Page 8 of Hades

From the corner of my eye, I watched Zeus shift in his seat. I couldn’t tell if he was listening, if he was processing any of this, or if he’d already shut down and retreated somewhere the truth couldn’t reach him.

Until he married Irene off to the Death Dogs, Zeus had idolized his father. That had been the first crack in the bubble of hero worship. But this? This was a fucking avalanche.

“Karlyn Ingalls, my brother’s woman, has lived a shit life,” King continued. “She was raped at sixteen by numerous men. Nemesis was one of the last two still alive.”

“She fucking lied,” Zeus growled, his voice raw. “My father wasn’t a rapist.”

King’s eyes hardened. “He was twenty-five fucking years old when he made a plan to impregnate your sixteen-year-old mother to get one over on the Brotherhood. According to the law, he’s a rapist. Even if he married her after.”

Zeus opened his mouth to argue, but Cash walked back in, cutting off whatever retort he was about to make. He tossed a file down in front of Zeus, then returned to his seat beside King without a word.

“What the fuck is this?” Zeus asked, staring at the file as if it were a snake ready to strike.

I pulled it over and opened it. Inside was a list of names and poems, but no explanation. The names were all female.

My stomach turned as I read the file. As my eyes took in the ages of each girl’s abduction.

“What the fuck is Project Helix?” I asked, the words scraping past the bile rising in my throat.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lettie

Athens, Texas...

“VIOLET!”

The sound of my mother’s voice cut through the afternoon heat like a dull blade—irritating, predictable, and entirely unnecessary. I didn’t pause in my inspection of the tomato plants. The leaves were yellowing at the edges, a sign of nitrogen deficiency. I made a mental note to adjust the soil composition.

“VIOLET FOSTER, WHERE ARE YOU?”

I continued my work, fingers gentle as I pruned away the damaged leaves. There was no medical reason for her to hole up in her room. Just laziness wrapped in entitlement and served with a side of manufactured helplessness.

She knew exactly where I was. She could see me from the window if she bothered to look.

But that would require effort.

I moved through the rows methodically. Flowers first, then vegetables. Each plant received the attention it deserved. Some needed water. Some needed pruning. Some needed to be left alone to grow in their own time.

Unlike my mother, plants responded to care with gratitude. They didn’t demand. They didn’t manipulate. They simply existed in the space I gave them, thriving or dying based on what I chose to provide.

“VIOLET!”

The screaming continued.

I let it wash over me like white noise, background static to the real work happening in my hands. The nearest neighbor was the motorcycle club almost two miles down the road. With their music loud enough that I could hear the bass line thrumming faintly through the air, I knew they couldn’t hear her theatrics.

She would wear herself out eventually. Her voice would crack and fade, and I would have blessed silence again.

I picked a few onions and carrots, lifting the front of my skirt to cradle the vegetables against my stomach. The fabric was already stained with dirt and plant matter, evidence of a productive afternoon.

My eyes caught on the gate to my secret garden.

Persephone’s Garden.

It was what I’d chosen for the name of my business. Persephone was the Greek goddess of spring growth and vegetation.

I glanced over my shoulder at the house. She was still screaming, her voice hoarse now but no less insistent. I looked at my watch. One-fifteen. I had time.