Page 8 of Queen of Tempests and Sin

Yes, I peeked. So sue me. Curiosity isn’t just a trait—it’s a survival skill.

Inside the box was a helmet. I’d tried it on—because obviously—and it did, indeed, render invisibility. No shimmer, no sound, just straight-up vanishing. A godly artefact, no doubt about it—the kind of thing that shouldn't be anywhere near mortal hands. I ignored the sinking feeling in my gut… a divine weapon and now an item of stealth? Without question, these were the weapons of the gods. Every instinct screamed back away slowly, but I stuffed the unease into a mental lockbox and turned the key.

I’m the best assassin in the world. I’ve survived worse than a demigod. At least… I hoped I had.

This mission had to work. Everything depended on it.

The chameleon effect? I had it in spades. My fighting leathers were perfect for some jobs, but certain social circles required a different kind of predator. So my fighting leathers stayed at home, while my mid-calf combat boots went in the suitcase.

I was able to adapt to changing circumstances, people, and environments. This time, I was a rich divorcee with a curated backstory and a healthy alimony cushion. I’d become her, wear her skin like it was made for me; the Black Dahlia: a colder, sharper version of myself, and far more dangerous.

I’d been kitted out with a brand-new wardrobe tailored for this role—pieces I’d probably never wear again. I was a jeans-and-leather-jacket girl at heart. But perks of the job? Two Louis Vuitton suitcases—one stuffed with designer clothing, the other, smaller one reserved for the helmet. Those were mine now.

For travel, I wore a Dior camel-coloured jumpsuit with matching heels. Understated elegance: I looked like money.

The limo eased to a stop beside the aircraft stairs, and I stepped out into the predawn hush, staring up at the jet. Sleek and gleaming in phantom grey with a champagne-toned undercarriage, it looked every inch the high-rollers’ chariot.

‘Time to buckle up,’ I muttered, smoothing a hand down my jumpsuit as the driver deposited my luggage on the tarmac, and I moved towards the steps with measured grace.

An attractive flight attendant waited with a bright smile on her painted red lips, coiffed blonde hair, and a champagne silk blouse tied neatly at the throat. Her matching skirt didn’t so much hug her figure as flatter it expertly. She smiled, the professional kind, warm but detached. I offered a polite nod, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear and slipping fully into character.

‘Miss Johnson. Welcome. I’m Annette, and I shall be looking after you today along with my colleague, Nancy.’ The woman beamed.

‘Super.’ I arched a brow and offered a curt nod.

‘Please, your bags will be stowed. Make yourself comfortable.’ She gestured to the aircraft steps with an elegant sweep of her hand.

I slung my Louis Vuitton crossbody bag over my shoulder and climbed the steps, heels tapping softly against the metal. Inside, the space opened into something easily larger than the footprint of my house. The pale white wood interior was stunning—the quiet timber cocoon was fashionably enriched with stainless-steel trimmings, and a dozen large, streamlined lounge chairs upholstered in charcoal grey leather complemented the pale grey tufted floor covering. Everything whispered luxury.

‘Sit wherever you’d like,’ came a voice behind me. I jumped. Nancy. Quiet as a ghost. That one had stealth in spades—she’d make a great recruit for combat training.

‘Am I the only passenger?’ I narrowed my eyes slightly.

She smiled again. ‘Yes, Miss Johnson. May I offer you champagne? Breakfast will be served as soon as we’re in the air.’

‘Thanks.’ I gave a demure smile and sank into one of the lounge chairs. ‘I could get used to this,’ I muttered to myself as I grabbed my Kindle from my bag. Champagne, breakfast, and a good romance novel—followed by a well-earned snooze.

Fabulous.

After eating the most remarkable breakfast of perfectly poached eggs atop crushed avocado on sourdough toast, I demolished half a tray of Danish pastries and washed it down with three glasses of champagne. Zero regrets. Then I buried myself in my book: a reverse harem shifter romance… a girl can dream, right?

Six blissful hours later, when dinner was served, I was starving again. A creamy vegetable risotto arrived first—rich, fragrant, and melt-in-the-mouth—followed by a decadent dessert or three and, naturally, more champagne. Honestly? I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

Lost in thought, I sipped my champagne and stared blankly out the window, the mission gnawing at the edges of my mind. As I pictured the target in the photograph—primarily those dangerously intense blue-green eyes—knots of tension balled in my stomach, causing anxiety to flutter in my chest like trapped birds.

I slapped my hand over my face and let out a long, weary sigh. Gods, I loved being a badass, but I wanted to do it on my terms—not under Drakos’s thumb, not playing puppet to his manipulations. Killing bad people? That was easy. But this Si Thalassa… who the hell was he? Did he actually deserve to die?

I closed my eyes momentarily and sighed again. I was a sighing machine today. With a groan, I drained the last of my champagne and did what any sane girl would do—I dove back into the world of horny shifters and hoped they could distract me from my spiralling thoughts.

I’d just finished my extra-spicy book, my lady parts tingling from all the spectacularly creative sex—gods, it’d been way too long—when Annette informed me we’d be landing in thirty minutes. Damn. I hadn’t had that much-needed nap, but whatever. I’d have plenty of time to sleep later, and maybe even squeeze in some sightseeing once I’d set everything up. The target wasn’t expected for another three days, thankfully.

Scrubbing my eyes—tiredness tugging on my bones—I blinked against the brightening sky as the plane landed on the sun-filled tarmac, the wheels kissing the ground with a gentle bump.

By 8 a.m., another limousine had dropped me off at an oasis of luxury—a beautiful hotel on the beachfront called “Atlantis”. We arrived at a palatial turning circle at the front of the hotel, flanked by swaying palms and the crisp, salty breeze of the sea. The scent of brine and baked sunshine hit me like a welcome mat to paradise.

I tipped the limo driver a fifty after he unloaded my Louis Vuittons, and a bellhop dressed in a sharp black uniform welcomed me with a too-bright smile. He piled my luggage onto a gleaming gold cart while I watched him with bemused tiredness until he turned and smiled again.

‘This way, Ma’am. The concierge is expecting you,’ he said, nodding towards the gilded entrance.