Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  “The butcher caught you.”

  It’s not a question, and Saxon doesn’t treat it as one.

  “The butcher caught me,” he echoes, the impassiveness that I despise seeping into each syllable, “and then he gave me this.”

  He runs his tongue along his scarred, upper lip.

  “No.” A shudder tears through me. “How could he do that? And to a child, no less? There are so many laws against—”

  “I stole from him, Isla.”

  “This isn’t the blasted Middle Ages, Saxon! Grown men can’t just go around deforming ten-year-olds because they stole a slab of—” I clap a hand over my mouth as my brain goes into high alert. Deformed. Oh, shite. Shite! “I didn’t mean to say that,” I utter hastily, feeling the guilt creep in. Here he is opening a piece of himself to me and I’ve gone ahead and called him deformed. Especially when that isn’t at all how I think of him. “That wasn’t the right word. You aren’t—”

  “If you think it’s a sight now, then imagine how much worse it was then. I made Damien cry.”

  “Saxon, I’m so sorry. That isn’t at all what I meant; you have to believe me.”

  “Just a slip of the tongue.”

  “No,” I breathe, regret pinching my lungs, “not that, either. You aren’t deformed. We all carry burdens, scars. Mine are here”—I touch my heart, wishing I could unload all of my secrets so I wouldn’t need to carry their weight alone—“and yours are visible. But it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

  He slows the car, parking in front of a charming, brick, Victorian terrace home. Three stories tall. A garden encased by a cast-iron fence. It’s all I take note of before Saxon snags my attention again: “Anyone who dares to ask what happened usually gets the gift of a fist in their face.”

  Slowly, I meet his stare, fully aware of the tangible current humming between us. The back of my neck tingles. “I demanded that you tell me something.”

  “I told you out of my own free will.”

  “Earlier, you said that you’d steal that from me, too.”

  Holding my gaze, he brings his thumb up to his mouth. Traces the calloused pad over the smooth contour of his perfect, bottom lip, then arches north, to where his upper lip hitches, permanently set in place like he’s perpetually angry and out for blood. “If you haven’t noticed,” he murmurs, “I’ve made a habit out of taking what doesn’t belong to me.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Is that a promise?”

  “Are you worried that it might be?”

  “Maybe,” I say, my entire body vibrating with awareness, “but only because of how much I want it to be true.” Reaching out, I grasp his hand, then bring his fingers to my chest, right over my heart, so he can feel it race. In the darkness of the car, I can just make out his gaze flaring with a sudden surge of lust. “I like the wrestle of power. You catch me, flinging me over your shoulder, and I—”

  “Press a blade to my throat,” he finishes, flicking my nipple.

  “Yes.”

  His thumb circles the hard bud, and it’s as though the fabric of my shirt and bra aren’t even there, because I feel his touch as keenly as I did when I was stripped down before him. When I gasp, he only swirls his thumb again, drawing out the sensation. “Some might think you’re mad for this.”

  I grasp his wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Some haven’t felt numb to everything but fear and hate for five years.”

  Saxon cups my breast, testing the weight in his palm. Oh, God, it feels so good, so good that I nearly miss when he muses, “You asked me to ruin you.”

  “Yes.” Warmth crests my cheeks, no matter how chilly it is in the car without the heat blasting. “I did.”

  “Then consider this a mission accomplished. Us fucking isn’t happening again.”

  Before I can even process what he’s said, he pulls away and turns to look out the windscreen, his expression set like stone.

  My jaw falls open. “What? Is this because . . . because I said that—”

  “I was deformed?” The laugh that falls from his mouth is pure grit. “No, Isla. That’s just the truth.”

  “Then why can’t we—I mean, what’s stopping us from having sex again?”

  I sound desperate and angry but bloody hell, what is wrong with the man? Maybe he shags every Sue, Karen, and Joanne, but I’ve been going with just my fingers since Stephen dumped me five years ago. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of aching for more than this violent life I’ve landed in.

