by Luis, Maria
I could live another fifty years and still not understand everything there is to know about this man.
“There’s a certain beauty in the dark,” he utters gruffly. “The light shows us what we want the world to see, but the night—the blackness that visits each time we lay down to sleep—it understands us. It clings like toxin, like disease, until we remember that it’s the shadows that shape us. The sun needs our silhouette, just like we need its warmth.”
My fingers fall from his head to grip my knees. “Two halves of a whole.”
Silently, he pushes himself to his feet, then loops his hands around my wrists to tug me off the bed. He leads me to the door, then steps to the side. “Good night, Isla.”
I want him to ask that I stay.
He doesn’t.
“Good night, Saxon.” Throat tight, I step over the threshold. Then, pausing, I look back over my shoulder. “When did you learn to embrace it—the darkness?”
“The day I was taught that help never comes, not even when you beg for it.”
And then he closes the door, the lock audibly turning over, leaving me stuck on the other side, both with his scars and mine.
26
Saxon
With one elbow planted on the desk, I rake my fingers through my hair, letting them rest on my nape. Less than an arm’s length away, the dimmed computer screen continues to mock me, baiting me to pull the proverbial lever and confirm what I already suspect in my gut.
“Do it,” I grunt under my breath, “get it done.”
I reach for the mouse, fully intending to do just that, only . . . Only, at the last second, I shove the chair back and launch to my feet instead.
Fuck!
Twisting away, I clamp my hands down over the back of my head. Dig my thumbs into my skull.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
I’ve spent my entire life manipulating people into giving me intelligence, only to pin my target to the metaphorical wall. I do it without remorse. I do it without consideration for how my actions affect anything, or anyone, but the mission at hand. Even with Father Bootham—a man of God and a kind soul at that—I feel nothing but agitation at being confined to a confessional each week.
Ruthless. Savage.
It’s what I am. It’s who I am.
And still, I’ve sat in this damn room for close to an hour. Deliberating. Seesawing. Battling indecision with resolution, as though I can simply snap my fingers and cut the strings binding me to Holyrood and the queen.
The part of me wanting to lay the blame somewhere puts it at Isla’s feet. She came to me tonight. Every one of my senses attuned to her entering my bedroom. The quickness of her breath. The way she begged me to step out of the shadows and reveal myself, all while knowing that I wouldn’t.
The broken, ruthless part of my dead heart hummed in satisfaction when I stole her from the light to lure her into the darkness.
Which I did, my gaze fixed on the pajama bottoms she wore and the matching top, which was made out of the thinnest material I’ve ever felt beneath my fingertips.
How easy it would have been to strip it from her. A sharp tug on the shoulder strap would have snapped the seam, allowing me to twine it between my fingers like a lead I could control. I would have pinched the material between my fingers, listening for her husky gasp, before dragging it down. Down past the swell of her breast. Down past the hard bud of one dusky pink nipple. Down so far until the other strap broke free, too, exposing all of her to me. My lips on her flesh, my tongue driving her into a frenzy.
And if I’d done that—if I’d backed her up to my bed with the sole purpose of working my cock deep inside her—then there’d be no indecision.
Fucking Isla again would be infinitely more satisfying than betraying her trust.
“Christ.”
With a frustrated growl, I press my thumbs into my eye sockets.
A few strokes of the keyboard, that’s it. One search of Holyrood’s database and I’ll walk away—
“Knowing that she’s lied.”
Because that’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it.
Tonight, she eased the brakes on the fortress built around her. She let me scale her walls, one brick at a time, until we stood on equal ground, her gentle fingers caressing every one of my scars and my mind visualizing exactly what it is that she sees when she slips into bed at night and succumbs to slumber. And now I’ll be taking a sledgehammer to those bricks, smashing them all down at once, and stealing information that she hasn’t given me freely.
Information that she might never give me.
Without allowing myself any more time to hesitate, I turn on my heel. Plant a hand down on the desk and, with teeth gritted, reboot the computer.
Trouble, trouble, trouble.
The word thrums in my veins, turning ice to fire.
I’m aware of the darkness cloaking the room, the incessant drumming of my thumb on the keyboard as I load the browser and type in a name.
The page reloads.
An image pops up in the top right corner of the screen.
And then the air turns thin, practically nonexistent, as I feel my stomach plummet with the truth staring back at me in the form of a dark-haired man stationed behind a desk, much like the one I’m using, with university students gathered before him.
Ian Coney has brown eyes, not blue.
Which means the death haunting Isla at night doesn’t belong to the loyalist professor who wanted me dead. No, that honor belongs to someone else.
Someone with blue eyes.
Someone who stumbled back in shock after being murdered.
Someone whose identity Isla doesn’t want me to know.
27
Isla
“It’s been three days since Queen Mary University faced the most devastating domestic terrorist attack seen on a university campus in this century. The Metropolitan Police have not given up on the manhunt of prime suspect Saxon Priest, who authorities believe has fled—”
The telly turns black without warning, and I have only a second to prepare myself before I feel Saxon’s presence so acutely that I’m surprised the air around me doesn’t physically ripple with his arrival.
