Page 5 of Queen of Tempests and Sin

Apollo went full rockstar—literally. He bankrolled live music venues worldwide, cashing in on every spotlight while strutting around like Spotify was created just for him.

Aphrodite obliterated the likes of Ann Summers and Victoria’s Secret with a global chain of lingerie and sex emporiums. Think Love Island with a corporate budget, complete with racks of lace, silk, and enough vibrators to power a small city.

Zeus, the asshole-in-chief, built a billion-dollar investment company staffed by Oracles. Insider trading? Please… he basically is the stock market.

Ares, the god of war, did the least shocking thing ever and created a global MMA cage-fighting empire. Humans line up to watch blood sport on pay-per-view while Ares gloats from the VIP box, turning violence into a billion-dollar brand. A brutal sport for a brutal god. Figures.

The gods had promised a “fairer world.” Annoyingly, they’d delivered. If you were a law-abiding citizen, life was golden. If not, punishments were archaic, vicious, and very, very public. The standard of living was higher, crime was down, homelessness gone. The world is a utopia—curated by the same lunatics who once started wars over a golden apple.

Still… I was waiting for the catch. With gods, there was always a catch.

The takeaway, though? Don’t piss off the gods unless you fancy being used as a floor mop… one still dripping red.

‘So many questions, little flower.’ Drakos’s voice was smooth, mocking, and shook me from my internal reverie. My stomach clenched. ‘Ours is not to ask. Only to fulfil the contract. As for the gods… I have no idea. Maybe he’s a demigod who’s gotten out of hand, and they need to deal with him discreetly.’ He paused. ‘One million pounds should be incentive enough for you to succeed. Do the job cleanly, and when you return, I’ll let you spend time with Guinevere.’

‘I have to cut off his head?’ I muttered as disgust swirled in my belly.

‘Yes, they were explicit about your instructions. Do not fail me, Cordelia. The client… implied that people I care about may suffer if you do.’ At his words, a shiver of panic tiptoed down my spine.

‘Guinn? Have you put Guinn in danger?’ The metallic, bitter taste of anger filled my mouth with every word.

The room went so quiet you could hear a fly fart.

He didn’t answer me. ‘Your plane leaves at 4 a.m.… Do not be late.’ He started studying papers on his desk, which was my cue to beat it.

What in the seven circles of hell was Drakos getting me in to?

CHAPTER 2

CORDELIA

Iswung back onto my BMW and peeled away from St Xavier’s, the purr of the engine almost drowning out the disquiet clinging to me like a prickly blanket, but no matter how fast I rode, it stayed with me.

An hour later, the dove-grey sky mixed with a subtle hint of bruised purple, the first warning of sunset creeping in. I pulled up outside my house, killed the engine, and removed my helmet. The familiar bark of the neighbour’s dog echoed down the imperfect streets, a comforting sort of welcome home.

This definitely wasn’t the posh part of London—not even close, and most people kept to themselves. Tourists were rare in this part of town, and that suited me just fine.

The house had been cheap when I convinced Drakos to buy it for me; a "doer-upper," the estate agent had said, all hopeful smiles and optimism. Two bedrooms, a bath that needed retiling, and an open-plan kitchen-living space that tried its best to look modern. Out back, a patch of grass masqueraded as a private garden. It was far from perfect, but I didn’t need perfect. I needed peace.

This place was my haven. My anchor. The only spot in the world where I didn’t feel like someone’s weapon on a leash. My heart was here—in this rundown part of the dynamic city—it was home.

I’d begged Drakos to let me move out of St Xavier’s. Told him I was suffocating there, which wasn’t a lie. He’d agreed—on the surface—but the house was just another leash, another bone tossed to keep me docile. Still, it was worth the illusion of freedom.

For now.

I swung the bag from my shoulders and unclasped the box from the back of the bike, only to spot Frank sitting on my front steps like he owned the place. He raised a hand in greeting as I snagged the box. A brick of a man and onetime hardass and boxer with a nose to show for it, Frank made it his business to scout the neighbourhood for any misdeeds—he was the neighbourhood watchdog. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners; his bright-white teeth contrasting starkly with his midnight skin.

‘Hey Frank,’ I said, trudging over.

‘You finally get that time off you wanted?’ he asked, standing and shoving his baseball cap back onto his shaved head.

‘Huh?’ I puckered my brow, digging in my pocket for my keys.

‘Ah Hells-bells… not you. I get confused with that white girl down the street.’

Gods knew how. I’m twenty-four and could break a man in half. She was five-foot-nothing and halfway to menopause. I huffed a breath and grappled with the box a little. ‘I suppose we all look the same to you, huh?’ I raised a pissy eyebrow, and he ignored the jab, as usual.

‘What you got there?’ He nodded towards the box under my arm.