Page 67 of Queen of Tempests and Sin

I stood at the bar of O’Rourke’s—a battered Irish bar, leaning one elbow on the polished oak, a whisky in front of me, drawing curious glances from every woman in the place and a few men too.

‘You’re not from around here,’ came a voice at my side—rich with London grit and sharpened by suspicion.

I turned to find a middle-aged woman with coppery hair piled into a messy bun, her expression the kind that had seen through more than a few cocky men in her time.

‘Martha,’ I said, because my intel was good, and names came easily to me.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘And you are?’

‘A friend of Cordelia’s.’ My smile was easy, charming… and just sharp enough to make her instinctively straighten her spine.

‘Her old china?’ She gave me a slow, assessing once-over. ‘Funny. She didn’t mention she had a tall stranger with cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread for a china plate.’ Her gaze narrowed, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. I caught the slang without effort—china plate meant mate. Language was second nature to us.

Sharp as a tack, this one. I liked her already, so I let the smile linger. ‘Where is she?’

‘Cordelia’s a grown woman. If she wants you to know where she is, she’ll tell you herself. Until then, you’ll have to make do with the company of fine whisky and questionable décor.’

‘It’s urgent,’ I said, keeping my tone calm even as the storm inside me threatened to break.

She sighed, rolling her eyes like she’d seen this brand of male persistence too many times. ‘Well, if she’s back from her trip, odds are she’ll come here for her usual. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘Thanks, Martha.’ I lifted my glass in salute and drifted to the darkest corner of the bar. The low hum of voices blurred into background noise as I sank into the shadows, whisky burning down my throat, rage coiling tight in my gut. I leaned back in the chair, every muscle strung taut, and I waited.

Fifteen minutes later, Cordelia walked in, her eyes immediately turning to meet mine. Her glare could have toasted bread from fifty yards away.

My dangerous little assassin… My ultimate obsession.

CHAPTER 24

CORDELIA

Iditched the dress, showered, moisturised, scraped my hair into a messy bun, and pulled on a pair of Pilates pants and an off-the-shoulder crop top.

Back in my own little house, surrounded by familiar walls and silence, I finally felt my feet on the ground again. The arrogant asshole-sea-twat still simmered in the back of my mind, but the edge dulled as I downed a glass of wine.

‘Screw it,’ I muttered to myself, slamming the glass down. If Ixion wanted to end me, they’d have to stand in line. I needed a real drink—something with teeth.

Grabbing my hoodie, I strode out of the house and headed for the pub. Normality… that was what I craved. No gods. No assassins. No impossible emotions tying me in knots, just a noisy room where I was nobody.

For a few hours, at least, that was exactly who I intended to be.

I walked the mile to the high street, my boots striking a steady rhythm against the pavement. With every step, the city seemed to wake inside me, thrumming through my veins.

London was alive. A vibrant, breathing beast that wrapped itself around my heart and sank into my bones. History whispered from its old brickwork, culture spilled from its streets, and its wild mix of tradition and chaos always made me feel… grounded. The symphony of humanity, raw and unpolished, soaked through me, and I drank it in like oxygen as it settled the jagged edges inside my chest. For the first time in days, I almost felt like myself again.

Almost.

Because even here, drowned in the noise and heartbeat of my city, I could feel him—a storm pressing at the edge of my awareness. Poseidon clung to me as surely as the humidity on my skin, an invisible tether I couldn’t cut. The bastard haunted me, even in the one place I thought I might breathe freely. It was predatory… claiming, and worse, my treacherous body didn’t recoil, it leaned into it, humming with an ache I hated myself for craving. This was my city; my sanctuary. But the tether between us pulsed, drawing me back into the maelstrom no matter how far I ran.

I ground my teeth, shoving down the liquid need pooling in my core. He wasn’t here; he couldn’t be—and yet somehow, impossibly, he was everywhere. I pushed harder down the pavement, as if speed alone could shake him from my skin. By the time O’Rourke’s came into view—its battered sign swinging above the door, golden light spilling onto the street—I was practically vibrating with nerves.

Normality. I needed routine. An Old Fashioned, familiar voices, the pub chatter wrapping me in its warm, easy noise; that’s what I told myself as I nodded at Jerry, then shoved the door open and stepped inside. The scent hit me first—ale, body odour, perfume, but layered beneath it, threading through every breath I took, was him; masculine spice, patchouli, and the crisp kiss of ocean air.

My heart thundered in my chest as my gaze swept the room—and snagged on the darkest corner. He was there. His strength and power oozed from him, saturating the bar with an intoxicating pull—debonair, dangerous, the charged calm before a deluge.

Our eyes locked, and I death-glared him—the arrogant, smug sea bastard.

He lounged in his seat, owning the place with effortless dominance, one elbow hooked over the back of his chair, a tumbler of whisky dangling from his long fingers. The low pub light kissed his silver-blond hair, tracing the sharp cut of his jaw and the impossible breadth of his shoulders. He didn’t belong here, and yet he fit with predatory ease, like the shadows themselves had bent to make room for him.