by Luis, Maria
“I should have told you.” I lick my lips. Scrape a sweaty palm over the fabric of my shirt. Flick my gaze to Peter, who’s staring at me from the prison of Saxon’s arms, and then back again. “There were so many opportunities and I . . . I never said a word. For that, I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Fucking hell.”
At the rough curse, Saxon releases my brother and twists away abruptly. Fingers clamping down on his nape. The hem of his shirt lifting to expose a strip of golden skin.
His green eyes are everywhere but on me.
Look this way, Saxon. Please.
He doesn’t.
As though tethered to his energy, my feet pad toward him.
One step.
Two—
A hand circles my wrist, and it’s Peter holding me back. Peter who warned me away from the Priest brothers. Peter who fessed up about the loyalist group at Queen Mary because he wanted to see me safe and aware of all signs pointing to danger.
Had it been anyone else but Saxon on the proverbial chopping block that day, I don’t know . . . I squeeze my eyes shut as the startling truth reverberates through me. I don’t know if I would have risked my own life for anyone but him.
Saxon and I have known each other for only a week. And yet . . . And yet, it feels like our lives were always meant to cross paths. An intersection. A juncture with the sort of hard-hitting collision guaranteed to alter life forever after.
He may not believe in fate, but I do.
Saxon Priest has always been my destiny.
Desperate, I shake my brother loose and try again. “You saved me.” At my sides, my fingers tremble. I curl them into fists, not out of anger, but to keep myself from reaching for the man who still won’t spare me a single glance. “And I returned the favor by lying—first by omission and then completely outright. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that. The world thinks you murdered the king but—”
“Stop.”
“—I did it,” I finish, raising my voice to speak over him. How many times did the confession sit on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be freed? And now that I’ve opened the gates, every grim, bitter detail is begging for escape. “All this time, it was me. Maybe you’re right—you and Peter both—because I’m exactly what you said. Ruthless. Broken.”
“I said stop!” Saxon whips around, his face a mask of anguish. Because I killed the king? Or because I lied and allowed the blame to fall on him? I don’t have the chance to voice either question. In three powerful strides, he demolishes the space between us. “I don’t want to hear another word, Isla. Not another fucking word.”
“Saxon, you—”
“No.” His big hand clamps down on my shoulder, driving his rough-hewn face centimeters from mine. So close that our noses touch. So close that I can feel his hot breath on my mouth. I shudder. “Never again,” comes his low hiss, his devil eyes locked on my face. “Do you understand?” He shakes me, fervent, demanding, torture written in every tense line of his body. “Promise me right now that you’ll never repeat any of this. Promise me.”
“The damage is already done.” I sweep my hand over his, squeezing once. “Father Bootham was found dead in my flat. Whoever stole those pictures obviously set me up, just as they did to you. There’s no stopping what’s coming, Saxon. I killed King John, and not even you can save me.”
Above the roar of paranoia, I hear Peter curse beneath his breath followed by a short, pained, “I-I don’t want you to die.”
Josie.
Oh, God.
Without missing a beat, Peter launches forward, his arms already outstretched to comfort our sister. He disappears behind the breadth of Saxon’s shoulders, out of my line of sight, but when I try to follow, Saxon blocks my path. There’s nothing but his broad chest and strong, stubbled jaw and his hand on my shoulder that shifts to cradle the base of my head as his gaze flicks between mine, searching.
“Promise me.”
At the roughly uttered command, I cave. “Yes, fine, I promise. Now please move so I can see my—”
“Isla Quinn, the king killer,” interjects a new voice, all-too-pleasantly. “It has quite the ring to it.”
The masculine timbre is instantly recognizable. Sharp hostility congealed with a mocking friendliness that instantly squares off my shoulders for battle.
Guy Priest.
I lift my gaze to Saxon’s, aware of our audience, and barely move my mouth around the words, “Let me go.”
His response is instant: “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
I move a second time.