  I’m exhausted, down to my marrow, and I want . . . Hell, I just want to be wanted.

  And not in the way I’ll be wanted by the police, soon enough, for killing Ian Coney.

  “Saxon?”

  A pounding on my window has me jerking upright, twisting for Dad’s knife—that is, until I see the blue eyes staring back at me.

  Guy Priest.

  The man can wait another minute.

  “So, what?” I mutter, returning my blade to my coat pocket. “You drop me off and leave, never to be seen again?”

  I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait until finally I scoff under my breath, turning for the door—only for Saxon to catch me by the wrist, stalling me. I feel his heavy stare, centered on the back of my head, and I feel the tightness in his grip, as though he’s fighting some internal battle that he’ll never win.

  Finally, he edges out, “The people I ruin end up dead.”

  I swallow down the lump of nerves and peer back, meeting his unholy gaze that appears black from the shadows dancing across his face. “And as you’ve seen today, people who threaten me end up the same. But you make me feel, Saxon—hot and dizzy one minute, chilled to the bone and terrified the next. I like it. No, I crave it. Maybe that makes me mad or maybe that just makes me human.”

  “Isla . . .”

  I pull out of his grasp. “Just face it, the only person in this car who’s scared is you.”

  24

  Saxon

  “Did you fuck her?”

  I haven’t even closed the door to my security room before Guy’s words sink into me like a knife twisting in my gut.

  Slamming my eyes shut, I seek patience, the ever-present calm—and sense nothing but simmering irritation. If I’d known coming up here would entail an interrogation about where I’ve stuck my cock in the last twenty-four hours, I would have stayed away.

  Behind me, I flick the latch shut, locking us inside the room, and Isla and her siblings out. “No.”

  Seated on a plush rolling chair, legs spread wide with his hands linked casually over his stomach, my older brother assesses me with a hard onceover. “Then why did you have your hand on her tits?”

  I pause.

  Slowly tilt my head from side to side, cracking the crick in my neck, because it’s either play this cool or fly off the handle and add another tally to my already astronomical death count for the day.

  What’s one more—really?

  I take the seat opposite his. “How long were you standing there?”

  “Long enough.”

  I don’t indulge him with a response.

  His knuckles whiten as his hands move to the armrests of his chair. “Since we came back from France, you’re the only one I’ve been able to rely on within Holyrood. Damien’s a genius but a complete hothead. Hamish and Jude are loyal but uncreative. Clarke sits with the queen and plays babysitter all day. And don’t even get me started on fucking Paul, of all people. But you, brother—you always know what has to be done, and you make it happen, no matter the cost.”

  “I play by your rules, you mean.”

  “You don’t fuck up!” Guy springs from his chair, hands locking behind his head as he sidesteps the elaborate desk setup and paces the room. “You’re ruthless. Smart.”

  I’m broken.

  Isn’t that what I told Isla just this afternoon? I recognized the traits in her because I see them in myself whenever I look in a mirror. I won’t cover up the
damn thing, as if I can’t bear the sight of my own reflection. That’s never been who I am. I accept my faults. Sometimes I even relish them. But I’ve never shied away from what I’ve become, shadows and all.

  “What happened today was—”

  “A shitshow,” Guy finishes, clipping out the words, “today was a bloody shitshow. And while everyone at the Palace was trying to figure out how the hell to pull you out of this mess, you were off shagging the enemy, the one person you shouldn’t be—”

  The rest of his sentence catches on my fist connecting with his jawbone.

  Crack!

  His head jolts to the side, his whole frame following in startled shock. Body limp, he falls onto my abandoned chair. But the wheels slide, then teeter off-balance from the sudden onslaught of his bulky weight, and—

  He crashes to the floor.

  The chair atop him.

  His rage swirling and thickening the air around us.

  I’ve never punched him, not ever.

  And, as his younger brother, Guy has never laid a hand on me, not once.

