The clock ticks high on the wall; the noise is a dull throb in her ears. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. She is sandwiched between two others, legs entwined beneath the layered fabric. There is a hand smoothing over her naked hip, tickling its way up her ribs, and sliding over smooth cleavage. Marguerite has not shifted from her position, until the hand squeezes her breast.
Persephone holds her tongue when Hades talks to himself. She stops her humming and watches, her bright eyes wide with curiosity. She knows he grows nervous. He becomes fidgety and aggressive, lashing out. Persephone wants nothing more than to bury herself and let the dirt and clay seep into her bones.
He spies on her for far too long. At daybreak, he ventures to her, to watch her bathe in the cool waters. At nightfall, he watches her undress, peeling away fabrics until her tan flesh is revealed to him. He feels the ache in the pit of his stomach. The calculating coldness and lustful arrogance that surfaces.