Again, the stubborn man mirrors the side shuffle, firmly planting himself in my way, as though shielding me from prospective harm. A hopeless, frustrated laugh climbs my throat. There’s no danger here, not in this house. Nothing besides the very real possibility of crushed emotions if I don’t smooth the troubled waters before the waves drown us all in one go.
I lower my voice, intending my next words to be only for the two of us. “She’s young. This isn’t”—I draw in a sharp breath—“You need to step aside, Saxon. Please. Right now.”
He drags his thumb along the side of my neck to settle over the plump center of my bottom lip. I feel that one touch all the way down to my toes. But in his prolonged pause, I can’t help but wonder if he’s weighing his choices. Maybe debating whether or not to throw me over his shoulder, the way he has before, and do away with my choice altogether. Then, jaw clenched tight, he slams those brilliant green eyes of his shut. Without a word, he tears himself away.
The loss of him is immediate. Overwhelming.
Don’t reach for him.
Not right now, at least, when I desperately need to give Peter and Josie my full attention—while somehow managing to ignore commentary from the arsehole onlookers.
Sole attendee: one.
“Jos,” I say, casting my gaze past Guy, who’s propped up against the door frame, and turn to my sister. She’s huddled under Peter’s lean arm, hauled up against his side. Her blue eyes remain rooted to the floor, avoiding mine. “Please . . . please don’t be scared of me.”
Wordlessly, she shakes her head.
“Josie, please—”
“You’re all over the telly.”
At the droll statement, my head jerks toward Guy. Arms linked over his chest, he watches the scene play out before him with an avid curiosity belied only by his shrewd stare. I press my lips together, refusing to take the bait. “I didn’t kill Father Bootham.”
“But you did murder the king.”
Saxon stiffens beside me. “Guy, stay out of this.”
“What? I’m only looking out for her.” He kicks away from the door frame and ambles closer. A lion on the prowl. A jackal poised to strike. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my feet fixed in place. “The way things are going, your little pet will be stuck behind bars any day now. She needs a place to hide—somewhere outside of the City.”
“She,” I snap, “is standing right here. Either talk to me directly or don’t bother at all.”
The corners of Guy’s lips curl in a small, self-serving smile. “Should I tell you how I’m jealous, then?”
Unblinking, I meet his stare. “Do you really need an invitation? I imagine you already plan to tell me why.”
His smile kicks up another notch as he leans forward. “Jealous,” he murmurs slowly, as though tasting the word, “because you managed the one thing that we’ve all been angling for, for years—the king dead. Total chaos ensues. Absolute anarchy.”
A knot forms in my throat. “That’s not what I want at all.”
“No?”
“No one wants anarchy.”
“You’re right,” the eldest Priest says, stepping close. I catch a hint of his aftershave—something masculine, sharp—when he claims a small perimeter around me. Only once he’s at my back, leaving me with a full view of Josie and Peter, does he add on a raspy whisper, just for me, “I wanted revenge.”
The memory of Mum and Dad leaving for Big Ben slams into me with such force that I nearly keel over. Revenge. Vengeance. Anger. Five years with only those emotions fueling me, governing every one of my actions. Even now, as I stare at my siblings clustered together, like they don’t know whether I’ll turn on them next, I find myself succumbing to the rage all over again.
With my gaze on my brother and sister, I dip my chin. “Revenge was all I had.”
A masculine hand—firm and tanned and unbruised, so unlike Saxon’s—lands on my shoulder to slowly twist me around. I catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and a strong chest before Guy bends, next to me, to say, “I was twelve when our father was murdered. He was another victim of the king. Bled out on the street. Stabbed fifteen times.”
Realization dawns and I breathe a single word: “Paris.”
“How smart you are, King Killer. We fled the country in the middle of the night. And, somehow, I can’t even find it in myself to be disappointed that you took what I wanted right out from under me.” A rough chuckle grazes my ear. “But I think . . . I think I’ll call in a favor to even the score.”
