Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  Awareness ripples down my spine, no matter that he’s only in my periphery.

  I feel him.

  Feel his sharp gaze blazing a trail over my frame. Feel his desire to drop his hands onto my shoulders and keep me seated on the bar stool. I don’t need to look in his direction to know that he’s questioning why I’ve shown up a full day before we were scheduled to meet.

  With my stomach tied in knots, I roll the tumbler between my hands and watch the amber whisky coat the glass, like water coasting over the shoreline, desperate to hold on but unable to resist the pull of the sea demanding its inevitable return.

  “Enough about us,” Saxon’s brother says, elbows propped up on the kitchen island. He swirls his whisky, wrist hitched idly as he watches me with vivid blue eyes. “Where are you from, Isla? The City?”

  Something tells me that this was his plan all along, to lull me into complacency with liquor and some harmless storytelling before turning the tables around and digging into my life. I don’t blame him—clearly, this is a quasi-interview of sorts to prove that I’m not some elaborate loyalist schemer plotting to bring the Priest brothers down.

  Even so, I don’t trust Guy worth a damn.

  I don’t trust the way his hard, unforgiving gaze brushes over me, as though he would like nothing more than to toss me, arse-first, out of his flat—despite the fact that he smiles congenially and pours me another shot as though we’re all good mates.

  And I don’t trust the way he tore into his brother either.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Saxon, it’s that he doesn’t cater to the bullshit. He says it how it is, or he says nothing at all. Dad always told me that power resides in silence, and I’ve never felt that to be truer than when I turned to Saxon, swept my eyes over him, and watched vulnerability skate through his unholy gaze.

  He said nothing and yet . . .

  And yet, I’d felt his rage as my own, as though it were a living, breathing entity skating beneath my skin and turning me furiously hot.

  Even now, I clasp the tumbler so tightly that I fear it might shatter into a million little pieces.

  Throat dry, I answer, “No, York.” I set the glass down, pushing it away with a single finger. It scrapes across the counter, leaving dampness behind. “I’ve lived in London for nearly seven years now. It’s more my home than anywhere else.”

  “You must miss it, though—family, friends.” Guy picks up my glass and carries it to the sink. “I can only imagine what your parents think with you here. They must be worried sick.”

  “They’re dead.”

  My gaze snaps to Saxon, who only stares back, as though daring me to challenge him. Cold eyes. Unsmiling mouth. Rigid posture. That vulnerability is long gone, if it were ever there in the first place, but still . . . he’s rendered me completely silent.

  He holds my stare as he continues: “Isla took her siblings in. If there’s anyone worrying sick, it’s her.”

  For the first time since I sat down, he jerks his gaze away to focus on his brother. Standing side by side, it’s easy enough to spot the similarities between them: the dark, midnight hair and the matching aloof expressions. But the differences take over from there—Guy is taller, leaner. He reminds me of a wolf, always on the hunt, always prepared to take a swipe and make you his very next meal. His eyes are a searing blue and his features, though severe, are unmarred by scars.

  Barely restrained energy versus pure ice. Purposely callous opposed to purposefully detached.

  As though I’ve been tethered to a string, I find myself seeking out Saxon, just as he adds, “Reminds me of when we lived in Paris. Us against the world, with you at the helm.”

  My abandoned tumbler clatters into the sink as Guy lets go. His wide shoulders draw upward, tensing, as if Saxon has breached some agreement to never bring up Paris. Have I read anything about them living there on the internet? No. I don’t think so. I would remember.

  Curiosity gets the better of me when I ask, “How long were you all in France?”

  “Five years.” Guy says five like it ought to equivalate to a hundred, as though those five years continue to haunt him still.

  Saxon lifts a hand from the counter to pass his palm across his midsection. My eyes catch on the way the fabric of his shirt flattens under his touch, delineating a ridged stomach and what must be steel abdominal muscles. “Our mum died a year after we got there.” He waits until my gaze collides with his before saying, “It’s been the three of us—him, Damien, and me—for so long that Guy’s not one to trust easily.”