  Gripping the chair leg, he throws the whole thing to the side, where it slams against the wall. One hand lands on his knee as he hoists himself up and, based on his expression, he might as well have plumes of smoke to rival Mt. Vesuvius steaming from his head. “You ever do that again,” he growls, his voice thick with untapped fury, “and I’ll make sure my face is the last you’ll ever see.”

  We Godwins always find trouble.

  Biting my tongue, I issue a short nod.

  Only when my brother has stood do I counter, “Mention her one more time and I’ll return the favor—tenfold.”

  No answer.

  “You hear me, brother?”

  He meets my stare, his expression tight. “Loud and clear.”

  Bloody brilliant, then.

  Twisting away, I fist my hands on my hips. That wasn’t at all how I planned for this to go, but one minute . . . Christ. One minute I was collected, as usual, and the next I saw red. Unable to stop myself. Prepared to draw blood. And all because my brother tried to keep my focus trained on Holyrood and the queen.

  Which is our job.

  Getting sidetracked is dangerous for everyone involved, and today I managed to upset the balance that we work tirelessly to uphold. I murdered loyalists. Seven. I murdered seven. And, if that isn’t enough to throw all of Holyrood into chaos, I was sloppy when I left The Octagon.

  The survivor.

  The missing photographs.

  I don’t blame Guy for wanting to shake some sense into me, but still my blood heats at the way he spoke of Isla.

  “Damien’s about to get on the line,” comes my brother’s stiff voice from behind me. He pauses, maybe even touching his fingers to his already bruising jaw. Then, “Either you’re in or you’re out.”

  He’s not talking about this room, filled with all sorts of tech that I keep here on the second floor, in case the Palace is ever discovered and we’re forced to move headquarters without warning. He means Holyrood as a whole.

  In.

  Out.

  God save the queen or . . . I don’t even know what the alternative might be. This life is all I’ve ever known.

  I hear myself rasp, “In.”

  In, for Holyrood.

  In, for my brothers.

  In, for the people Holyrood has enlisted over the years who have become family.

  Out, for Isla Quinn.

  “Sit.”

  I take Guy’s chair, leaving the one he threw for him to deal with, then roll it to the side, giving us some much-needed breathing space. Honestly, we need more than this but since Isla and her siblings are downstairs, in the kitchen, I simply drop into the chair and cross my ankles.

  Calm.

  Cool.

  Christ, it’s not working.

  My chest shudders with a big breath that does little to mitigate my boiling blood. I crack my knuckles, one by one, before I cave and do what I really want: slam out of this room, trap Isla alone, and show the world that I can fuck her as many times as I feel like it.

  Let’s just face it, the only one in this car who’s scared is you.

  I wasn’t scared then and I’m not scared now.

  I haven’t been scared since I was eight years old and being held down by the king, a knife in his hand, while my father watched in horror as I thrashed and cried for help that never came.

  Jaw stiff, I motion to the computer. “Get him on.”

  Guy doesn’t ask me to elaborate. He doesn’t say anything at all until Damien’s face appears on the screen. And my younger brother looks like he’s seen hell and come out the other side: unshaved beard, red-rimmed blue eyes, a cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth, lit with a tendril of smoke curling in the air.

  The only times he smokes is when he’s struggling to piece together intelligence.

  “Fuck,” Guy mutters beneath his breath, echoing my thoughts exactly.

  This is not going to be good.

  I smooth a hand over my skull. “What happened?”

  Damien plucks the fag out of his mouth, stamping it out on an ashtray. “Good news first or the bad?”

  I exchange a wary glance with Guy, who only shakes his head and says, “Good. After today, we could use whatever we can of it.”

  Stiffening at the less than subtle jab, I keep my gaze zeroed in on Damien.

