She didn’t know how long she sat there, mute and miserable in her own personal level of Tartarus, when Hades waded to the steps and climbed out, water sluicing down her back in rivulets, leaving beads on her bare skin as it dripped down from the end of her braid. Persephone caught a glimpse of some discoloration on Hades’ stomach—a birthmark?—but Hades turned away so quickly that it might’ve been a trick of the light.

Hades picked up a towel and dried herself before walking toward the lounging area. With her back to Persephone, she set aside her towel and fussed with something out of view. She placed one foot on a bench and leaned over, massaging scented oil into her skin. She worked her way around her calf, up over her knee and along her thigh, then straightened up and repeated the process on her other leg.

Persephone knew she ought to look away, but she did not, even when Hades began turning her attention to the rest of her skin. She watched the way light and shadow played over Hades’ body as she massaged the oil all over herself, her hands running over the curve of her hips, dipping in toward her waist and flowing out over her breasts. Hades raised her arms over her head and ran her hand over one wrist and down toward her shoulder before gathering more oil in her palm and repeating it on the other side.

When Hades was finally done, she picked up her damp towel and left, without ever once looking back.

It was as though a spell had been broken. Persephone sucked in a mouthful of air, then stood. The bath water had grown too hot for her flushed and over-heated skin. She went to the showers and blasted herself with a jet of cold water, yelping as the pressure hit her in the chest. She turned off the flow, shivering again as she leaned her forehead against the wall.

Alone at last. What she’d wanted, but there was no peace to be found, not here, not with the scent of asphodels still lingering in the air.

At the front of the bath chamber, the water clock continued to drip, and a small bell rang out to mark the changing of the hour.

Persephone found no rest that night, not with the image of Hades’ nude and glistening form seared into her eyes. She shifted uncomfortably in her bed, cheeks pinking as her mind betrayed her, going back over and over again to the slightest of details. The curve of Hades’ thigh. The way her shoulder blades shifted as she stretched. The smallest glimpse of the side of her breast.

She settled further down on her pillow and parted her knees under the sheets. Her hand crept between her legs, and she was not at all surprised to find herself already wet, her folds parting at the slightest touch.