turned, leaving before he could surrender to the need to turn back.