Beside me, Jameson held out an open pomegranate, brimming with jewellike seeds. “Playing Hades?” I asked him wryly. Jameson leaned back on his elbows, the sun turning his brown hair almost gold. “Come on, Persephone. What harm could a few bites do?” Despite myself, I smiled. Jameson Hawthorne was temptation personified—but right now, I was more tempted by the puzzle. The game. Our kind of game.
