She told him how she hated men.
She told him how the man for whom she had given her soul had betrayed her, run into the arms of another woman.
She told him how she wished that she could chew him up and spit him out for what he did to her.
It seems a long time ago now. She isn't sure how long ago it was; time doesn't pass the same way in the Underworld, and she doesn't get to go to the surface very often. It could have been weeks. It could have been centuries.
"I've sworn off manhandling," she sneers, trying to wave him away.
His knife-like fingers trail across the back of her neck. "Handling wasn't what I had in mind."
It gets harder and harder to pretend that she doesn't feel the hunger. When she bats her amethyst eyes and watches them fall over themselves to woo her, when they stroke her arm and think that they are being forward, when they lean in for a kiss and think that they are being bold.
Her fingers slice through their skin like paper, and the warmth reminds her of the flames that her master commands also; it reminds her of the warmth that spread through her when he kissed her, all that time ago.
If she closes her eyes, it is as warm as a kiss in her mouth as it slides over her tongue. The heat seeps all the way down through her body as she wraps herself around him, as he cleaves beneath her teeth. Sometimes he moans faintly; it is always him, no matter who they are. Over and over again, she takes him back to herself.
She returns to Hades with blood on her chin and splattered down her dress; he smirks and runs one smoke tendril beneath her chin as if to draw her closer. With one hand, she waves it away.
"Carry on and go home happy. Isn't that what you always say?" Already she feels cold again as she gives him a withering look. She shudders at his laughter as the heat of the Underworld fails once again to seep beneath her skin.