Page 3 of Queen of Tempests and Sin

Once I landed at Heathrow, I moved swiftly through customs and headed to the long-stay parking. After securing my duffle and pulling on my helmet, I jumped onto my BMW R 18 and fired her up. The deep, throaty growl of the engine vibrated through me, easing my nerves—if only a little. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Drakos. Whatever twisted game he was playing, I knew I’d hate it.

I rode the road like an intricate dance, as though the road itself remembered me. No surprise, really—I’d taken this route more times than I could count. Two hours later, I rolled through the wrought-iron gates of my destination, St Xavier’s, and exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath as I rode down the mile-long drive.

Time to see the asshole that was my stepfather.

St Xavier’s sat nestled within a sprawling 250-acre campus in the heart of the British countryside, just outside London. At its centre loomed a Grade II listed former Carthusian monastery—an architectural gem that had been tastefully expanded over time. Colonnades framed the structure, symmetrical gables adding balance and grandeur, making the school appear nothing short of breathtaking… from the outside.

It catered for every need, with stunning lawns and gardens, sports pitches, Astroturf pitches, an athletic stadium, tennis courts, and even a private golf course. With cutting-edge tech, a sleek IT centre, and professional-grade art studios… on paper, it was perfection.

Drakos hid his shady dealings within the illusion of grandeur—a polished illusion to mask the filth. St Xavier’s was his stronghold in England. He was a snake, but a smooth son of a bitch, with endless resources and a masterful talent for hiding his dirt in plain sight.

The boarding school was in high demand amongst the rich—and occasionally criminally inclined—families worldwide. It offered a prestigious, well-rounded education for students aged eleven to eighteen, blending traditional academics with a heavy dose of discipline. All pupils were trained in self-defence as part of the curriculum, but a select few came for something far more specialised: to learn the art of assassination.

On the surface, St Xavier’s had all the hallmarks of a typical British public school—co-educational, house-based, and academically elite. It flourished on league tables and boasted a sterling reputation. But behind the polished façade, Scorpion House existed. An elite, clandestine unit hidden within the school’s structure, Scorpion House was where the real training happened. Ruthless, secretive, and utterly unforgiving. Currently, only four students in the final year had made the grade. The rest? Either transferred, reassigned... or eliminated.

Like me, my mother had been an assassin, one of the best in her time, and after her death, her husband, Drakos, became my guardian. That’s when my life became a downward spiral of chaos and torture. Literally.

Armed with a bad attitude and a raging headache—weariness dragging at my bones—I strolled up the wide stone steps and pushed open the ornate wooden doors, stepping into the vast entrance hall. An opulent cathedral of shadows and lies… the place oozed grandeur like perfume over rot.

I pulled off the wig and ran my fingers through my unruly curls, releasing a slow hiss of breath, just as a tall figure slithered from behind an ornate pillar. Dimitris. Drakos’s douchebag nephew. A colossal ass-licker and all-round fuckwit. Excellent at poisons, but otherwise a waste of perfectly good oxygen.

‘Well, look who it is,’ Dimitris drawled. ‘Miss “I’m the best in the world.”’ His gaze roamed over me like I was a stain on his loafers. ‘What on earth are you wearing? This is a prestigious establishment.’

I looked him up and down—sharp black suit, pale purple tie, with a matching pocket square like he’d just mugged a wedding planner. I shrugged. I dressed in scuffed leathers and black boots made for kicking in teeth.

‘Who made you Giorgio Armani?’ I gave him a flat look. He was tap-dancing on my last nerve. Dimitris looked like he’d been kicked repeatedly with the ugly boot and left for dead. ‘Clothes can only do so much to enhance an ugly creep like you, Dimitris,’ I added. ‘You must have fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch of stupid on the way down, because I’ve told you repeatedly… Stay. Out. Of. My. Way… Now, off you fuck.’

I sauntered up to him, and he stiffened. ‘Boop.’ I tapped his nose with my index finger. He flinched like I’d slapped him. ‘You’ve missed me, haven’t you? Admit it.’ I grinned maniacally, and he took a step away, his frown deepening into a scowl.

‘Don’t touch me. I don’t want your crazy rubbing off on me,’ he spat.

He really made me want to punch things… so I punched him in the nose.

There are two things in your life you can’t choose: your enemies and your family—not that I chose Drakos or his nitwit nephew. Being a few years my senior, Dimitris used to beat seven bells of shit out of me when I first started training at ten years old. I grew quickly and was lithe and fast, plus I trained like a warrior and fought like a cornered animal. But, as they say, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty when you’re fighting to win. Dimitris soon had the tables turned on him—karma’s a bitch, but I’m a bigger one.

Checking my watch, I assumed Drakos would be overseeing the training of the baby assassins, so I left Dimitri clutching his bloody nose and stalked towards the dōjō. In martial arts, the dōjō is a special place—an honoured place where students and masters come together for deliberate practice to develop their skills in the various arts of self-defence.

At the door, I removed my boots and slipped in quietly. The tatami floor was soft underfoot, and I stood in the shadows as Drakos faced off with Mimi, one of my students. Both wore crisp white cotton Karate Gi, and as they bowed to each other, I could feel the air tighten.

Drakos struck—lightning-fast. The roundhouse kick he attempted would have knocked out teeth and cracked bones, but Mimi twisted and turned wickedly fast, dodging each attack. Her body twisted just enough, slipping out of reach by inches. Then again. And again.

She was smoke—untouchable, fluid, impossible to catch. A smirk tugged at my lips… that girl was good. Damn good. And she was mine.

A split second of indecision, and Mimi was exposed. Drakos struck like a snake, slipping behind her and locking her into a rear-naked choke hold. Her eyes widened in panic as she gasped, struggling for air—until her gaze found mine across the dōjō, and I motioned with my backward swinging elbow and pointed to my crotch. Mimi swung her bent arm, and it landed squarely in Drakos’s crown jewels. He grunted, his face contorting in pain as he doubled over, one hand instinctively dropping to his groin. Mimi scrambled free, her stance guarded, her hands trembling slightly as she faced him. She didn’t blink.

Drakos straightened slowly, fire in his eyes, teeth bared… a wolf denied the kill.

‘Sensei.’ I stepped out of the shadows, and Drakos’s gaze fell to me as I bowed low. ‘Please excuse Mimi. I’ve been training the girls to fight dirty, so her… improvisation… is entirely my fault.’ I raised my eyes, calm and unflinching. ‘As you once told me—“clean, gentlemanly fighting will get you nowhere but dead in the real world.”’

‘There is no place for dirty fighting in the dōjō,’ he growl-murmured.

‘I’m sorry, Sensei.’ Mimi bowed low.

‘Your punishment is to perform the ritual cleaning of the dōjō every day for a week.’

‘Yes, Sensei,’ she whispered, bowing again.

Well, I guess that’s better than a black eye or a broken arm,’ I mused to myself. After my mom died, and as my stepfather and guardian, Drakos had broken my bones, but had never broken my spirit—which enraged him.