“As sinful as I remember,” he mutters, setting the apple on the counter behind me, then reaching out with sticky fingers to brush the pomegranate tattoo beneath my breast—the one I got because I wanted nothing more than to be his Persephone. His touch is icy, devoid of the warmth his eyes hold, yet it scorches me anyway. What is wrong with me? Just a few hours ago, this man blackmailed me into marrying him. Threatened the lives of everyone I love, just so I would become a willing pawn in some weird little game I don’t even understand yet.
