Kissing Hades is not at all like kissing Hythlodaeus, nor at all like she remembers the first (and only) kisses they shared so many centuries ago. There is no awkwardness, no uncertainty, no hesitance. It is just anger and heat and desperation, and Hemera responds in kind; fierce and passionate and filled with a love she can't believe she never noticed before.

His hands grasp at her shoulders and she slides a hand upward, pressing the pad of her thumb against the slope of his neck, tracing it as her hand continues its path to the back of his scalp. Once there, she grasps a fistful of hair in a firm grip, ensuring he can't pull away from her if he tried. When the taste of his blood reaches her tongue Hemera responds by pulling him closer, kissing him more deeply. She feels like there isn't enough time—that there will never be enough time—and it fills her with a frenzied energy she knows all too well.

Hades seems to understand it well now, too.

"Make love with me," Hemera demands, breathless.