Though the tiny hairs on my arms do stand to attention like good little soldiers.
I shift on the sofa, tucking one leg under the other. Do my best to beat my battering heart into submission before seeking him out. “So, you’ve decided to emerge from your cave then? I feel honored.”
Saxon rounds the edge of the sofa, tossing the clicker onto the cushion beside me. “Is it a cave when I have fully operational electricity and running water at my disposal?”
Three days.
That’s how long Peter, Josie, and I have been stuck in this house. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Guy left the property sometime yesterday but Saxon has stayed. Or rather, he’s stayed away but remained in the house, like a ghost whom I hear stalking the halls at night though he never appears once the sun graces the horizon.
Against my better judgment, I soak up his brawny frame like I haven’t set eyes on him in years.
His dark hair is damp, slightly tangled, like he recently showered and forgot to comb through the strands. The stubble on his face has thickened, signaling the start of a full beard. He’s wearing a fitted short-sleeved shirt paired with soft, gray joggers that hug his arse when he hitches the material at the thighs and claims a seat on the coffee table.
Legs spread. Hands firm on his knees. Bare feet.
My skin warms, and it takes every ounce of strength to find the words to quip, “I couldn’t be sure, what with you avoiding the sun and all. Peter and I, we’ve been taking bets on whether you double as a vampire.”
“When I said that I bite, that’s not what I meant.”
“What? Fresh blood doesn’t do it for you?” I tease, hungering for the elusive quirk of his lips that he gifts me so sparingly.
I won’t dare admit it out loud but I’ve missed him.
/> This.
The aloofness that he wears like a second skin, which always makes me desperate to tear it to shreds and watch the man with a heart beat to the surface. The man who vowed he would let no harm come to me. The same man who stripped off his shirt, knowing that his scars reveal the harsh realities of his life, and knelt before me anyway.
Humbled. Vulnerable. Real.
Subdued humor flickers in his pale eyes before he lifts a hand, scrubbing it over his mouth. To hide a smile, perhaps—at least, that’s what I tell myself. “I think I spill enough blood without doing it for sport, too,” he rumbles.
“Sport, survival. Two sides of the same coin. Suppose it depends on your outlook.”
He tilts his head toward the blank telly. “And what do you say my outlook should be on that?”
He doesn’t need to elaborate. My gut clenches with the memory of what happened at The Octagon, and my thinly veiled good mood dissipates, as if I’ve snapped my fingers and demanded its destruction.
Three days of constant worry. Two sleepless nights of terrible dreams. Seventy-two hours to regret every decision that I’ve made in the last two months that has led me to this exact moment.
Sighing, I drop my head against the cushions. “You’re putting yourself at risk every moment that you stay here with us. That’s what I think. You should have left with your brother. Gotten out of the City.”
Saxon doesn’t move though his brows draw together. “I promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
I hate that my stupid heart melts at his words.
“Yes, you did. But that was before we realized the entire city would be hunting you down.” Rising from the couch, I start for the windows that overlook quaint Lyme Street. The curtains are drawn, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to shine through. Hooking a finger around the fabric, I peel it aside. There are no police cruisers driving past. No signs of any neighbors either. Quiet. It’s all too quiet. Worry slicks through my veins. “How long until they find us here? Find you?”
“They won’t.”
I let the curtain fall back into place. Turn to Saxon, who’s angled his body so he can watch me. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”
Beneath the short sleeves, his biceps bulge as he drops his elbows to his knees and clasps his hands together. “I know what I’m doing.” Green eyes pin me in place, and in them I see nothing but masculine confidence. “Believe me.”
“You’re seriously not concerned. Not even a little?”
“I’ve defeated worse odds.”
I’d laugh at his arrogance if I weren’t so tempted to wring his neck. Men. Seriously. Aside from orgasms, what good do they bring to the table? Nothing but headaches and stress and all the blasted anxiety in the world.
“There are too many unknown variables for me to feel comfortable. Plus, with Peter and Josie—” Breaking off, I plunk down on the abandoned sofa, the cushion still warm from my bum. Truth be told, I’m surprised there’s not a permanent dent shaped like my arse. I haven’t moved in days. “We can’t stay here, not forever.”
“For now, you have no choice.”
My shoulders stiffen at his high-handedness. “Correction: I always have a choice.”
“Right now, you don’t.” Before I can issue another protest, he digs into the pocket of his joggers and retrieves his mobile. Typing in a password, he tosses me the phone. “Guy dropped by your flat last night.”
The phone lands in my lap like a ticking time bomb. Something in Saxon’s tone, though . . . Apprehension skids across my flesh, cold and swift. “He did? Why?”
“I met him there.”
And, just like that, the apprehension morphs into claws of outrage reaching into my chest to squeeze at my lungs. “Sorry, you did what?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Repeat yourself?” I echo, launching from the sofa for a second time, the mobile slipping to the floor, forgotten. The carpet is scratchy beneath my bare feet. “I want to know why.”