  “I spoke with Clarke earlier,” he says, leaning back in his chair and propping the end of a pen in his mouth. “We’re in the clear for the queen’s new security system. The only people allowed in her rooms are Clarke; the select staff she chose, who we’ve vetted; and the three of us. Anyone else tries and they’ll be experiencing the shock of a lifetime—literally.” A bitter smile curves his lips. “Granted, I won’t be seeing the outside of this estate for at least the next fifty years, so I suppose we’re only talking about the two of you.”

  Guilt plucks at my conscience. “It won’t be fifty years.”

  “You’re right—it could be longer.”

  Ignoring the trace of awkwardness, Guy props an elbow on the desk, wheeling closer. “Did the queen protest?”

  Damien arches a dark brow. “What do you think? Of course she did. But Clarke phrased it exactly as you instructed: either she accepts the new security measures or she’s out of Buckingham Palace and back to Scotland within days.”

  “Good,” Guy mutters, letting out a sigh, “that’s good.”

  I nod in agreement. “All right. Give us the bad news.”

  The easygoing expression on Damien’s face shutters as he flicks the pen away. I hear the hiss of a Zippo, then watch as he lights a new cigarette and takes a short drag, sucking the nicotine into his lungs before releasing it all in one smooth go. He drops the lighter to his desk. “We’ve a massive problem.”

  “When don’t we have a problem?”

  Damien points the cherry in my direction. “Touché, but here we are. Two words: Alfie Barker.”

  My fists clench. “What about him?”

  The man is still being held at the Palace, since he won’t give us the names of his co-conspirators, even after suffering a beating at my hands. Truthfully, I didn’t expect him to hold out as long as he has. Men like him—single fathers, widowers—always crack, and they crack early. I don’t blame them. If I had a family depending on me, I’d do the same.

  But Barker hasn’t budged, not that first night, not in the few nights since.

  It’s . . . unusual.

  “We’re not going to get through to him.”

  My gaze collides with Damien’s. “You know something,” I utter, voice low. “What did he say?”

  “It’s what he hasn’t said.”

  “Explain,” Guy says, his eyes locked on our younger brother, too. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  With the filter fitted between his lips, Damien inhales then taps the ashes from the cherry. “There’s a lot of time to think when you’re on house arres
t. And I can’t stop thinking about Barker.” His blue eyes shift to my face, an almost impersonal wave of curiosity flitting across his expression. “He has two daughters, both under the age of seven. Why won’t he break? None of it makes sense.”

  Drumming his fingers on the desk, Guy says, “You can’t discount him being a radical.”

  “Normally that’d be my first assumption. But the two of you haven’t been here—I have.” The screen showing my brother’s face shimmers, then blacks out before cutting to a clip of Alfie Barker huddled on the floor, his wrists cuffed, his eyes livid with pain. “He cries every day. Begs to go home.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” I ease my gaze away from Barker’s defeated posture. “He’s torn between saving his family and confessing to his boss that he failed the mission. Tough choice.”

  “That’s the thing,” Damien says, switching the monitor so he’s back on camera again, “I looked at his phone records. Tore it all to shreds.” Another smooth drag of the cig, before blowing out an air ring of smoke. “All random numbers. Burner mobiles, no doubt. He’s been receiving instructions from what seems like everyone under the sun.”

  “What are you getting at?” Guy growls from beside me, his hand a curled fist on his knee. “Get to the bloody point already.”

  “I think he’s been talking to one person, and he just doesn’t know it.”

  My eyes narrow. “How would he not know?”

  “Because,” Damien says, stamping out his second cigarette in the course of ten minutes, “he’s being worked over by a pro. In almost every text conversation, Barker asks where they’re located, in case he needs to get himself and his girls out of the City. Glasgow. Chelmsford. Devon. The answer changes every time.”

  I don’t blink. I’m not at all sure that I even breathe. “Damien, where do the mobiles trace back to?”

  “London,” he answers evenly, “it’s always London.”

  “Fuck.” Guy spears his fingers through his short hair. “Fuck!”