Chapter 8
CORDELIA
As I touched his hand, a jolt of sparks fired up my arm and settled into a delicious hum low in my belly.
I stood, my hand in his huge paw, and looked up to meet his tempestuous eyes.
He was the most devilishly handsome man I’d ever seen: his sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose made him look almost aristocratic.
A fine stubble shadowed his square jaw, and his soft, lush lips made him simply mouthwatering.
As the breeze worried a lock of his hair which had escaped his top-knot, his gaze was intense, his focus on me absolute… consuming, and my breath stuttered in my lungs.
But this man was not human. His movements a moment ago were superhumanly fast and preternaturally smooth—it was unnatural.
He was faster than thought; faster than instinct.
Was he a demigod? At the thought, fear surged, swift and sharp, like poison flooding my bloodstream, threatening to take hold.
I breathed through my nose and exhaled slowly as I tried to steady my hammering heart.
‘Are you well?’ His deep voice rumbled through me, grounding and terrifying in equal measure.
‘Yeah. Yes.’ I gave a breathy, startled laugh. ‘I’m fine. Where are we?’ I pulled my hand from his and glanced around the quiet street, noting the soft light spilling from a restaurant called Jolie.
‘It’s a French restaurant. The food is exceptional. I’ve hired the whole place.’ My brows hiked up. ‘I like my privacy.’ He raised one broad shoulder and turned to cross the quiet street. When I caught up to him, he turned to me again. ‘You don’t eat fish, do you?’
‘No, I don’t eat anything that breathes. I’m vegetarian.’
‘Good.’ He extended the word, and my heart did a sort of extra little pitter-patter. Gods, I needed to get a grip on my raging hormones. ‘Come on, Little Red. Let’s eat.’ He moved again, graceful and commanding, holding the door open as we stepped into Jolie.
Little Red. My heart squeezed at the nickname. I’m not small by any means, but this colossal man made me feel tiny. He dwarfed me, standing almost a head and shoulders taller.
As I stepped into the restaurant, the itch of anxiety returned—a kernel of unease sprouting deep in my gut. The fear from earlier seeded like a toxic weed, because I knew this situation was off—something about it made me jittery, and I never got jittery.
He’s almost certainly a demigod.
The thought sank its claws into my chest, scraping nerves raw. If that were true, this job had just gone from risky to near impossible.
‘Is everything alright?’ Si’s voice was low, laced with concern as he stepped closer, laying a hand on my shoulder.
The warmth of his touch made my heart stumble.
His scent hit me next, wrapping around me like a luxurious blanket on a frosty afternoon—masculine spice, patchouli, and the crisp kiss of ocean air.
Blood rushed to my cheeks, and more… delicate parts.
I inhaled deeply, greedy, like someone chasing the high they swore they’d never need again.
Fear and arousal—what a heady, but reckless mix.
Act normal. Act normal. Act fucking normal.
‘Of course,’ I said with a short, airy laugh, taking a step away from his warmth and looking around.
Jolie was charming, breezy—clean lines and character everywhere. Exposed wood beams, rustic brick, and gleaming white tile gave the restaurant a modern yet welcoming feel.
‘Monsieur Thalassa.’ A man with salt and pepper hair and a matching goatee strode towards us, his hand outstretched.
‘Content de te voir, Albert,’ Si responded as he clasped the man’s hand firmly, then the two exchanged fluid words in French.
Hmmm, he speaks French.
Si reverted to English as he turned to me. ‘May I introduce my friend, Amelia?’
Albert greeted me with a polite bow of the head and a strong handshake. ‘Champagne?’ He tilted his head at me.
‘Would be very well received,’ I said with a smile. He chuckled and led us to an elegant marble bar, where he poured flutes of Cristal with practiced elegance.
We sat to eat. The starter of charred radicchio with hazelnut vinaigrette, thinly sliced apple, and onion soubise was divine. Our conversation so far had stayed surface-level: travel, wine, a touch of politics.
‘You speak French?’ I asked, popping the last bite into my mouth.
His shoulders tightened ever so slightly, but he recovered smoothly. ‘I do.’ His eyes seemed to drill into my very being. ‘So… ‘ he said, voice dipping. ‘Tell me about your ex-husband.’ Those beguiling eyes held mine, and I almost snorted wine up my nose.
Shit. Here we go.
I took a steadying breath and let the chameleon take over, sliding into character as easily as slipping on a glove.
‘He’s a narcissist,’ I said. ‘I married him when I was young, you see, and I didn’t see the signs.
