Page 105 of Hades

He set his fork down and turned to face me fully, taking my hands in his. His palms were warm. Rough. Calloused from years of violence and motorcycle grips and God knew what else.

“Baby, this war just started. We don’t know enough about who’s running it or what their end game is. I need you protected.”

“And you don’t think I can protect myself?”

I’d been protecting myself my entire life. I’d survived my mother. Survived isolation. Survived being different and dark and wrong in ways that would horrify most people.

“When I arrived in Nebraska, the fight was already there. A lot of men died. Kronos died.” His voice dropped, roughened. “He couldn’t protect himself. A man who grew up in this life. A man people feared.”

He brought my knuckles to his lips and kissed them gently. The gesture was so at odds with everything else about him. So tender it made my chest ache.

“It’s not about strength. It’s about power. And the people who want it will do whatever they have to in order to secure it. That puts you at risk.”

I wanted to argue. Wanted to push back against the idea that I needed anyone watching over me. That independence I’d fought so hard for felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

But the truth was more complicated than that.

The truth was, I was tired. So fucking tired of being alone. Of carrying everything by myself. Of never having anyone who gave a damn whether I lived or died.

“How long?” I asked.

“Until we know the threat is neutralized.”

“And if it never is?”

“Then you get used to having a shadow.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. “I’m not trying to cage you, Lettie. I’m trying to make sure you survive.”

The weight of his words settled between us. Heavy. Suffocating. Real.

I pulled my hand away and picked up my fork again. Took another bite even though I still couldn’t taste anything. My mind was working. Processing. Trying to figure out what this meant. What I was agreeing to.

He went back to his own plate. Didn’t push. Didn’t demand an answer. Just let me sit with it. Let me think.

The silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable. Just present. Heavy with unspoken things.

I watched him eat. Studied the way his jaw worked. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his hands held the fork with surprising delicacy for someone who lived such a violent life.

He was beautiful in a brutal way. All hard edges and dangerous intensity. The kind of man who should terrify me.

The kind of man who did terrify me.

Just not in the way he should.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” he asked, breaking the silence.

The question caught me off guard.

“Cookbooks, recipes I found online,” I said quietly. “A lot of trial and error.”

I took another bite. Chewed slowly. Tried to focus on the food instead of the way he was looking at me. Like I was something precious. Something worth protecting.

“You’re staring,” I said without looking up.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re fucking beautiful.”