Page 64 of Hades

When he hung up, he turned to me, still standing where he’d left me. Afraid to move, afraid to let him leave my sight, knowing that once he did, he would disappear again. Knowing that this moment, this connection, was temporary. That men like him didn’t stay with women like me.

“I have to get back.”

I didn’t respond. What could I say? Don’t leave? Stay here and make me come again? Fuck me properly this time so I can feel you inside me for days? I nodded, and he frowned.

“Come to the clubhouse tonight,” he said, stepping closer.

“Why?”

“Because I want you there.”

He must have seen the confusion on my face, the doubt, the fear that this was all some game to him, because he ran a finger over my cheek and whispered, “I want to show off my queen.”

I cleared my throat and looked away. I didn’t know how to answer. The last time I was at the clubhouse, I’d watched his president scream at and berate the one person I considered a friend. Watched Zeus lose his shit over a child he didn’t know existed. Watched the violence simmer just beneath the surface of every man in that room.

It was his father’s funeral.

That was one of those situations that screamed second chance to me. Zeus had just buried his father and learned he had a son. Anyone would be emotional under those circumstances. Anyone would lash out. Anyone would be cruel.

But that didn’t mean I wanted to walk back into that den of violence and testosterone and barely controlled rage.

Brock leaned down and kissed the side of my head. The gesture was tender. Sweet. At odds with the way he’d just finger-fucked me against the side of my house.

“Six o’clock.”

It was an order given softly, but an order all the same, and something inside me lit up at the command. Something dark and needy that wanted to be told what to do. That wanted to surrender control. That wanted to belong to someone who could handle the darkness inside me without flinching.

He waited for me to respond, and when I nodded, he smiled.

He had a beautiful smile despite the scar on the side of his face. The scar that told me he’d seen violence. That he’d survived it. That he was dangerous in ways I was only beginning to understand. He kissed me again, then groaned, complaining about club shit getting in the way.

He backed away from me and jogged down the stairs to the front of the house, where I heard his motorcycle roar to life. The engine’s growl vibrated through the air. Through the porch. Through my chest. I still hadn’t moved. Cerberus barked at the screen door, and I blew out a breath.

I opened the door, letting the dog out so he could run around front, no doubt looking for Brock. I headed inside and started making breakfast while thinking about what I’d wear tonight.

Nothing in my closet screamed biker chick, and I considered running out to the boutique in town but decided against it. I wouldn’t change who I was for anyone, especially a man who hadn’t convinced me he was really in this.

His words were pretty, arousing, everything a girl wanted to hear. But his actions hadn’t matched. I considered ghosting him the way he’d ghosted me, but I wasn’t that petty.

Okay, I was that petty. But I was also curious.

Curious about what it would feel like to be claimed by the King of the Underworld. Curious about whether he’d still want me when he learned the truth about who I was. Curious about whether he could handle my darkness the way he claimed he could.

But you know what they say.

Curiosity killed the cat.

And I was walking straight into the lion’s den.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lettie

Halfway up the driveway to the clubhouse, I could hear the music pumping. I finally understood how the sound carried all the way to my house two miles away. The bass vibrated through my chest, rattling my ribs, making my teeth ache. I was glad I’d left Cerberus at home. The noise would have driven him insane.

Motorcycles lined the front of the building like metal soldiers, chrome gleaming in the fading sunlight, leather seats worn smooth from years of riding. An area was set off to the side for vehicles. My 1964 F100 highboy’s motor purred as my hand paused on the ignition key. I’d bought this truck for a song three years ago from a guy in New Mexico after he restored it for his wife, who then left him.

They’d been married for almost fifteen years and had three kids. Then she met someone younger online who wanted to travel the world, and I guess she decided she didn’t want to be tied down anymore. Didn’t want the life she’d built. Didn’t want the man who’d loved her enough to restore a truck with his own hands.