  I hear everything that he isn’t saying: Guy doesn’t trust you.

  Too bad.

  Coming to my feet, I lift my chin and meet a pair of suspicious blue eyes. “Not that I’d expect anything else since we’ve only just met, but I promise that I’m not here to tear your family apart. The Westminster Riots stole my parents from me. I suppose you could argue that I had them long enough, but my siblings—” The backs of my eyes sting, and bollocks! I need to pull myself together. Unlike Saxon, I’ve always lacked the ability to smother my emotions. I breathe fire, not ice. “Well, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to keep Peter and Josie safe, and I’ll be dead before I come between anyone else’s family. But your brother hired me to do a job, and that’s why I’m here.”

  For the job.

  Only for the job.

  Saxon pushes away from the counter and my lifted chin falls as I feel him at my back. The pressing heat, the tangible tension. I swallow, hard, and immediately regret passing over my whisky tumbler. I need something to do with my hands, anything. As a last resort, I rest my fingers on the kitchen island and brace for another round with Saxon Priest.

  “You weren’t to meet with Father Bootham until tomorrow,” comes his gravel-pitched voice over my shoulder.

  Schooling my features, I glance back at him. “It might shock you to know that I’m fully aware of how the days of the week work.”

  Gritty laughter trips off Guy’s tongue. “You have bollocks, Isla, I’ll give you that.”

  My nails scrape over the island as I turn to face Saxon directly. “Because I don’t dabble in BS?”

  “Because you aren’t terrified to step up to my brother.”

  I meet Saxon’s pale eyes. “He doesn’t scare me.”

  He might not scare me, but my heart whispers another story. It races in my chest, a perfect juxtaposition to Saxon’s disciplined composure. As foolish as it might be, I’m tempted to press my fingers to his chest and discover for myself if he does, in fact, have a heart. Do I scare him? Logic says no, but there’s nothing even remotely logical about the way my own heart threatens to burst from my rib cage when he steps in close and demolishes yet another centimeter between us.

  Demolishes it, like it’s in his right to make the space disappear.

  Demolishes it, like he’s determined to discern whether I’ll crack and run for the hills.

  One of his hands falls to the island beside mine, my pinky and his thumb brushing—I gasp at the contact, and barely manage to suppress another when he clamps his hand down fully on mine and juts his harsh face close.

  “Tell me,” he orders, his green eyes searching mine. Hesitance keeps the words lodged in my throat, and he must read me well enough because he adds, “You can say it in front of him.”

  There’s no pretending I don’t know who him is—Guy Priest.

  The wild one.

  My lower spine collides with the island, which bends my arm at an awkward angle. There’s no pain in the position, and even if there were, I wouldn’t pull away. To do so would imply that Saxon leaves me flustered, which he doesn’t. Not at all. Liar.

  “Isla.”

  I crane my head back, so I can maintain eye contact. “My brother attends Queen Mary. He hears all kinds of rumors on campus—”

  “Elaborate.”

  “The particulars don’t matter.”

  “They do or you wouldn’t have come here.” He squeezes my
hand. “Elaborate.”

  It’s now or never.

  Licking my lips, I prepare myself to force the words out—words that will either solidify my innocence or guarantee that I end up on his radar. And while I don’t think Saxon would turn me in as King John’s murderer—especially not when he hates the royal family as much as I do—I find that I need to hear his answer before I tell him anything else. Gut instinct. “They say you killed the king.”

  Utter. Silence.

  It sweeps over the kitchen, and heightened tension knits my shoulder blades together. Saxon’s fingers separate mine, as though he’s seeking to ground himself. It’s his only outward reaction, and I’m once again reminded that power speaks volumes in silence.

  Guy curses beneath his breath. “Who the bloody hell is they?”

  I keep my attention locked on Saxon. “The students at uni. Everyone thinks you’ve done it.”

  His disfigured lips part on a growl. “I’ve done nothing.”

  Yes, I know.

