"You all right, Stella?"

She was staring at the beaker, lost in thought.

"What's up?" she asked, distracted.

"Something happen? You don't seem very focused today." That was her lab partner, Yecenia Moreno, who was an exhausted, downtrodden Empire City University sophomore, two years her junior. In fact, Stella was the oldest student in her Organic Chemistry course, because she had managed to put off taking it until senior year for her botany degree requirements. Unlike most of her classmates, Stella quite liked O-Chem, but she hadn't been able to focus on anything, much less O-Chem, since her last encounter with Logan.

"Nothing happened," she said, writing her observations into her composition book.

Liar, she told herself. It was frightening to see Logan lose consciousness. The way his limbs went slack, the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and how he leaned forward, like he had no bones in his body to hold him up—it all made Stella's heart race. She'd never seen a human being crumple like that before.

"I just haven't been sleeping well." How was it only Monday? It felt like an age had passed since Saturday night.

In her dream, she walked up to him, and the visage of his throne constantly shifted between an onyx throne gilded in platinum, and one that was made out of human bones. He opened his eyes, his easy smile quickly turning into a frown when he noticed her anger.

"Have I upset you?" he asked.

"Who are you?"

"I am your husband," he said. He looked at her, but did not move from his seat.

"But who are you?" she asked, fearing the answer.

He canted his head to the side, flexed his ringed fingers. "You know the answer already, my sweet flower."

"Don't call me that," she said, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. "I'm not going to ask again. Who are you?"

She could see his jaw muscle working; she knew that she had hurt him. She couldn't bring herself to care.

Finally, he stood, and she found herself stepping back as she realized he was at least twelve feet tall, maybe more.

"I am lord of all the riches beneath the earth," he said, and jewels and piles of gold began to appear all around her, "Shepherd of Shades, Ruler of the Other Side. Zeus of the Underground: the Master of Death and Lord of the Dead." His voice was booming, as deep and as loud as breaking earth. Around her, ghostly courtiers appeared and disappeared from her vision. A two-pronged spear materialized in his hands. "I am Hades." The ground rumbled beneath her feet. He pointed the spear at her, and every cell in her body told her to run, but she was rooted in place by fear. "And you are Persephone: Dread Queen of the Underworld, and my wife," he said, with finality.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

He blinked, surprised. "No?"

She was dreaming. She refused to believe any of this. "You're just a man. A rotten one too."

"Just a man?" He laughed, genuine and warm, and sat back on his throne. He looked...sleepy. He shut his eyes. "Perhaps I am only just a man," he said.

"Yeah," she said, feeling her courage returning. "Good ol' southern boy turned Mafia hitman, turned freaking kingpin. What the hell did I ever see in you?"

"I am not certain," he said, still smiling at her. "You have always been, what's the saying, 'out of my league'." His eyes cracked open slightly and he winked at her. "Until next we meet...sweetheart."

She ran up to him, tried jostling him awake, but it was no use.

"Stella, helllooooooo. You realize you didn't do any of the set-up for our lab, right?"

"Yeah, sorry," Stella said, embarrassed. She couldn't keep her mind off him; not when she was asleep, and certainly not when she was awake.

"It feels like I'm talking to a wall."

"I'm sorry, Yecenia," Stella said. "It's just—I…"

As he fell, she caught him, out of instinct, and kept him from cracking his head open on the edge of his coffee table. Lord, he was heavy, probably weighing in at around two-hundred and forty pounds, if she had to guess. In that moment she was thankful for her childhood gymnastics training, because otherwise she would have likely dropped him, or collapsed under his dead weight. As it was, she struggled just lowering him to the ground. And it didn't feel right to leave him there on the floor, unconscious, but she wasn't sure if she could try to drag him to the couch, let alone lift his large frame onto it.

"Look, I can tell something went down with you. But if you don't want to talk about it, okay," said Yecenia, shaking her head. "You're pretty out of it, though. I don't really want to be lab partners with you anymore. Not trying to be offensive."

"I'm sorry. I just. I had kind of a rough weekend," Stella admitted, putting their supplies away.

"Relationship drama?"

"Yeah," Stella said, feeling her palms turn sweaty.

"Well, good luck with whatever it is you're dealing with, Stella. Thanks for showing up for lab, I guess. Even though I basically did everything. After my girlfriend broke up with me this morning." Yecenia left in a huff, and Stella was alone in the classroom. She clutched her chest. Logan...

She checked his pulse, which was strong, and made sure he was still breathing normally. What would happen if she woke him up? Should she even try? Her pounding heart kept telling her to run, to leave him there and get out, while she still had the chance.

Sitting on her haunches next to him, she examined his face and swallowed hard. His normally-slicked-back hair had fallen forward in front of his eyebrows, and she reached out to smooth it back. He looked so peaceful lying there, so boyish and handsome. "What am I going to do with you…" she whispered, her words trailing off.

Stella sat back, catching a glimpse of the golden liquid on his coffee table. Shouldn't have drank that stuff, she thought. Its effects were still coursing through her system: her skin felt hot and clammy. She hugged herself tightly, shuddering. She'd done her share of drugs: smoked pot occasionally, tried molly once or twice, mostly just to spite her mother. She stayed away from the really hard stuff, though, so whatever was in that drink, well, it was stronger than anything she'd ever tried before.

It made every sensation sharper: his skin on hers, his kisses on her neck—it was overwhelming. And for a brief, terrifying moment, as she felt him lose himself, she saw him as a king. She called him Hades as he surged inside of her, and believed that was his name. He cloaked himself in darkness, and she looked up at innumerable stars, and she believed, however briefly, that he was Hades. The certainty of that belief scared her.

