Page 124 of Hades

The underworld had always been mine. But Lettie Foster had just opened a door beneath it, and I had no fucking idea how deep it went.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Lettie

The kettle was just starting to whistle when I heard his bike.

Low rumble. Familiar now. The sound settled into my bones the way morning light did. Expected, inevitable... mine.

I didn’t move from the stove. Didn’t turn around when the back door opened. Cerberus lifted his massive head from where he was sprawled across the kitchen floor, ears forward, but he didn’t growl. Didn’t stand. Just watched Brock enter my house like he belonged there.

Because he did now.

That was the thing about claiming. About being claimed. The space shifted. Rearranged itself. Made room.

His hand found my waist before I heard his boots stop moving. Warm. Solid. The kind of touch that said mine without words. He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, brief and almost absent, and I felt the weight of him behind me. Not pressing. Just there.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey.” I reached for the kettle, pulling it off the burner before the whistle could scream. “You want tea?”

“Yeah.”

I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. Chamomile for me. Something darker for him. A blend I’d been working on with valerian root and passionflower. Calming, but not sedating. He’d been wound tight lately. Everyone had.

Brock moved to the table and sat down heavily. The chair scraped as he exhaled.

I glanced over my shoulder.

He wasn’t looking at me. His elbows were on the table, hands clasped in front of him, gaze somewhere distant. Not cold. Not angry. Just thinking. The kind of quiet that came before something shifted. Before a storm rolled in or a decision got made.

I knew that look.

I’d spent my entire life reading silence. Measuring tone. Watching posture for the shift that meant something was about to turn sharp. My mother had taught me that. Not intentionally, but thoroughly. You learned fast when survival depended on knowing which version of a person was walking into the room.

Brock wasn’t a threat.

But he was carrying something heavy.

I poured hot water over the tea bags and let them steep. Watched the color bleed out—pale gold for mine, deep amber for his. The scent rose with the steam. Floral. Earthy. Safe.

“Long day?” I asked.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough. Tired. “Church ran late.”

I brought the mugs to the table and set his in front of him. He wrapped both hands around it immediately, like he needed the warmth more than the drink.

I sat down across from him and cradled my own mug, waiting.

He’d talk when he was ready. That was another thing I’d learned. You didn’t push men like Brock. You gave them space and let them come to you.

Cerberus padded over and dropped his head on Brock’s thigh. Brock’s hand moved automatically to scratch behind his ears, and I watched the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.

“Something came up,” Brock said finally.

I looked at him over the rim of my mug, waiting for him to continue.

“A woman died. Outside town.” He took a sip of tea, eyes still distant. “Henderson County. Darlene Kessler.”