Saxon watches me from behind lowered brows. Nothing in his expression so much as flickers, and God. How could he have been so stupid? I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m overreacting and yet I can’t stop. I can’t. The worry tangles with anger and then the anger dances with fear until I’m a hot mess pacing the living room, my breathing escalated, terrible visions of Saxon bleeding and injured in some snicket overriding all common sense. Had that happened, I never would have found him. I wouldn’t have even known. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to destroy the images before they drag me down a darkened path that leads to nothing but more paranoia.
I spend my days worrying about Peter and Josie. I didn’t think I would need to be concerned with Saxon doing something rash too.
Is there no one here who cares if they live to see another day, save me?
Frustration boils over, dictating my tongue. “Do you have any idea of what could have happened? What might have happened had you been caught?”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t haven’t been proper screwed. I had a plan in place.”
My own words being flung at my face does nothing to settle the simmering rage hammering at my rib cage, like a beast ready to claw its way out through bones and flesh and muscle.
“And if something had happened,” he continues smoothly, “nothing would change. Guy would look after the three of you. You needn’t worry about being tossed out on your ass.”
The beast emerges, flaying me open, and I explode.
“You bellend, I’m not worried about me!” Spinning around, I stop just short of throwing myself at him and beating his hard chest with my fists. “It’s you I’m worried about. You. There’s a bloody manhunt with your name written all over it, and I can’t believe you’d be so foolish as to just waltz into Stepney. You could have been taken to prison or, worse, been killed!”
“Foolish?” he echoes, his voice deep and even and sounding as though he’s been dredged through the very pits of hell. Slowly, like a panther rearing to strike, Saxon comes to his bare feet. He towers over me, a king whose authority has been questioned. “You want to talk about being foolish?”
I stand tall, my shoulders pressed back, my chin lifted.
Words climb my throat but Saxon edges closer and closer, and the look on his face renders me mute. His green eyes are ablaze with emotion—fury, displeasure, and something unidentifiable. Something that makes my heart tumble over itself with fear . . . and the sick promise of anticipation.
“Foolish,” he growls tightly, “might as well be your middle name.”
“How foolish can I be when you’ve mentioned—repeatedly—how you constantly underestimate me?”
“I may underestimate you, but you’ve overestimated yourself.”
He stalks me, hunter and prey, and I’m hyperaware of the door being open. Peter and Josie could walk in at any moment. I’m meant to be Saxon’s employee, nothing more, and yet I can’t find it in myself to tell him to sod off or get down from his high horse. I’m angry and flustered and upset, but still I don’t leave. No, like he’s hooked chains around my ankles, I find myself drifting toward him.
“The same could be said for you,” I retort archly. “You went to the one place in London where we shouldn’t be. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—you aren’t immortal. Maybe one of these times I’ll say it enough that it’ll actually stick in that thick skull of yours.”
He moves before I can even anticipate him.
His hand locked around the back of my neck, dragging me close. His hot breath on my face, a warning if I’ve ever felt one. His devil eyes narrowed and spitting fire, the entry point to hell, if I dared to look long enough.
At my startled gasp, he snarls, “Do you have any idea what it felt like to enter that room and see a knife only centimeters away from your neck? Do you?”
I can hardly breathe, not with him overwhelming my senses. I feel his heat, his tension, his wrath radiating like a life source all of
its own. “I didn’t crack.” Digging my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, I coil the material like that alone will keep him at bay. It won’t. He knows it; I know it too. One misstep, and he’ll flay me alive. “You saw for yourself. I did what I had to do.”
“You were impulsive.” He drives me backward, step by step, until my calves collide with soft fabric and unyielding structure. The sofa. His hand never leaves my nape. “Reckless. Foolish. And when I saw blood on you, you fed that recklessness to me. I would have killed anyone just to reach you in time. And I did. I slaughtered every last one. Because I would rather burn in the pits of hell for all eternity than see you die.”
Shock widens my gaze.
It’s not an admission of love.
No, his words are curt and brutish and more than a little frightening, given the ferocity with which he spits them, but they feel important. A once-in-a-lifetime sort of declaration from a man who would sooner manipulate someone to do his bidding than reveal even an ounce of compassion.
I lick my lips.
His gaze zeroes in on my mouth, unwavering.
“I’m alive,” I whisper.
I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive. Within Saxon’s arms, I finally know what the word means in its truest definition. The excited rush of my pulse. The pounding of my heart. The nerves that tangle in my belly, like captured butterflies intent on escape. It has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with seizing the moment.
His throat works with a rough swallow. “I’m aware.”
“Are you?” Ignoring my trembling knees, I play bold. Confident. A warrior. “You’ve avoided me since that night in your room. Treated me like I’m nothing more than a ghost.”
He says nothing.
But his expression shutters, revealing more in this moment than he probably has in a lifetime. And then, gruffly, “If you think I’ve avoided you, then you simply weren’t looking hard enough.”