He’s much older… and I was just another beautiful object for him to collect.
A trophy.’ Si’s eyes swirled with something akin to gathering clouds. I blinked, leaning in slightly.
What the hell is going on with his eyes?
‘Go on…’ he commanded.
I took a breath and continued, but could barely hear my own voice for the heartbeat hammering in my ears.
‘He had this… gross sense of entitlement, believing he was far superior to others… deserving of special treatment. Everyone, including me, had to cater to his every whim without question.’ I took a long sip of wine.
Of course, I wasn’t talking about a husband. I was talking about Drakos.
‘And… how did you escape this marriage?’ His eyes narrowed, and he propped his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers.
‘Easily.’ I said, setting the glass down with exaggerated calm. ‘I emptied one of his accounts and went into hiding. I’m… still not divorced, actually.’ I looked down, voice soft and breathy. ‘I lied about that.’
Si ran a hand across the back of his neck and glanced away. ‘I’m sorry I lied,’ I said in a wispy sort of voice. ‘I am going to get divorced. I’ll never go back to him.’ Gods, give me the Oscar already. The tragedy; the wounded girl. I was selling it like Broadway on fire.
His gaze returned to me, sharp as a blade. He gave a single, curt nod.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I whispered as he took a drink of wine.
‘Yes…’ he said slowly.
‘Are you a’—I gulped—‘a demigod? Your speed and your eyes earlier. It freaked me out a little.’ I worried my bottom lip, trying to look fragile and curious rather than calculating.
A heartbeat went by as he held my gaze—his eyes full of power and secrets—and then he laughed.
A sexy sound that tightened my lady parts and caused a flurry of butterflies to cascade through my stomach. Damn it.
‘Would it bother you if I were?’ his deep voice rumbled softly.
I shook my head slowly, taking in the sharp edges and smooth lines of his face.
I could feel it in every fibre of my being—sex with him would be volcanic.
A man who would hold me down, pin my wrists and fuck me hard—aggressively—in the way I’d fantasised about.
I knifed the thought curling out of my consciousness.
Focus. Focus, you horny moron.
I needed to tamp down my raging libido… I wanted to grind on him like a stripper on a pole.
Si reclined in his chair like sin incarnate, confidence radiating off him in wave after infuriating wave.
‘I can tell you want me, Amelia.’ he said, voice dripping with smug confidence.
‘Good gracious. How does the weight of that ego not crush your spine?’
His eyes glistened with a dangerous amount of lust. Then he winked. He freaking winked.
‘Oh. My. Gods. No one is this arrogant.’ I scowled, grabbing the wine bottle and pouring more like my sanity depended on it, downing half the glass in one swallow.
‘I can smell your arousal, Little Red.’
I choked, violently, nearly spraying wine across the damn table. ‘You can… what?'
He laughed again—deep, honey-dark—the sound was a beautiful thing, and my heart fluttered like a thousand stupid butterflies trapped in a cage made of lust.
These pesky butterflies are getting ridiculous. I may need pest control or something.
The main course arrived: Parisian gnocchi, butternut squash, caramelized fennel, pomegranate, and apple cider beurre monté. I savoured every bite. Our conversation drifted to lighter topics—interests, hobbies, the sort of mundane things that felt oddly intimate in this setting.
‘Tell me about your family,’ he said, setting down his napkin and lifting his wine. ‘Parents?’ I looked down at my hands and shook my head. ‘Siblings?’ My head snapped up. He watched me closely, squinting slightly. Has he checked my phone? No, impossible. My device security was impenetrable.
‘One younger sister,’ I answered carefully. ‘Who I adore and will protect with my life.’ His expression softened slightly, and he nodded. ‘How about you?’ I asked, turning the question. ‘Do you have any siblings?’
He gave me a lazy smile. ‘Two brothers. One I’m close to, the other is an asshole.’
A shocked laugh burst from me. ‘Wow. Direct.’
‘Life’s too short to sugarcoat assholery.’
‘Parents?’
His eyes darkened, and he stiffened. ‘No.’ Silence descended thick and syrupy for a few seconds, so I cleared my throat and changed the subject. We talked about animals, and I shared the story that had cemented my decision to go vegetarian.
‘So your stepfather served your pet rabbit for lunch?’ His expression was horrified but even so, he was trying hard to hide his amusement.
‘She was called Flopsy, and he’s an absolute cunt-face!’ I whisper-growled, which made him dissolve into hysterics. It was infectious—deep, warm, real—and I couldn’t help but laugh with him.