Page 44 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4
CHAPTER TWELVE
Katla
I hear Ulysses cursing all the way down the other end of the hallway—and it’s a long hallway.
I’m standing in the giant living room, admiring the huge Christmas tree that takes up most of one corner, the radiant crystal star on the top almost brushing the high ceiling.
It’s covered in tinsel and incredibly delicate and expensive-looking ornaments, hand-blown glass Christmas lights in different shapes and colours arranged artfully in the branches.
I’m also admiring the interior of his palatial Greek villa, with its pristine white walls and long, white linen sectional sofas.
Folk art adorns the walls, but it’s clear the main attraction in this room lies in the floor-to-ceiling windows and their outlook over the vivid green lawn to the deep blue of the Aegean.
My attention has been caught by a glimpse of a particularly lavish pool area, and I’m just on the point of walking to the windows to get a better look when I’m distracted by what sounds like the beginning of a very intense male tantrum.
Despite being wary of male anger, I find myself drawn towards the sound by an impulse I can’t explain.
I feel like a moth constantly being lured towards the light, and Ulysses is that light.
I wanted more of his touch on the plane, but he refused, saying it would be better to be in a bed—more privacy—and, since he was right, I didn’t argue. But since we arrived at his villa I’ve kept myself in check, because I’m not sure how the meeting with his sister will go.
Ulysses obviously adores her, since he spoke a little about her on the plane after we had sex.
I had questions for him—mostly about where his villa was and whether his sister would be okay with me being there.
He assured me she would be, that Olympia was caring and easy to get along with and that I would love her.
Yet there’s been no sign of her since we arrived and now, with Ulysses cursing a blue streak, I wonder if something terrible has happened. Admittedly, he sounds more angry than upset, but I need to see him, to look into his eyes to determine which it is.
The door to what is obviously his office is standing open. The room is large, with big windows facing the tall pines that grow beside the villa, and a desk stands in front of the windows. Book cases line the walls.
It’s a tidy office, but not stark, with knickknacks here and there giving hints of the personality of the man who inhabits it.
There’s a shell on one of the shelves and I want to look at it, because it has the most perfect spiral.
A small, beautiful and delicate abstract painting is propped up against some books.
What looks to be a very old Grecian vase sits on another shelf.
Ulysses is standing with his back to me, looking out of the windows.
He must not know I’m there, because he turns suddenly, picks up an empty water glass from his desk and hurls it at the wall.
The glass smashes into a million pieces, scattering all over the floor, and I freeze in the doorway, shocked.
He catches sight of me, his golden eyes blazing, every line of him taut with fury. And I’m suddenly reminded of the day John threw my glass paperweight and it hit the wall and smashed. That terrified me, and the next day I left him, so by rights I should be terrified now.
Yet, as the shock drains away, it’s not fear that replaces it. John would simmer coldly for weeks before exploding, but Ulysses is standing there, making no attempt to hide his fury, and he isn’t simmering either. He’s already boiling over, and for some reason that fascinates me.
‘I suggest you not come near me for the time being,’ he says roughly.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Will you hurt me?’
His anger flares again, his mouth hard. ‘No, of course not. I’m not your bastard husband.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I agree. John chose my paperweight to break because he knew it was mine and that it would hurt me. But Ulysses just threw his own water glass, and it’s not the same. ‘So why should I not come near you?’
‘Because I’m furious,’ he bites out through gritted teeth. ‘And I’m never very pleasant when I’m furious.’ His accent has grown stronger, his voice deeper, which I find unbearably sexy. I even find his anger unbearably sexy, though I shouldn’t.
He’s practically incandescent with it, his hands in fists at his sides, his eyes blazing.
He’s not afraid of his anger, I think. He feels comfortable expressing it, and part of me wonders what that would actually be like—to be so relaxed about my emotions that I could express them without worrying about hurting someone or making them angry.
Without being told that the way I feel is wrong and inappropriate.
‘Why are you furious?’ I want to know, because it must be something serious, and if so I want to help. It seems like a strange thing to want to do for a man I haven’t known very long, but it’s true nevertheless.
Ulysses turns back to the windows, as if looking at me is too much for him. ‘My sister is not here. She’s with someone else. An enemy of mine from years ago.’
