“If you do this,” Hades said, her voice a breathy whisper, “if you do this... I will not let you leave.”

She might have felt threatened by that, once. “You gave your word,” Persephone said. “And here, your word is law. Not even you can escape it.” She kissed her again, her fingers entangled in Hades’ hair.

Persephone knew she shouldn’t want this, knew there was nothing compelling her to choose this, knew it did not sit well with the old narrative of Hades as her keeper and Persephone her unwilling conquest. This blurred the lines, made it impossible to untangle the scores of who owed what to whom.

It did not mean she forgave Hades. She might never forgive Hades.

But if she blamed Hades, then she blamed herself even more, for needing this, for needing her.

When Hades finally touched her it was a blessed relief. She straddled Hades’ lap, one hand hooking over her shoulder to cling to the back of the chair, the other fumbling to untie Hades’ girdle. Her own underthings were long gone, forgotten like the scrolls she’d swept off the top of the table.

Hades’ fingers hooked inside of her, binding them together, her other hand braced against the small of Persephone’s back. The stretch was exquisite, and Persephone closed her eyes, her hips naturally rocking back against Hades’ hand as she allowed her body to set its own pace.

All those months, those empty nights alone with her poetry and her cold bed, she could have been having this... but no. She hadn’t wanted this, not before. Now she was leaving, and everything had changed.

Hades lifted her off her lap and laid her on the table so that her legs sprawled over the edge.

Persephone opened her eyes and gazed up at Hades, taking a perverse joy in knowing that the next time Hades sat down to this desk, she would think of Persephone’s body, spread out and pierced by her. She hoped Hades would remember the sight for years to come. Hades worked too much, anyway.

“You will be the death of me,” Hades said.

“You’d never lose your immortality for long enough,” Persephone said. “The first time your successor tried to change the drapes, you’d be ousting them in a coup.”

“You think so?”

“I think”—Persephone sighed, a pleasant shiver running over her skin—“you should concentrate on what you were doing with your thumb.”

For once, Hades didn’t argue. She lowered her head and sucked one of Persephone’s nipples into her mouth, applying enough pressure to make Persephone moan.

She shouldn’t be enjoying this. Hades’ touch ought to make her cringe, to fester on her skin like a wound, not to make her crave more.