Persephone glanced sideways to see Hades had clipped the whip to her belt and was stretching out her arms, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in them. Persephone hoped her muscles burned. She hoped the whip would wrap around and strike its mistress in the face.

When Xenia stepped away from her, she knew Hades was preparing to begin again.

“No,” she said, her fingers outstretched. “Don’t go—”

“Fifty one.”

Persephone howled to the treetops, to anyone who would hear her. Her skin must have parted; droplets of ichor fell off the tails of Hades’ whip, dripping onto the grass below. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair!

She let go of any thought of revenge, any fantasies of what she might do to Hades. Her vision went red, then black. There was only the pain, coming in waves, and the itch of her skin trying to heal between blows; the damp, sticky heat of ichor soaking into her chiton, and the sound of her voice, hoarse and despairing.

She was no longer Persephone, goddess of the springtime; she was only pain sculpted in the shape of a woman.

When Hades finally stopped, for good this time, Persephone was a sobbing, shivering mess. Her wrists were rubbed raw from straining against their bonds, and her cheek held the imprint of bark.

Hades walked up to her. “The first part of your sentence is complete,” she said.

Persephone stared in her general direction, sweat and tears blurring her sight. Even thought hurt too much; she could barely summon the strength to breathe. Had she been able to see, she would have beheld Hades’ ravenous gaze, as if she yearned for something more.

“For the second part of your sentence,” Hades said, “you will remain exposed to the elements until such time as you escape from your bonds or I choose to end your punishment.”

Persephone’s head lolled to the side. Her mind was dull and useless, her back still a throbbing mass of agony, the specter of pain feeling larger than her body itself. “Are you giving me the tools to escape?” she muddled out at last.

“You already have them,” Hades said. She placed two fingers beneath Persephone’s chin and kissed her forehead, her lips feeling like a brand. Her hand lingered against Persephone’s hair, fingertips tracing across her shoulder and brushing down her back.

Persephone whimpered, flinching away from her touch. Hades brought her hand to her mouth and tasted Persephone’s suffering, her eyes half-lidded.

There was a threat there, more dangerous than the weight of Hades’ authority in the Hall of Judgment. Persephone caught Hades’ gaze, held it.

Hades’ eyes softened. She brushed a stray tendril of hair back from Persephone’s face, tucking it behind her ear. Persephone pressed her cheek against Hades’ palm.

“You look—” Hades whispered. She took a breath, swallowed. “You are perfection.”