A reddish glow grew brighter at the end of the tunnel, welcoming them into a room that seemed crudely fashioned for a creature that was viewed as a god, perhaps even the Satan of Christian lore.

A large fire pit dominated the center of the room. Small boulders formed a ring around it with metal fittings in the ceiling above and sunk into rocks ringing the pit. It was a crude smelter of sorts, she guessed, from the number of implements resting in the hot fire.

Toward the back of the cave, a nearly naked, black-haired man labored, his back as broad as her gargoyle’s, his arms even more impressive, his ass completely bared. As he turned, she admired the rest of him. Everywhere she looked was bronze skin, stretched tightly over thick, bulging muscle. An apron fashioned from squares of thin, hammered metal hung from his waist, no doubt to protect his sex from flying embers and held up by a thick leather cord.

The man drew a sword from the fire. The metal glowed a deep orange-red. He raised the tip, pointed it at Octavius and traced a path from his breast bone down his belly, an inch from his skin.

Petra held her breath at his expression—narrowed eyes, flared nostrils, lips pressed together in a thin line.

Octavius didn’t flinch.

Black, frightening eyes glared. “I should open you here,” Hades said softly. “Spill your guts on the floor. You’ve disappointed me. Disappointed all of us.”

Octavius’s jaw worked, a muscle flexing along the side. He bowed his head.

Petra stepped beside him, drawing the large man’s gaze.

A thick dark brow rose in a wing-like arc. “Are you trying to protect him?”

She opened her mouth, but his fierce expression halted the words. “I don’t want him harmed,” she said at last, her voice barely a whisper.

“You’re brave.” His gaze flickered over her body. “And gifted, or so Charon claims.”

She lifted her chin. “Charon’s an ass.”

Those dark eyes bored steadily into her now.

Then she noted the shape of the pupils, barely distinguishable against the inky irises—they were slitted—like her one misshapen pupil.

“Are you angry because he told? We’re all gossips. How else would humans know our history or our version of it anyway? We tend to embellish.”

His words might have sounded charming, ingratiating coming from anyone else, but spoken in his uninflected tone, his deep bass rumbling and causing dust to filter from the ceiling, she could only quiver.

“Milord, she doesn’t belong here,” Octavius said quietly.

The man’s gaze flickered over her. “No, she doesn’t. But she did commit a transgression. An amusing one, but she earned punishment just the same.”

“She should be returned.”