Page 37 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

As the shadows curled away, Kore stared at the unfamiliar chamber before her.

It was vast. Beautiful.

A world unto itself.

Dark stone walls were carved with marble reliefs locked in eternal motion—gods and creatures, battles and legends, all caught in gleaming stone. Oil lamps nestled in stone alcoves cast soft, golden halos of light.

White linens framed a wide balcony, billowing softly in the breeze. Beyond, the Underworld stretched in an endless expanse of steep mountains, the peaks already cloaked by nightfall.

At the chamber’s heart sat a great bronze brazier, unlit but commanding, encircled by furs and cushions strewn in an indulgent invitation to comfort. The air was rich with myrrh and clove, spiced yet soothing.

Her gaze rose.

Above, the domed ceiling rose high into shadow.

Like the Underworld’s sky, it was a canvas of dark stone embedded with a vast wealth of glittering jewels.

They formed constellations, a sparkling imitation of Olympus’s heavens.

Stars she had once watched from hilltops, captured here—trapped in eternal brilliance. In his bedchamber.

Her gaze drifted to the bed. It was a massive thing resting atop a low obsidian dais, cloaked in thick coverings, still and expectant.

She had known this.

She had attended many weddings with her mother—had heard the whispers passed among women speaking in sympathy or laughter. Had seen the knowing glances between men, the easy confidence in their eyes, the faint amusement at the inevitable.

A rite as old as the earth .

But knowing was not the same as standing beneath the weight of a powerful god’s gaze.

Across the chamber, Hades stood watching her. Lamplight played across his face, sharpening its chiseled planes with fierce regality.

Without haste, he reached for the pin at his shoulder. The himation slid free, folding soundlessly to the floor. Beneath, he wore a dark tunic, simple and finely woven, fastened at the waist with a belt etched in gleaming gold.

His fingers moved to the clasp. The belt fell away.

She watched, her breath trapped high in her chest. He didn’t move closer—only watched her with steady, masculine composure, as if he could feel the tremor in her stillness.

“You tremble,” he said, voice low.

“I am cold,” she answered, though her skin burned from within.

He didn’t press her. Only turned his eyes toward the brazier.

With a glance, flames roared to life. A wash of warmth unfurled through the bedchamber, shadows curling along the walls like silk ribbons. A restrained display of power so sudden, it startled her. She flinched.

He saw. The distance between them dissolved under his steps. He moved like nightfall descending, unrushed and inevitable.

Kore forced herself to stillness, to breathe through the tightness in her chest, watching him draw closer.

“I—” Her voice caught, brittle. She swallowed, then tried again. “I have never—”

The words crumbled, a flush rising in her cheeks.

He stopped before her, and his presence folded around her like dusk settling over the earth. He smelled of myrrh, cedar, and something dark and elemental, like fire just before it sparks.

But his eyes were softer than she’d ever seen them. Burning not with a consuming fire, but warm embers. He made no move to touch her.

“I know.” His voice caressed her skin, low and sure. “You are afraid.”

Not a question, nor pity. It was power—gently wielded. Truth without judgment, without shame.

But she felt it all the same. She bit her lip, willing herself to calm dignity, to strength. Her fingers knotted into the fabric of her gown.

He glanced down. Then, with the patience of mountains, his broad hands covered hers. With quiet insistence, his fingers coaxed her to loosen, to yield.

“Persephone. ”

Her name was an invocation on his lips, spoken like a rite. It slipped down her spine like spiced wine, warm and potent.

“You have no need to fear,” he said. The words were low, a promise shaped in the hush between them. “Not with me. I will not hurt you, I swear it.”

His thumb brushed a slow circle against her wrist. A single point of contact, gentle but relentless.

“I do not know what to do,” she finally whispered.

He stilled.

The firelight touched his face, all gold and shadow. Eyes dark as obsidian, fathomless as the deep places of the earth, held her fast. When he spoke, his voice was rougher.

“Then let me bear that burden.”

He took her hand, drawing her with him toward the bed. She followed, heart hammering against her ribs, pulse loud in her ears.

At the edge of the bed, he sat and drew her forward until she stood between his knees. One hand came to rest against the back of her thigh, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric.

For a moment, he held her there, his thumb stroking a slow rhythm. Then his hands slid upward, moving reverently along her arms. At her shoulder, his fingers found the diamond pin. A gentle tug, and the pin slipped free.

The fabric sighed as it fell. Cool air kissed her bare skin, and she shivered even as heat rose to her face. His hands settled at her waist, thumbs brushing just beneath her ribs.

His eyes lifted to hers, dark and warm. She had braced for conquest, for hunger that claimed and conquered. But what she found in his gaze was reverence. Wonder.

He looked at her, drinking her in like wine. Like something rare—to be touched gently, worshipped with care.

Slowly, he leaned forward. His lips touched the hollow of her throat, a whisper of warmth that trailed to her collarbone. Then her shoulder. The warm press of his lips was languid, followed by the faint scruff of his beard. As though he meant to memorize her with his lips.

Her hands rose, her fingers slipping into his long, dark hair as heat coiled through her. A pulse of desire, echoing deep with every drag of his mouth along her skin .

When his breath fanned over the swell of her breast, she tensed. Then, so gently she could have wept, his lips closed around her nipple.