I study his tense posture. He loves his sister, that’s obvious, but he’s furious too, which likely means he’s afraid. Anger sometimes stems from fear, so perhaps he’s afraid for her—which makes sense, given what he said about an enemy of his.
‘You’re worried about her?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he bites out. ‘Of course I’m fucking worried about her.’ There’s another silence, then he adds, ‘She’s pregnant.’
I frown, puzzled. Pregnancy is usually a reason for happiness, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s not, though, and maybe this is one of those times. I take a couple of steps into the room. ‘You’re not happy for her?’ I ask carefully.
Ulysses turns back again, eyes still blazing like a torch. ‘What did I tell you about not being near me?’
I realise then, quite abruptly and on a level I haven’t felt before, that I’m really not afraid of him.
Not even a little. Not when I can see that it’s the fear lurking beneath the fury that’s driving him.
‘You said you wouldn’t hurt me and you won’t,’ I tell him simply. ‘I’m not afraid of you, Ulysses.’
A muscle leaps in his jaw. ‘You should be.’
‘Why? Do you hurt a lot of women?’
His tall figure is almost vibrating with tension. ‘Yes, many.’ He throws the words at me like missiles trying to keep me at bay.
‘Physically?’ I ask, even though somehow I know deep down that the answer is no.
That muscle leaps again. ‘No,’ he grits out. ‘Never.’
‘So, now we’ve established I have no reason to be afraid of you, perhaps you can tell me why you’re so angry about your sister being pregnant.’
He lets out a breath, opening his hands and closing them again, as if he’s longing to grab something—a weapon of some kind—desperate to use it against whatever enemy is threatening him. ‘This is my problem,’ he says with carefully restrained fury. ‘And it has nothing to do with you.’
‘Well,’ I point out logically, ‘You were the one who brought me here. So, now you’ve made it my problem too.’
My frankness is not appreciated, as he stares at me balefully, yet I can’t help but be drawn to his intensity, the fire in him calling to the same fire in me, the fire that I know is deep inside me. The fire that, unlike of him, I’m afraid of.
My childhood was unsettled, my mother going from one place to another—living in communes, helping out on farms or wherever her free spirit took her.
I hated never being able to settle, never having any routines, everything changing, sometimes every week, sometimes every day.
All the changes would often drive me to meltdowns I couldn’t control, and which my mother didn’t know how to deal with, so sometimes she’d just lock me in a room wherever we were and leave.
Once she was gone a whole night, which was terrifying to me at the time.
As a result, I become very adept at controlling my emotions, never getting too angry, never getting too sad.
Never getting too happy either, because my mother didn’t like how I expressed my happiness, which was to hum.
In fact, the way I expressed any emotion at all felt wrong when it came to her, so in the end it was easier to express nothing at all.
But those emotions don’t go away, even if they’re not expressed. They get stuck inside, boiling away like lava and, if nothing is done about them, they burn a person alive.
Numbers kept my emotions in check. The abstract beauty of them, divorced from anything but logic, was a lifesaver. I did number puzzles, solved equations and number games, anything that would distract me, and it worked.
But…here in this room, Ulysses is furious and he is doing nothing to distract himself. He’s not out of control with fury, but it’s there, and he clearly feels it, and is not denying it. I find it fascinating and I wish I could be like that too.
‘You don’t have to be here, Katla,’ he reiterates. ‘I would prefer that you leave, in fact.’
‘But I don’t prefer it,’ I tell him, because I want to stay with him. I want to help him, even though I don’t know how, I just do. ‘You might as well tell me what the issue is. I might be able to help.’
His mouth twists, as if me helping is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard, and maybe he’s right. Maybe me trying to help him is a very stupid idea, which of course makes me feel stupid yet again. Except I can’t bring myself to leave, not yet. Not without knowing what’s making him so afraid.
The desk is between us, his gaze like the sun searing over my skin.
I expect him to tell me to leave again, but this time he says, ‘My entire life has been spent keeping Olympia safe. It’s my duty as her big brother to protect her and that’s all that matters to me.
Nothing else is of any importance. I failed in that duty once before and I will not do it again. ’