He looked at her, warm and loving, kissed her forehead, and she saw an ancient king. Run, she thought. Get the hell out of here and run. She pushed herself away from him, ignoring the confusion and hurt in his eyes, gathering up her things as quickly as she could. She could feel him watching her as she dressed, and her ears burned. When she looked at him again, he was Logan, with all his imperfections and mistakes, and not the king of a realm long-forgotten. He's just a man, she told herself. Just a man. Again she trembled, pulling her gaze from the shimmering liquid. She wanted more of it; her tongue ached to taste it. Just a little more, she thought. It won't hurt.

Logan groaned and she shook, startled. Okay, you have to go, now. Like, now, now. She stood on trembling, nervous legs.

Behind her, she could hear him slowly beginning to rouse to consciousness. "Stelllllla?" He sounded groggy, elongating her name as if he were still dreaming. She looked back, saw that he had turned over onto his stomach and was holding himself up on his forearms. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression confused. The image sent a shock through her: she saw him in armor, in a puddle of amber, and he was reaching out for her, begging for something she didn't understand.

"Goodbye, Logan," she said, trying not to hyperventilate.

"Wait—" She didn't wait, even though she heard the fear and confusion in his voice, how it warbled in his throat. No: instead, Stella closed the door on him in a rush, and ran face-first into someone's chest. "S-sorry," she said, "I was just on my way out."

"No worries." The man chuckled lightly. "The Boss is still in there, I take it?" He sounded young; she snuck a quick glance at him.

"Yeah," she said, a rush of nausea rolling through her. "Passed out on the floor drunk." Least it was somewhat accurate.

"Passed out? "

"Yeah. Like, full-on fainting spell." Might not've been a smart thing to say, but her filter was nonexistent at this point. She needed to get out. "You work for him or something?"

"I'm his...consigliere," he said, half-smiling, like he had told a joke.

"His whaaaa?" She wasn't sure if she heard him correctly. Everything he said sounded vaguely muffled.

"An assistant, of sorts. He calls me Than."

"Than," she repeated, leaning back against the wall. He looked to be about her age, lithe and wiry. Too light and skinny to be a bodyguard, in her estimation. "Thaasss a weird name," she slurred, feeling increasingly inebriated. "Short forrr Nathanielll?"

"Not quite." He smiled, and it was a nice smile. Calming, friendly.

"You seem suh sweet," she said, rubbing her eyes. "Weird you're working here, and for him. Better get in there and check on him, yeah." It was becoming increasingly difficult to stand.

"I'm checking in on you. You don't look so good," he said. His eyes were pale gray, she noticed—and they had that same strange, otherworldly quality about them that Logan's did, seeming to almost glow in the dark. She swallowed, feeling the back of her neck drench with sweat. "I don't feel so good," she admitted. "I'm jusss trying to find my friendssss and leave."

"I see." He peered at her. "Do you want me to help you find them?" he asked, sounding concerned.

His calm affect was soothing, but something about him scared her. Maybe it was his too-pale skin, or the familiar way he regarded her, or his eerie, gray eyes; whatever it was, if her legs had the strength, she would've run from him too.

"No thankssss," she said, brushing past him as best she could. "I really jusss wanna get out of here."

"Very well," he said. "They're at the first floor bar. Natalie is sober and Marie is drunk. You have five minutes to get there before they split off again."

"Thankssss," she said, her thoughts swimming. Every step she took, she stumbled. Pushing her way past the gyrating dancers, and the young couples making out on the stairwell, she managed to get to the second platform. She groaned as she took in the sight of everyone: all the bodies, lost to the pounding EDM music and strobe lights. One more floor to go. On her way, a few men tried to grab her, their hands coming at her from the darkness. A cold warning of 'you better not,' from some disembodied voice behind her kept he would-be gropers at bay—and if she was imagining the voice, she was nonetheless grateful for it. She eventually made it to the bar on the first floor, finding a very annoyed Natalie and a very drunk Marie.

"Jesus," Nat said, taking in the sight of her. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Issa longgg story, Nat," Stella slurred, leaning against the bar. She felt a light slap on her cheek and laughed. It tickled.

"Stell. Stella, listen to me. Listen to me. Hey. Did someone roofie you?"

"Hah, roofieeee is such a funny word, ah ha ha ha."

Another light slap; Nat's arms were on her shoulders gently shaking her, too.

"Stella, babe, did someone touch you?"

Stella squinted her eyes at Natalie, tried to parse out what she was saying, but it was becoming harder and harder to do so. "Nooo roofiessss," she said. "Jussss somme champagne. He passed out on me."

"So you're just wasted." It wasn't a question.

"Ya," Stella said, nodding a few too many times. "Real freakin' wasted, ha ha ha."

"Jesus, Stell." Natalie pinched the bridge of her nose. "C'mon, let's get you two idiots home."

Natalie was mad at her; Marie didn't much care about her either way.

The only thing Stella had been mildly grateful for regarding Saturday night was that her mother seemed to have stopped calling and texting her. It was a welcome respite from her constant haranguing, and it allowed Stella to gather her thoughts.

She felt very alone, she realized. And, despite everything, she missed Logan—and she worried about him. Natalie thought she was a lovesick fool—dickmitized, she said—and Stella was starting to agree. She sighed, gathering up her backpack and heading out the door.

Her phone started ringing, and the number had no caller ID. She swallowed hard, debating on whether or not to let the call go to her voicemail. The seconds went by and it continued to ring; her heart began racing once again. Pick it up, she thought. Just get it over with.

"...Hello?"

"Stella."

Her hands shook. "Logan," she said. She wondered if he could hear how loudly her heart was pounding; it sounded downright thunderous to her.

"We need to talk."

"Yes...I do think we do need to talk."