Page 37 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

CHAPTER SIX

Katla

Ulysses is standing in front of me in Tanaka Plaza’s foyer, his golden-eyed stare full of challenge, and I desperately want to point out to him that I’ve already said I don’t want to go—didn’t he listen?

He’s just so arrogant, so insufferably arrogant, that I want to punch him in the face, which is not like me at all.

It’s John, that’s the issue. John and threat he’d whispered in my ear, just as Ulysses and his bodyguards came striding out of the Tanaka offices, about how I’d better come with him or else.

I don’t know why I felt such relief the moment I saw Ulysses or why I’d been so certain he would help me. I’d only seen his sharp golden gaze flare with anger as he took in the situation with John, and when I asked him to hold the lift he agreed.

So my furious reaction to him now is likely because he saw that I was afraid.

And I hate that he saw it. I hate that he saw my vulnerability too.

Also, I’m not best pleased with myself for not expecting that John might do something drastic, and for letting myself be at the mercy of my fear, like some stupid damsel in distress.

My emotions are always an issue. For my mother they were a problem she couldn’t and didn’t want to solve, and for John they were something to use and manipulate, so it’s easier if I keep them all locked away.

But, where Ulysses is concerned, they seem to escape no matter what I do, not to mention being more volatile than I expect.

And right now I don’t like how he’s put me in a position where I have to give him the truth.

Truth I don’t want to give up, because I don’t want him to know that, the moment he said he was taking me to Athens with him, all I felt was relief.

I was so full of anxiety when Ulysses pulled me into the lift. I had no idea what I was going to do, because John knows where I live. He has my address and I wouldn’t put it past him to come to my apartment to resume our ‘discussion’.

It’s a whisper of the same fear I had as a kid, when my mother suddenly announced that she wanted to move on—go to France, or to Spain, or to Germany, because she was bored with where she was and needed a change.

I didn’t do that change well, and it happened so often that anxiety about moving soon became part of my life.

John played on that anxiety when we first met, promising me safety and security, that I could trust him with anything. Except I couldn’t trust him and, while I know leaving the country will keep me safe from him, who will keep me safe from Ulysses Zakynthos?

He promised he won’t hurt me, and I believe that, but I still don’t trust him an inch, not given the way he used my desire against me up in Mr Tanaka’s office. And I don’t want to admit to him that I do want his protection.

It’s a terrible position to be in—I don’t want to lie yet I don’t want to tell him the truth. The worst part is that somehow he knows that. Somehow he can see the fight that’s going on inside me right now, and is daring me either to tell him the truth or to lie straight to his face.

But the truth will mean allowing him to have a piece of me, and I’m not sure I’m ready to cede that right now. However, I can’t lie either, so in the end I decide simply to say nothing at all.

I turn my back on him, heading to the doors that lead out of the building and onto the street. Yet I can feel him behind me. I realise that even staying silent has given him something and that he’s pleased about it. I can virtually feel the smugness radiating from him.

Outside, a car is waiting, a chauffeur holding the door. Ulysses indicates I’m to get in, but I baulk. ‘I don’t have my passport and I don’t have any luggage,’ I say, irritated. ‘We’ll have to go via my apartment.’

‘No,’ he says in the kind of tone that suggests arguing with him will not be tolerated.

‘The jet is slotted for departure in an hour and I can’t afford to miss the window.

I have to be in Athens for Christmas or my sister will have my head.

’ His eyes gleam. ‘Everything you need will be provided for, I assure you.’

It’s strange that such an arrogant, self-assured man who doesn’t seem to care about anyone else’s feelings but his own should be so concerned with his sister.

It shocked me when he mentioned her, and I can’t deny it makes me feel a bit better about going with him.

It humanises him, which I resent, because I don’t want him to be humanised.

I’m quite happy seeing him as a monster.

I want to protest again, that I need my clothes, and definitely my passport, but arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere; I already know that.

