CHAPTER 122: EAT

Alice’s throat burned, not just from the steam, but from the sobs she had let fall freely, her voice raw and frayed.

He was still there. Knocking.

She swallowed, the movement sharp and painful, her mouth dry and cracked. "Are... are you going to be there?" she asked, voice barely more than a rasp, scraped raw by tears and steam. "When I step out?"

"Yes." The word landed with weight, solid and without softness, the same absolute certainty Hades gave everything. No hesitation, no doubt.

She pulled the damp towel tighter around her, clutching it to her chest like a shield. Her breath hitched sharply. "Go away."

A pause stretched beyond the door. Not empty, but heavy, thick with the presence of a man weighing the bounds of his own will.

"No."

Her fingers clenched tighter around the towel’s edge, knuckles whitening. Her voice dropped low, brittle, a sharp edge beneath the restraint. "Do you really wish to see me unclad?"

The air shifted. A controlled exhale slipped from the other side, measured and cold.

"Five minutes. Get dressed." His voice was softer now. Smaller, but threaded with an edge that was more patience than kindness.

"That’s... that’s too small," she said stubbornly, fighting the tight coil of vulnerability twisting in her gut.

"What?" His tone tightened imperceptibly, still calm but thinner, like a taut wire vibrating between patience and irritation. "You planning to put on makeup at this time of night?"

She didn’t answer. A single drop of water slipped from the end of her hair, hitting the tile floor with a tiny, steady plink. The silence said more than words could.

"You’re uglier with makeup." The flatness of his statement struck her. Neither cruel nor kind, just brutally honest. "Don’t."

Something inside her twisted, knotted. Offense? Yes. But also oddly... relief? He refused to let her hide, even if his refusal came wrapped in indifference.

But what could she do? How could she face him now? What words could she possibly say that wouldn’t unravel her completely? This was a story she could never share with Hades. Unless she wanted him to kill her.

"Five minutes," he repeated, firmer this time. "Otherwise, I’ll use a spare key." Then, the faint sound of his footsteps receded down, and she heard her door close.

Five minutes. The time felt both absurdly short and impossibly long. Too little to gather herself, too much to endure.

When she finally opened the bathroom door, the air that greeted her was cooler, thinner, almost sharp in contrast to the suffocating warmth behind her. Her damp hair clung to her face and neck in dark strands, weighed down with water, and the loose, shapeless loungewear she pulled from Suzy’s pile felt foreign and forgiving all at once.

Water marked her path wherever she moved, darkening the fabric.

She dabbed under her eyes with trembling fingers, attempting to erase the swelling and redness that no amount of scrubbing could hide. Her face was raw, pale where the heat had flushed her cheeks, freckles sharp and exposed beneath the thin skin, eyes rimmed bloodshot, lashes clumped and heavy.

She looked exactly how she felt: broken and unacceptable.

She didn’t want him to see that.

No sooner had she closed the drawer than a knock echoed again at the door. His knock. She knew that sound without turning.

Her fingers scrambled, grabbing a thin black face mask. She looped it over her ears with quick, nervous movements, the fabric a flimsy barrier against the tremble in her mouth and the clench of her jaw.

Crossing to the door, she forced it open, bracing herself.

He was there, silent, still. His eyes flicked once to the mask. Then, in one smooth, unhesitating movement, he reached out and ripped it off, but was careful to remove it from around her ears before crumpling the fabric in his fist.

"Don’t hide from me," he said.

Without the mask, the air seemed colder, as if the fabric had been the last barrier between her and something sharp, something exposed. Her fingers reached instinctively for the mask, but he held it away, his hand steady and impossibly calm.

"Give it back," she muttered, voice small, eyes fixed on the floor to avoid his gaze. She hated the freckles standing out so clearly, the rawness that made her feel smaller, uglier.

"I’ve seen your face like this before," he said evenly.

"When—" She faltered.

They both paused, caught in the same shared memory. The morning he had barged into her room. The one where she had been sleeping, naked in bed, tangled in sheets thanks to Suzy’s chaotic and helpful meddling.

Heat flooded her neck, climbing in unbidden waves.

That memory hovered between them now. Awkward, sharp, unspoken.

He didn’t dwell on it. His jaw tightened, just enough to be noticeable, and then he turned away as if closing a door in his mind. "Follow me," he said, already moving.