  Since I can’t reveal that, I opt for a touch of humor. “Not a kidnapper, not a murderer, either. Careful, you’re close to convincing me that you believe in unicorns and happily-ever-afters.”

  His mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. “I kill, Isla, make no mistake. Past, present, future. But I’ve never met the king, let alone assassinated him.”

  Past.

  Present.

  Future.

  I feel the weight of his hand on mine and fight the urge to squirm. But . . . But I’m no better than him, am I? I killed the king. If the blame belongs anywhere, it’s on my head. In the two months since I pulled the trigger, Britain’s internal turmoil has taken on a sharp, primitive edge.

  That’s my fault.

  One could say that life under King John’s reign was worse. He became something intrinsically vile after Princess Evangeline died, a predator who hunted innocents and turned lives upside down, all on some crusader’s campaign to avenge his daughter’s death. The kind man that my parents’ generation remembered became nothing but a figment of the past.

  But I’m not so short-sighted as to believe that Queen Margaret has done any better. Where her father attacked, she’s retreated. From the public eye, from Westminster, from her duties as queen. And so, the country has gone up in flames—her supporters want her to take control, as the king did before her, and anti-loyalists see this as their moment to strike and topple the entire political system.

  I did that.

  I created the ripple effect and now there’s no escaping my decisions. I see them every time I turn on the telly and watch coverage on the latest riot. I see them whenever I close my eyes, in bed, and sleep with my remorse for being the reason the death count continues to climb.

  And I see it now, too, as I stare at Saxon—a man who’s been slandered for a crime that I committed.

  If it were possible to choke on one’s guilt, I would be dead on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, despising the tremor that I can’t quite disguise. I’m sorry that you’re about to be hunted. I’m sorry that I did this to you—to your brothers. I’m sorry I can’t fix this without putting Josie and Peter in danger. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Saxon’s dark brows lower, his mouth twisting in self-deprecation. “For what? You didn’t put the first gun in my hand. I did that.”

  “No, I did.”

  As one, we both turn to stare at Guy, who offers a grim smile. “You were thirteen. Too young for that kind of life. Too young for any of it.” Despite the cryptic words, Guy shakes his head, laughing this low, disbelieving sound, like he’s been damned from the start and is just accepting his lot in life now. “So, I did that. To you.”

  Saxon’s throat works with a visible swallow, and he pushes away, turning toward his brother. “Guy—”

  “No.” Hands up, he falls back a step, then another. “We’re all right. I need to . . .” He looks over his shoulder, but not before I see the way he slams his eyes shut, like he’s seeking reprieve from whatever it is that plagues him. “I need to go—pub business. Fill me in later, yeah?”

  Before either of us has the chance to respond, Guy’s slipped out the front door.

  It clicks softly shut behind him.

  And the air . . . God, it’s as though I can feel it crackle to life the second Guy’s footsteps fade into nothingness. Chest tight, I remain plastered to the island and watch Saxon closely.

  Even with his head bowed, he appears virtually untouchable. A king of death wreathed with a crown of torment.

  I touch my tongue to my bottom lip. “Would you . . . Would you like to talk about it?”

  He’s silent for a moment, self-control evident in every line of his body. And then he twists his head to meet my stare. The tawny yellow near his pupils appears starker, more effervescent. “About how I’m a killer?” he asks softly, dangerously. “About how killing is all I’ve ever known?”

  Drawing in a sharp breath, I shake my head. “That’s not . . . that’s not what I meant.”

  “Isn’t it?” He steps in my direction. Just one foot. Just one step. And yet I feel the shortened distance all the way down to my toes. “The other side of the coin is that killing one person often means protecting another—giving up a corner of your own soul to save someone better.”

  I understand!

  I want to shout the words, to scream them into the void. I thought—oh how I had thought—that murdering King John would mean safety for Peter and Josie. With the monster off his throne, life would return to its former self. A bipartisan government. A figurehead monarch. I was wrong. Stupid. A bloody fool.