It didn’t get me anywhere in Mr Tanaka’s office when he demanded I give him my time, either.

Still, I can’t let him have all the power.

I can’t let him walk all over me. I let John manipulate me, I let my mother make me feel broken and I’m tired of other people taking advantage of the way I sometimes miss things.

I need something that I can use against him, something that isn’t just me arguing. Something palpable, inarguable—something honest. He’s not used to being argued with; I know that much. I saw his surprise when I protested in Mr Tanaka’s office, so maybe I need more of that.

Then, as I reluctantly get into the car, I remember something else that happened in Mr Tanaka’s office. My hand on his fly. That shocked him; I remember quite clearly.

I give him a sidelong glance as he gets in with me and the door shuts after us, enclosing us in the warm car together. His presence seems to be magnified a thousand-fold in the small space, the air full of his heat and his dark, masculine scent.

Just as when he got close to me in Mr Tanaka’s office, I feel short of breath, my skin tight and hot.

It’s overwhelming, as if I’m not in control of myself, as if I’m vulnerable.

After what just happened with John, and how Ulysses took charge of me in the lift, I’m suddenly desperate to prove that I’m strong and in command.

Desperate to put him on the back foot for a change, rather than me.

‘That hour,’ I say as the car pulls away from the kerb, the words slipping from me almost before I’m ready to speak. ‘It can start now.’

Ulysses, his phone in his hand, looks up from the screen, frowning. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The hour of my time that you wanted,’ I clarify. ‘It starts now.’

Surprise flickers over his face, which is very satisfying. ‘January,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that what you told me?’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say determinedly. ‘Since you’re insisting I come with you, I’m insisting that the time you wish to spend with me starts and ends when I say so, not you.’

He lowers his phones and directs the full force of his attention at me. As it did in Mr Tanaka’s office, it makes the breath catch in my throat. It’s very intense to be the object of his focus. It’s as if he’s reading and learning about parts of me that even I don’t know about myself.

‘Is that so?’ he murmurs, the flames in his eyes glowing hot.

He likes to be challenged, that’s clear. Or, at least, he likes it when I challenge him. And I have to admit to the small burst of pleasure it gives me too.

‘Yes.’ I meet his gaze, daring him to disagree or protest. ‘So, you have an hour of my time. How do wish to start it?’

‘I wish to start it on the plane after take-off when I can devote my full attention to you.’

‘Perhaps I don’t want your full attention.’

He smiles that slow, hot smile and it makes my stomach clench. ‘Oh, I think you do, my ice queen. I think you’re desperate for it.’

I wish I could tell him categorically that I don’t, but I can’t.

He’s not wrong. His full attention is intoxicating, and I like it.

I want more of it. John saw me as a project he had to undertake, as there were things about me he didn’t much care for, so he tried get rid of them.

He didn’t want to know about my job and had no interest in numbers or in finance.

He never wanted to talk about what interested me, only about what interested him.

When we first got together, he told me he liked my precise way of speaking, and thought my little quirks were endearing.

It was only later that he started to criticise them and made fun of them.

I’ve collected items over the years that all have the spiral of the golden ratio in them: photos, fossils, pressed plants, paintings and sculptures.

They’re all different, but they all have that same spiral, and I find it beautiful.

But John thought they cluttered up the place, that they were ugly.

He didn’t see the same thing I did and he didn’t care that I liked them.

He didn’t like the person I was, and tried to make me into someone different, someone more palatable to him.

I don’t know if Ulysses is the same—perhaps he is—but what I do know is that he called me rare and unique, and I like that. It makes me feel as if my differences are assets rather than deficits.

The leftover fear that sits inside me now is cold, and the betrayal that comes along with it is acidic, but the man sitting beside me is neither of those things. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I want something warm to drown out the fear and the betrayal that John instilled in me.

So, I put my hand on his thigh. He’s wearing black wool suit trousers and he is as hot as I thought he’d be, the heat of his body scorching my palm. I can feel the scratchiness of the wool and, beneath that, hard muscle and taut sinew.

