He was the warrior, hunter, and hero of the rebellion. He was what the world had made him, but he was also more. He was the murderer, assassin, and killer they accused him of being. Their accusations grounded him in the familiar. The phantoms of those who’d died because of him raced around the chamber. Killer! Monster! his constant companions shrieked in unison. She was as passionate in death as she’d been in life. She glared at him, hands on her narrow hips, chin jutting out in that way he’d thought so adorable when she was a child, her black eyes blazing hate. A triumphant smile twisted her face, and he knew if she stayed, he would grow to hate her in death with the same passion with which he loved her in life. The coarse hair of his tangled beard pulled against the half-healed scabs covering his chest. He could survive anything they threw his way, but not that, not her. This was Cronus and he had to be careful, because if Cronus realized how her presence affected him, she would be trapped in this cesspool of misery, her voice joining the masses inside his cell. In her black eyes he could see his enemy, his tormentor, his unwelcome king. She was a puppet, a spirit trapped in the Hell that was his prison, a pawn to the whims of their jailer. He winced, fighting the urge to play Cronus’ twisted game. Look at me, Hades, she snapped, a sudden and sharp relief to the screams whirling around him.
The creature before him a mere shade of the woman he had known. She was here to break his will, his soul. It was a peek and tease that held no desire for him.īut Cronus couldn’t have known that when he sent Leuce to him. Her white dress hung in soiled tatters from her willowy frame, revealing the fullness of her breast, the curve of her hip, and the length of her thigh. Her skin was marked by bruises and smudges of dirt.
She stood before him, stunning and child-like, highlighted by the faintest glow in the cold, windowless cell of his prison. Peering through the greasy black strands of his long hair, he stared at the renewed torment that would be his. Jagged stones and shards of broken pottery sliced the soles of his tattered feet. The pressure on his suspended arms lessened until needles tingled beneath the surface of his numb limbs. He placed his weight upon his legs and straightened.
The effort to move taxed him, but the thought of seeing her again, even for a moment, bolstered his failing strength. Hades, her soft voice whispered across his senses.
0 kommentar(er)
