"You don't like me?" Hades asked her.
What was this? Was he doing it on purpose?
What was she supposed to say?
The table waited. The room itself seemed to wait. Even the air stilled, as if afraid to disturb the silence before her answer.
Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. She could feel her pulse pounding in her neck, her palms damp against the fabric of her dress. Her eyes darted, just once, to the Patriarch, stiff and confused, and then to Dawin, too still. Van leaned back, entertained, lips twitching with a private smirk.
Alice looked back at Hades. "I don't… not like you."
It was out before she could polish it. A clumsy, stuttering attempt at survival that hung in the air.
Hades tilted his head slowly, watching her squirm. His voice, steady, cut her hesitation apart. "Make it make sense."
Alice gripped the edge of her seat. "I mean—I don't… hate you."
Her voice wavered, too thin, too fragile, but she forced it out anyway.