She followed, footsteps echoing too loudly in the stillness of the hallway. His pace was steady, one hand in his pocket, the other relaxed at his side, like this was just another ordinary night, even though nothing felt ordinary at all.

He stopped in front of a door she’d never entered before. Without ceremony, he pushed it open.

Warm, dim light spilled out, soft and inviting. The room smelled rich, both sugary and savory, like a high-end restaurant that knew exactly how to blend indulgence and precision. A futon was spread before a wide TV screen where a movie played softly, low volume humming through the air.

But the futon wasn’t empty. It was buried.

Pillows and blankets lay scattered like a nest of comfort, as if someone had arranged them carelessly, but with thought. Chocolates, gold foil catching the soft light, were scattered like confetti. Plates held melting ice cream, a towering burger dripping with sauce, thick cuts of steak gleaming under the lamp, a plate of spaghetti tangled in bright red sauce, bowls of sliced fruit glistening with juice, bottles of juice and glasses of alcohol.

The sheer abundance of food, especially the meat, made her eyes widen in silent disbelief. No vegetables, no salads. Nothing green or light.

She was supposed to be vegetarian. Yet here it all was, as if he’d set aside the lie she told herself or ignored it entirely.

She stopped in the doorway, uncertainty heavy in her throat. "What... is this?" Her voice barely rose above the quiet hum of the movie.

He glanced back once, inscrutable and unreadable. "Eat. Or don’t. I don’t care." His words were clipped and dismissive, but the weight behind them said something different.

She stepped inside slowly, the rich smell of steak and chocolate thick in the air. "Rowan... cooked all this?"

"No." He didn’t bother to explain further. "But it’s not poisoned. Sit." The flatness in his voice suggested he refused to make anything more of it than necessary.

The movie’s flickering glow cast soft shadows around the room. She hovered near the futon, reluctant to cross an invisible line. Damp still clung to her skin and hair; shampoo lingered faintly in the air. She was raw. Emotionally and physically.

When she lowered herself onto the futon, the plush gave beneath her weight. The faint rustle of chocolate wrappers stirred around her. She had ignored the ache in her arm all evening, letting the heat of the shower dull the dull throb beneath her sleeve. But now, sitting still, the bruise pulsed sharply beneath the thin fabric, a shallow flare of pain with every movement.

He watched her for a long beat. Then, without hesitation, he reached to the side and pulled a small kit toward him. Bandages, antiseptic wipes, a neat roll of gauze, the clinical precision of his world.

He sank beside her, silent and purposeful, then opened the kit carefully.

Before she could protest or move away, he took her hand in his. His fingers were cool, sure, drawing her palm into his lap. He turned it over gently, inspecting the darkening bruise along her forearm. Close up, it looked worse. Purple mottled beneath the skin, the kind of pain that throbbed to the touch.

He said nothing, only worked with steady efficiency. The antiseptic burned sharp against the heat of the room, the gauze wrapped carefully around her arm and tucked in with a neat fold. The touch was neutral, almost professional, but the steady, focused attention was intimate in a way that made her fingers curl involuntarily.

When he finished, he didn’t look up. The bandage rested neat and white against her skin.

"There," he said finally, voice low, as if that single word could close the moment.

She felt suddenly exposed in a quieter way. The hurt in her arm had a place. A boundary. But the rest of the pain, the tangled mess of Aurora, Dawin, the files, was messy and without edges, impossible to bandage.

He slid the kit out of sight with the same swift motion he used to set aside anything inconvenient.

"Eat." His voice snapped her back. "I didn’t arrange this for you to bathe in the aroma."

Her fingers twisted nervously into the hem of her loungewear top. "This is... a lot."

"You complain too much." His tone was flat, but softened at the edges in a way she wasn’t sure how to read. Something quieter, almost vulnerable, tugged at her chest.

"I’m not complaining," she muttered.

"Then eat whatever you like." He paused, then asked, hesitantly, "You don’t like them?"

"No... no. I mean, yes." She swallowed hard, words stumbling. "I mean, no, I... like them. I..."

"Then eat." His voice held an unexpected gentleness.

Her gaze flicked to him before she could stop it. He leaned back slightly, one hand on the floor behind him, the other resting on his knee. Even relaxed, there was something guarded about him, like he’d carved a space between them that she wasn’t meant to cross.