His eyes flare as I touch him and I can see the hunger in them. Again, there is only truth in his gaze, only honesty. Suddenly I know what I can use to give me power. The thing that’s honest, inarguable and palpable: the fact that he wants me.

‘I appreciate the thought, ice queen,’ he murmurs. ‘But I’m not sure this is really what you want.’

‘Oh?’ I raise a brow, meeting his hot, golden gaze.

‘That didn’t seem to matter to you half an hour ago.

Why is it a problem now?’ I’m genuinely puzzled.

He didn’t care when I told him no before, yet he’s reluctant when I initiate contact?

Isn’t this what he wanted? Please don’t say I can’t use this after all…

‘That was before your ex-husband threatened you,’ he says. ‘You are under my protection now, even if that means protecting you from me.’

I’m even more puzzled, not to mention annoyed. ‘I don’t understand you. First you tell me you want me in your bed, despite me refusing you, and then when I touch you you tell me that’s not what you think I want.’

I take my hand away, oddly hurt by his rejection. ‘I told you—I don’t like being played with, Mr Zakynthos.’

Something shifts in his eyes—heat, fire. He reaches for my hand once again, but he doesn’t put it on his thigh. Instead, he cups my palm over the front of his trousers. He’s hot and I can feel the firm length of his erection beneath the wool. My mouth dries.

‘I’m not playing with you,’ he says softly, yet roughly. ‘Make no mistake, Miss Sigurdsdottir, I want you, and you can feel how much. But you must forgive me for wanting to wait until you’ve recovered from being threatened. I do not hurt women.’

He lifts his hand, but I don’t stop touching him. The look in his eyes is molten, and under my palm he’s as hard as iron. He’s looking at me as if he wants to eat me alive.

Yes. This is what I can use: the power of my sexuality. He wants me, he’s made no secret of that, and I can use it against him if I wish. But do I? Or will that be playing with him, the way he’s playing with me? Am I that much of a hypocrite?

I don’t like games, and I don’t like lies, but I very much like how my hand on him is testing him.

However, I can feel the pressure between my thighs, the needy ache—a warning that playing with this kind of fire could end up burning me.

And that’s something that frightens me. I could lose control of myself even as I test him…

I take back my hand, unconsciously curling my fingers against the heat lingering in my palm. ‘Very well,’ I say coolly, looking away. ‘If that’s what you want.’

I only have time for a quick glimpse of the lights of the road, before his fingers press into my skin and he takes my chin in one powerful hand, turning my face back to his. There’s only time for one quick breath before his mouth covers mine.

I have never enjoyed kisses. They’re wet and the sensation always makes me uncomfortable.

Even worse, I’m not expecting this one. But something happens to me the moment Ulysses sets his lips against mine.

His mouth is warm and firm, and somehow I know that he’s good at this.

That he knows what he’s doing and that he’ll make me like it whether I want to or not.

And I feel something wake up inside me, something hungry and hot that wants more. That wants his taste, his touch and his heat that’s somehow a match for the heat inside me. Heat I never knew was there.

He holds me firmly so I can’t pull away, but…

I don’t want to pull away. It’s sensual, this kiss.

He explores my mouth first, as if he’s taking just a small taste, then his tongue coaxes and it’s not wet and uncomfortable, but hot.

And I open my mouth so he can explore me deeper.

His flavour is heady and rich, like chocolate and fine brandy, and it’s so addictive and delicious that I moan.

He grips my jaw in his big, warm hand, tilting back my head to kiss me deeper, and I let him. My eyes are closed, I can see fireworks behind them and my skin is so tight and hot, I want to tear it off.

Automatically, I reach for him, but as soon as I do he lets me go and pulls back, leaving me aching, hot and bereft.

There is fire in his eyes. ‘Be under no illusions,’ he says, his deep voice all velvety and rough. ‘It’s not what I want. But you owe me six months, ice queen. We have plenty of time.’