I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “What favor?”
“Let my brother be the hero in this story.”
Unbidden, I look to where Saxon stands by the window. Nothing in his posture reveals that he’s overheard his brother’s bargaining chip. I wait, heart in my throat, for him to glance my way. I want him to see me. But he doesn’t return my stare and, if I weren’t already positive that he does, in fact, have a heart beating under all that steel muscle and hard flesh, I might have been able to convince myself that he’s completely tuned us out.
Steeling my own body, I shrug Guy off. “I don’t need a savior.”
“We never know what we need until it’s too late.”
Ominous.
Gooseflesh erupts over my skin, turning the tiny hairs on my arm on end. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“I know that you can’t stay in this house forever.” Guy slants a critical look toward the curtained window. “At some point, you’ll need to leave. You and your siblings, and Saxon—why don’t you tell her what you told me?”
Shoulders rounded with one hand planted on the wall, Saxon’s back expands with a heavy breath. Slowly, that open palm drags into an angry fist, and I swear I can feel the scrape of his roughened fingertips over my skin. His gaze catches on my face, his eyes clear and calm and collected.
Like ice.
“We have a house in Kent.”
I pause. Another house? The retort sits on my tongue, ready to spring. At the last second, I ditch it in hopes of getting answers they might actually deliver. “So, you want to shuffle us from one spot to the next.”
“I want to keep you safe.”
Dammit, Saxon.
Joy sparks heat and, despite everything that’s happened, I struggle with biting back a smile. Destiny. There’s no other reasoning for why one comment like that from him has the black clouds hanging over my head dissipating within seconds.
“You have a heart,” I tell him.
He holds my stare. “Only for you.”
33
Isla
“Get in.”
I ignore Saxon’s order to slip into the car and quickly survey Lyme Street instead. It’s eerily quiet, just as it’s been since we arrived on Monday night. No signs of life. No movement of any kind. Even the array of cars parked along the curb seem frozen in time. Three days of me watching the outside world—this small strip of it, at least—and there’s nothing to indicate that these homes are actually in use.
“Do you own it all?” I ask quietly, aware of Peter and Josie, who have already made themselves at home in the back of Saxon’s sleek car with our single duffel. Our entire lives—all three of ours—shoved into one bag of poorly sewn polyester. “The street, I mean. Do you own all these houses?”
His hand finds the small of my back, beneath the fabric of my shirt. “Yes.”
Startled by his unexpected honesty, my gaze lifts to meet his. “All of them?”
“All of them on this block.”
Camden might not be Notting Hill or Mayfair, even, but it’s not dirt cheap either. There must be at least ten properties on this block. Maybe even more. Questions fly at me from every angle, my curiosity begging to be satiated, but only one seems important enough to ask: “Do you live on this street?”
Though his face remains expressionless, his fingers give him away.
They flex against my skin, the roughened pads of each digit digging into my spine. He’s not pushing me into the car, no matter how he might be tempted to do so, but it feels like an involuntary response. One that segues into uncomfortable silence before a slamming door steals my attention.
“Avoid the tolls,” Guy calls out as he pounds down the front steps and strides across the narrow street. He throws a set of keys in the air, then snatches them mid-flight as they fall victim to gravity. “We can’t risk anyone taking a good peek.”
Like a naughty schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn’t, Saxon drops his hand away from me. “We’ll see you there.”
“Don’t be late.”
With that, the eldest Priest brother climbs into an equally sleek, two-seater vehicle. The hum of the engine sounds impossibly loud against the otherwise quiet street. Not two seconds later, he’s ripping down the road and disappearing around the next block.
Saxon clears his throat. “Get in the car, Isla.”
I stand my ground. “Answer the question and I will.”
