Page 3 of On a Pale Horse
“You can scrub harder,” she told him.
But he didn’t. He simply massaged the shampoo into her hair and then turned her so his body brushed against the front of her while he rinsed it, lifting the weight of it so the water could filter through and get rid of the soap.
Again, she carefully moderated her reactions. More than anything, she feared scaring him away or making him feel even for a moment what Hel had made him feel. His breath fanned across her collarbone as he leaned forward to rinse the hair at her nape.
“Thank you,” she whispered almost against his ear.
He released her hair and slid his hands around to cup her cheeks.
She waited, never pushing, never allowing herself a moment of weakness which might go too far.
Until now, she’d been fine, but she flicked her eyes to his and saw the simmering heat there. The molten part of her seized control, and she closed any space between their bodies. She monitored his eyes carefully.
The man said everything with his deep brown eyes. And when they didn’t spark with fear, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his gently, barely the whisper of a kiss, merely the promise of one.
She continued to meet his steadfast gaze as she parted her lips and deepened the kiss.
He stared back at her until his tongue parted her lips fully and meshed with hers.
Her knees weakened.
He caught her around the waist and pulled her back to him. He tasted hot, like fire might taste. But at the same time, spices from dinner lingered and something else, something almost evergreen.
She tried to shake it off. The last was nothing more than her reaction to him.
She’d learned early on that everything with him was a reaction.
He instigates nothing, but something about his presence ignites the wants and needs in others. He looks the way others want him to, he smells, and even tastes the way he needs to, to ensnare someone to his will.
She never quite figured out why, but it had come in handy many times. Except, now, entwined in his arms, she wanted him so badly, but she wantedhim.
Not the promise he made with his skin, but that heat in his eyes and the fire on his tongue.
She detached herself, and for the first time, she saw the uncertainty in his face. She kissed him once more and stepped out of the shower.
He didn’t call her back, and she knew he wouldn’t. The further she got, the more control reestablished itself. If she could leave the apartment, she would. At any second, she might launch herself at him, and she wouldn’t hurt him, not that way. Never that way.
The shower turned off, and she rushed into the closet to put on some clothes before her nudity did more harm than good.
Two
Hades
Hades made coffee with shaking hands. They quaked so hard; he had to press them into the cold granite countertop to steady himself. He would have finished it with Cloris last night. He wanted to. He needed her in a way he couldn’t express. And yet, she still held back, still feared hurting him, or that he might equate her with Hel. He swallowed the flash of images that rose to his mind at the thought of Hel’s name and focused intently on making his espresso.
He hadn’t been able to stop the flashbacks, but he was learning to deal with them. A couple years ago, he even started therapy, but not a soul knew that other than his therapist. They’d been working through his imprisonment. Obviously, he’d changed the story for a human audience, and it had been helping. Now he couldn't figure out how to convince Cloris he was ready for her. And he feared making her wait a thousand years for him had threatened whatever future they might have together.
Moments like this made him want to be human.
People’s reactions to him unsettled him, and Cloris had stopped reacting to him within weeks of them being locked together as horseman and seal. So, he could barely get a read on her in any situation. Hell, she could have stopped wanting him ages ago and simply maintained a façade to avoid conflict. Cloris would fight when it came down to it, but she did not enjoy conflict. If Cloris got involved, it would be to put a stop to whatever was going on.
Charon, the middle-aged, hulking former boatman, shuffled into the kitchen in his bunny slippers, and Hades handed him a mug. “I already made it,” he said, pointing to the pot.
Charon narrowed his eyes at him
“What, I can make coffee,” Hades said in a huff.
The man stood and waited, and when Hades poured the coffee, Char gave a satisfied nod before wandering away. Charon had nowhere to go once the Underworld changed into Hel’s realm. He considered himself a servant of Cloris and Hades, but they never saw him that way. Occasionally, he’d play security at the club since his shoulders were the width of most doorframes and his height unsettled most. Other than that, they left him to his devices, which included Netflix binges of Gilmore Girls and reading Manga.