  At my sides, my hands tremble. I’ve been doused in isolation since that day, so alone with my decisions and my remorse and my fear, and Saxon . . . He knows how this feels. He knows the toll death takes on your spirit.

  A confession begs for release but something in me renders it silent.

  Hello, thy name is Paranoia.

  “You’re more than that,” I tell Saxon, my voice little more than a ragged whisper. “Sometimes . . . sometimes we’re put in hard positions with limited options.”

  He pins me with a cool stare. “And sometimes we simply amount to what we’ve always been destined to become.”

  A killer. A monster of our own making.

  Does one decision instantly revoke years of always being good? For my sake, I pray that it isn’t true. For Saxon’s sake, I would do everything in my power to prove that it isn’t.

  I open my mouth, prepared to speak, and am soundly cut off when he demands, “Tell me the real reason you’re here, Isla.”

  Oh, hell.

  I raise my gaze to the ceiling, searching for the right words.

  “Just say it.”

  Pressing my knuckles to my eyes, I inhale, then let it out slowly. Drop my hands to my sides and spit out the words before I choose to keep them within me forever. “There’s been talk that . . . that—”

  “Isla.”

  “You’ve been marked, Saxon.”

  15

  Saxon

  You’ve been marked, Saxon.

  If I had a fiver for every time I’ve heard that, I’d be filthy rich by now—but Isla doesn’t know that. She stands before me, her fingers wringing together, her gaze anywhere but on my face. Or maybe the latter’s just for obvious reasons. I shut my wanker conscience up with a mental sod off.

  I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is that all?”

  Isla’s mouth gapes open. “Is that all? Are you . . .? Did you not hear what I just told you?”

  “I heard.”

  She slips away from the island, prowling toward me with furrowed brows and an unsmiling mouth. “How can you not care? Someone wants you dead. Multiple someone’s, actually, if we’re aiming for full transparency.”

  Full transparency: someone has wanted me dead at one time or another since we opened The Bell & Hand. Playing two sides of the fence takes delicate balance and always leaves one party feeling parti
cularly heated. I made a habit of looking over my shoulder a long time ago.

  “If you haven’t noticed, pissing people off is something of a—”

  “Personal skill of yours?” Isla stops in front of me, close enough that I spy gray speckles hidden amongst the cerulean blue of her irises. Right now, as she stares up at me like she would love nothing more than to bash me over the head, her eyes are turbulent. Intense. Beautiful. “Yes, trust me, I’ve noticed.”

  I wrench my gaze away. “If I panicked every time someone set their sights on me, I would drown in worry.”

  “It’s a good thing you have no heart, then.”

  At the frustrated note in her voice, I slide her a subtle glance that starts at her black boots—the same pair she wore to Christ Church—and ends on her freckled face. “At least you agree.”

  Instead of cracking a smile, as I expected she might at my sarcasm, she only drops her head back and props her hands on her hips. A sharp inhalation expands her chest and, fuck me, draws my attention down to her breasts. “I’m going to come right out and say it: I need you to care. If you die, then I’m proper screwed.”

  The corner of my mouth curls. “Not so altruistic, are you?”

  A second passes, and then another, and I’m nearly convinced that her head might explode when she snaps her gaze to meet mine. “Altruistic? I’m trying to help you!”

  “You’re trying to help yourself.”

  Her lips firm mulishly. “It’s mutually beneficial, all right? Yes, I need to keep this position. I’d be a liar if I claimed otherwise.” A pause fractures her words, and she takes another one of those heavy breaths that tempts me to look down and keep on looking. “But you saved me, Saxon. I don’t . . . I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t found me the other day. If you hadn’t ignored that nonexistent heart of yours and carried me to safety.”

  My mouth grows dry at her utter conviction.

  Praise unsettles me. When it isn’t offered with some form of quid pro quo attached, then it’s given when praise shouldn’t exist at all. Theft. Murder. Lies. Rarely have I ever done anything worthy of admiration, not after peeling back the layers and revealing my ulterior motives.