For the Love of Hades (Loves of Olympus 2)

Prologue

Hades glanced at the lily propped atop the mantle. The blossom was bright white against the black silk to which it was pinned, light against the darkness. He reached up, tracing one petal with an unsteady finger. He saw the tremor, cursed it, and clenched his hand, drawing back from the flower as if it had burned him.

Turning abruptly from the fire, he made his way to his chair and sat heavily. There was a sweetness to his burden, but it was no less a burden.

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

What had he done? How could he make amends now that his heinous act had been hidden so long? Using his powers to aid a mortal would seem trivial in comparison with the offense he’d committed against Demeter. Against Olympus.

And yet, he felt whole.

The raw emptiness that he’d held at bay, for nigh on an eternity, no longer threatened to consume him. Having her here, with her constant laughter and endless conversation, had changed his world irrevocably.

If not for her, he would have remained bitter and angry. He would not have interfered at Cyprus. He would never have thought to champion the mortal, Ariston…

“My lord.” Her soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

He lifted his head from his hands, surprised.

Persephone stood, beauty to behold, watching him with wide green eyes. In the blazing firelight her hair glowed copper, warm and rich. Her face, normally alight with smiles and laughter, was drawn. Was she not fully recovered? Or did the tension between them tire her as well?

His voice revealed nothing. “Persephone.”

Her steps were cautious, but she made her way to him. “Aphrodite?”

So she had seen Aphrodite. “Has gone.” And she should have gone with her fellow Olympian. He should have insisted she do so. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, ignoring the tightening in his chest.

“I thought as much.” She stood so close he could see the front of her tunic. The fabric trembled, thundering in time with the rapid beat of her heart.

Was she disappointed? Was she ready to leave him… his realm?

She should go. She should have gone weeks ago. He knew it was right. Yet knowing it did nothing to soothe his agitation. He clutched the arms of his throne, clinging to control.

“I’ve not asked you for anything in my time here.” She paused. “Have I?”

He shook his head once. No, she’d seemed happy, though he had little knowledge of true happiness, he supposed. His gaze found shadows beneath her eyes and a tightness about her mouth. He was a blind fool.

Have you been miserable? He could not ask the words aloud, fearing her answer.

Her voice was no steadier than her pulse. “Nor would I trouble you now, if my need were not so great.”

“What is it?” he asked. His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

She sank to her knees, glancing at him with an almost timid gaze. Her hands lifted, wavered, and covered his hands. He stiffened, stunned by her actions. She touched him… He swallowed. The feel of her hands upon him squeezed the air from his lungs.

“Show me mercy. Show me the same mercy you’ve bestowed upon the mortal… the soldier Ariston.” Her hands clasped his tightly.

He would not reach for her, he could not. No matter how he might want to.

“Have I been cruel, that you feel the need to beg for anything from me?” His words were a harsh whisper. She shook her head and he continued, “Then why do you kneel before me?”

“It is a selfish request, one that may turn you from solicitous to,” she paused, her cheeks growing red, “… sickened.”

Was it possible for him to feel so towards her?

He stared at her hands, wrapped about his. He would not meet her gaze. He would not reveal his damnable weakness to her. He could not risk losing himself in the fathomless depths of her green eyes. “Ask me,” he murmured as his traitorous eyes sought hers.

She drew in a wavering breath, ragged and labored. Her whispered words were thick. “My lover… Release him. Release the man who loves me, please.” Her eyes sparkled, mesmerizing him while his heart, so newly discovered, seemed to shudder to a stop once more.

Chapter One

Persephone assessed the blackened tree trunk. Patches of white, bleached and fragile, peeked through the charred bark. She bit her lip. Was she too late?

She hesitated, her hand wavering as she pressed her palm against the pine tree. Her heart steadied, her chest lightened. She spoke with feeling. “I feared you’d left me, old friend.”

The pine spoke, its musical words for her ears alone.

She listened, before answering, “I have no answers for you. Why do men lose sight of the majesty that surrounds them every day? How can they forget that the world is not theirs alone to conquer?” She teased, “They are foolish, perhaps?”

The pine was not appeased. It was wounded, beyond the injury man’s arrows and fire had caused. It felt betrayed.

Persephone felt the weariness, the hopelessness, within the tree and sighed. She must cheer it for her healing to work. “I would see you strong and hearty.” She pressed both hands against it. “I would hear your branches creak in the wind, for it is the sweetest song. Watching your limbs grow heavy with leaves and fruit fills me with pride.”

The pine tree was silent.

“Do not deprive me of my joy, I beseech you,” she pleaded gently. “Let me help you. And while I work, you can tell me a story. You know how fond I am of stories.”

The tree argued, refusing to be mollified.

“You’re wrong. I don’t know all of your stories.” She stroked the trunk, wincing as bits of the scorched bark broke free beneath her hands. “Yours are the very best stories…”

The tree spoke again, rejecting her ploy to pacify it.

“I am not flattering you shamelessly…” She laughed, touching the naked trunk with careful fingers. She closed her eyes, willing her strength into its core. Bark formed, thickened and hardening beneath her fingers. “If you do have a story,