Page 70 of Queen of Tempests and Sin

‘Fine,’ he ground out. His jaw flexed. ‘But don’t expect me to like it.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ I shot back.

We walked in silence, my boots thudding against the pavement, his stride easy and unhurried beside me. I could feel him—a tempest pressed into human form—too large, too dangerous for the quiet streets of London. The faint glow of streetlamps spilled over his silver-blond hair, gilding the sharp lines of his face. People we passed looked at him, then away again, as though instinct warned them not to stare too long at a predator.

By the time we turned onto my street, my pulse was jittering with equal parts nerves and defiance. I stopped in front of the narrow terraced house, and his disgust was palpable. He stared at the bricks, the peeling paint on the doorframe, the mismatched curtains, as if the structure itself had personally offended him.

I slowed, glancing at the familiar row of brick terraces. My little house was still the same—small, stubborn, lived-in. My sanctuary.

He already knew, he’d already been here—I could tell by the way his gaze swept over the façade, the assessment of a man confirming something he hated but expected.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the faint smell of jasmine candles and old books curling around me like a hug. He filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking out the world behind him, his expression carved from granite.

‘It’s not much, but it’s mine,’ I said, sharper than I meant to.

He prowled inside, taking in the narrow hallway, the worn rug, the scuffed skirting boards, and his jaw ticked. ‘This house could collapse in a storm. A single wave would level it.’

‘Funny,’ I muttered, dropping onto the arm of my sofa. ‘Good thing we don’t usually get tidal waves in London.’

His eyes narrowed as he moved further in, the smallness of the space bending around his presence, making him look impossibly large, impossibly other. He trailed a hand across the shelf stacked with paperbacks and old photographs, his mouth tightening as though the sight offended him.

‘You deserve more than this,’ he muttered, low and harsh, as though the walls themselves weren’t worthy of me.

‘It’s not about what I deserve,’ I shot back, heat flaring in my chest, ‘I chose this. Not your palace. Not your mark on my skin. This.’ I gestured around my small space.

That hit him. His eyes flickered, storm-bright, but underneath—hurt. For a moment, just a moment, he looked like a man stripped of armour.

The fragile truce stretched thin between us, humming like a live wire. I stood and grabbed two glasses from the kitchen cupboard and poured wine, handing him one as he sat at the small kitchen table. He leaned against the table, every line of his body taut, that tempest always simmering just under his skin.

‘You walked out of my protection,’ he said, voice low but vibrating with the weight of it. ‘Back here. To this—' he gestured at the peeling paint, the flickering light, the flimsy lock on the back door. ‘While Ixion may be hunting you.’

I crossed my arms, spine rigid. ‘It’s my home, Si. Not everyone needs jewels and a fortress to feel alive.’

His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking hard. ‘Alive? You could have been dead by now.’ The words were a growl, but there was no anger in his eyes—only something raw, something that stole the air from my chest. ‘Little Red… do you understand what that would do to me?’

My throat tightened. I wanted to look away, but his gaze held me there, pinned like a butterfly on a board, wings spread and useless.

‘I can’t—' His voice cracked, rough with something too vulnerable for a god who owned the oceans. ‘I can’t protect you if you keep running. Don’t do that to me again. Don’t leave me blind while Ixion prowls. Please.’

The word hung between us, soft but shattering. A Please. From Poseidon.

My anger faltered, a fissure cracking down the centre. ‘Then stop giving me a reason to.’ I gripped the tabletop, needing the cool press of wood to anchor me. ‘I didn’t leave to hurt you,’ I whispered. ‘I left because I needed space. Because I needed… to breathe.’

I drank in silence, the only sounds the faint tick of the clock above the fridge and the occasional hiss of traffic outside my window. His presence filled the little kitchen, too large and commanding, even when he said nothing. I sipped my wine, letting it coat my tongue, trying not to look at him and failing spectacularly every few seconds.

He hadn’t touched his drink. Just sat there, tempestuous eyes fixed on me, as though willing me to bend—to give in.

I let the silence stretch until it pressed against my chest, heavy and unyielding. Finally, I set my glass down, fingers tapping against the rim.

‘Should we… go back?’ My voice was soft, but it shattered the air like glass breaking.

His gaze sharpened. ‘Back?’

‘Back to the Underworld?’ I asked, my voice tight.

‘Yes.’ he said softly standing and taking my hand, and with a wash of seafoam and mist, the house dissolved around us.

CHAPTER 25