“You touched my scars in my bedroom,” he mutters, his voice low and painted with exasperation, “and I made you come on my sofa.” Jaw tight, his impatient green eyes flit over my face. “Will that suffice?”
“I—”
My mouth clamps shut as the words sink in. Really sink in.
He took us into his home, no questions asked. He fed us, let us sleep in his guest rooms, and never did he ask for anything in return. And, if I hadn’t pressed just now, I have no doubt that he would have been content to let this information go unsaid—forever.
Temptation sweeps through me, demanding that I stand on my toes and press a kiss to his mouth. A thank you kiss. An I see you for who you really are kiss. A kiss that reflects trust and loyalty and, bollocks, I can’t find the inner strength to stop myself. Rising onto my tiptoes, aware of Peter and Josie probably gawking from the backseat, I leverage my weight with a hand on his ripped waistline and brush my lips to the underside of his stubbled jaw. Then another, this one to the corner of his mouth after I gently angle his head so I can touch his lips with mine.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Long fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me away. “We have to leave.”
This time, I don’t ignore the husky command.
Climbing into the front passenger seat, I slide the seatbelt home and fold my hands in my lap. Immediately, I sense the stares from Peter and Josie. One curious, one judgmental. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher which vibes are coming from whom.
Peter wanted me to stay away from the Priests.
Josie just wanted me alive.
I disappointed them both but for entirely different reasons.
As quickly as Guy fled Camden, we do the same. Saxon keeps the radio turned off, leaving the four of us to sit in awkward silence for the entire length of time it takes to leave the City and merge onto East Rochester Way, heading southeast toward Kent.
Beyond the motorway’s guardrails, we pass open fields and quaint farms. Cows and sheep dot the landscape, along with a few old cottages that seem as blended with the scenery as the animals themselves. The weather is forgiving today, considering the time of year: bright blue skies matched with warm temperatures that allow us to crack open the windows.
Inside this car, and despite the fresh air, it’s utterly stifling.
A short breath expands my lungs, and I drop my chin, my fingers lifting to massage my temples. “Ask me,
” I edge out, over the rush of wind tunneling into the car, “ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer.”
Peter doesn’t miss a beat. “What did you do with the gun?”
“I threw it in the Thames.” As if it happened only yesterday, I struggle not to succumb completely to the memory. The cold breeze teasing at the hem of my coat. The pinch of my toes, from wearing a pair of shoes a size too small. The utter terror of possibly being caught as the metal railing dug into my belly when I hurled the stolen rifle into the black water. “By the Middle Temple Gardens,” I add, my mind’s eye still replaying those crucial moments when I tossed my trainers into the river, as well. “I wanted to get farther away—my plan was to toss it near the Royal Airforce Memorial. But all I heard were sirens and screams and I panicked.”
“You came home late that night.” Josie’s sweet voice rises to be heard over the wind. “You told me that you’d met a man at a pub.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Saxon’s grip on the steering wheel turn impossibly tight. Jealousy, maybe? One glance at his face reveals nothing—as expected—and I force myself to answer my sister’s question instead of alleviating Saxon’s concern. There have been no other men but him, not since Stephen.
“I booked a room at a hotel. It was cheap and not particularly clean, but it had a fireplace . . . I, ah, burned my clothes. Every last stitch that I wore.”
“Clearly, you thought of everything.”
At the slightly caustic remark, I cut my attention to the man driving the car. Strands of dark hair fall across his forehead. On anyone else, the unkempt look might appear boyish, but it does nothing to soften his hard edges.
I’m starting to suspect nothing can, not even me.
Tucking my fingers between my thighs, I keep myself fully on this side of the center console. “I planned. Ever since it was announced that King John would be speaking at St. Paul’s, I tracked every possible route away from the cathedral to the Thames.” Pausing, I clasp my hands. Do my best not to recall every fraught moment of that day, as if it hasn’t already been imprinted on my brain. “I ran those routes for three months. In the morning, late at night, until I had each one memorized.”