She gasped, her back arching. But his mouth was warm, his tongue slow as he tasted her.

His hands swept up her back, gathering her close.

The steady pull of his mouth drew a sharp sound from her, and he answered with a low, satisfied rumble.

His arms held her tighter, as if her unraveling was something he would guide gently to its end.

Her skin burned. She shook in his arms, the warmth in her turning hot and insistent, startling in its force. A moment later, he drew back. His forehead rested against her chest as he drew a slow breath.

Then he stood, broad shoulders rolling. His tunic slid from him, falling beside the bed. She could scarcely draw air.

Bathed in firelight, he looked carved from the eons—his body hewn from centuries of dark power and restrained rule. Not merely beautiful, but commanding. Every line of him formed from strength and dominion.

She barely had time to see him before his hands returned to her. He lifted her effortlessly onto the bed.

Her back met the linen with a sigh. He followed, braced on one forearm, rising above her like a tide.

His breath brushed her cheek. One large palm settled on her stomach, the touch warm and firm. Then, a slow drag downward—over her belly, the soft curve of her hip—

Lower.

His fingers brushed between her thighs. She flinched, but he was unhurried. His fingertips dragged against slick warmth, then brushed an aching place at her core. She cried out, her body rising into his hand.

He swore softly, but she scarcely heard it. His fingers circled, slow and certain, then pressed, gentle but merciless in their touch. Pleasure billowed, slow and deep, rising in waves.

His hand stilled. She nearly cried out at the loss as his touch withdrew. But then—a shift. One muscled thigh slid between hers, nudging them further apart. His hand curved behind her knee, guiding her leg over his hip. And then the hard, aching press of him against her.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he rasped.

She obeyed, thighs tightening around his waist. At the shift of his hips, her breath seized. Above her, his jaw clenched. His head lowered, lips brushing her temple.

A breath. A pause .

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

Then—a deep, controlled thrust.

Her body gave way with a fierce, searing ache. She arched beneath him, a cry escaping as pain lanced through pleasure.

Hades was still, buried deep inside her. His brow pressed to hers, his breath ragged. “Peace, Persephone,” he said, voice strained. “The pain will ease.”

Slowly, it did. The sting dulled, leaving only fullness. Heat. The deep press of him, the ache of being wholly joined. She looked up. His eyes were waiting, dark and open, holding a tenderness that stole her breath.

He held her gaze as he began to move. He took her gently, his hips rocking into hers with smooth, rolling strokes.

Once they were joined so deeply she could barely breathe, his hand slid to her nape, guiding her mouth to his.

His tongue brushed hers, soft and coaxing. Then he thrust—a deep, mighty stroke.

She gasped, but his mouth caught it, swallowing the sound. Then again—deeper, stronger. And again.

A flame sparked. Small at first but rising swiftly beneath the surge of his body into hers. Her hips tilted on their own, legs tightening, rising to meet his movements.

It burned hotter, brighter. Until there was only this. Skin, breath, and the storm building inside her, growing tighter.

Then—too fast—it changed.

Pleasure tilted toward something vast, unknown. Her body went rigid, warring against the tide dragging at her. It was too sharp, too bright. She twisted beneath him, a breath catching harshly in her throat.

She was going to fall.

But he caught her.

His hands captured her wrists, pinning them gently to the bed above her head. “Shhh,” he soothed, voice soft and dark. “Do not fight me.”

She couldn’t breathe fast enough. Another deep thrust, and the slow roll of his hips dragged a cry from her lips.

“I can’t—” she gasped.

The words fractured with the next surge of his body.

“This is pleasure.” His lips brushed her cheek, soft and coaxing. “Let it come.”

Her thighs clamped tight around his hips, every muscle drawn tight. She was burning, lit from within by something wild and breaking. There was no fleeing it. No resisting the wave as it rose to claim her.

He held the moment. Held her .

“Look at me,” he breathed.

Her eyes opened.

His gaze was lit with something deeper than desire as he watched her. She felt as though she was falling into the dark depths of his russet eyes, dragged down into him.

His hand slid between them, fingers gliding down to where their bodies met. Gentle and knowing, his touch found her.

One final thrust, deep and claiming. Then—a soft flick of his thumb. Lightning sparked wildly through her, rippling outward. She arced, a cry breaking free, raw and helpless, as she broke apart in his hands.

His grip tightened on her wrists, anchoring her as the storm crashed through. His body moved with hers, drawing out the pleasure as her head tipped back.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with praise. “Take what is yours.”

Her breath came in broken gasps, fingers curling uselessly above her head. He stayed with her, easing the rhythm, his hands gliding over her now—soothing, reverent, caressing her through the throes.

As her breath began to settle, the tremors fading, his grip shifted, hands sliding to her hips with quiet command. One stroke—hard, certain. A final thrust that sent another bright jolt racing through her.

Above her, his body locked, muscles turning to iron. His hand gripped her thigh, anchoring her to him as a guttural sound tore from him. His hips drove forward once more, fierce and final, as he spilled into her.

Breathless, he caught himself on one arm beside her head. His body blanketed hers, heavy and warm, his chest brushing hers with each rise and fall, breath to breath. She was wrapped in the heat of his body, held in the quiet that followed, interrupted only by their heartbeats.

And in that press of skin and silence, the world vanished, melting away into a warm, golden haze.