Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  “On a dead man whose decapitated head he found in his bed?” Christ. What a shitshow. With both hands, I drag my palms over my face. “It won’t hold up. Not in court. Which means we’ll be in the same position within months.”

  A position I’d been more than willing to undertake if it meant keeping the heat off Isla. But sitting in prison in place of Jack, who actually murdered Father Bootham? No shot. Not in this lifetime, not in the next one either.

  “Jack killed him in his own flat.” Guy gestures toward the briefcase. “I don’t know how he lured Bootham there. I don’t know what he said to the priest. But I recognize those chairs, that table—we helped him bring them up to his flat years ago. He left everything as is. Guthram confirmed it.”

  “Only a fool would conspire to murder someone in your own home.”

  “Jack was a fool.”

  I’d said as much to him weeks ago when I sacked him. Only, I’d been a fool too. Then, now. I never saw the evidence laid out before me. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see it. Hadn’t wanted to consider that Jack was a two-timing bastard.

  “Who was the other side?” I ask. “If we were one, then who—”

  “Ian Coney.”

  My mouth falls open. “No.”

  “Jack claimed they were brothers but Damien, he’s already figured out that Jack didn’t mean so literally. They belonged to a . . . political cult, if you will. The pay was good, so recruitment was high. We’re looking into it, seeing how it might pose a threat to Holyrood.”

  My back collides with the seat. “Bloody fucking hell. How? How do you know all this?”

  “Because she chose you.”

  He says it like she’s alive. Like she’s breathing and healthy and wasn’t just mowed down with a gunshot wound to the chest last week. Gut instinct has me wanting to lean into the visceral relief, to bask in the knowledge that she is alive. But something . . . something does not feel right. “Elaborate,” I demand, “right now.”

  Guy lifts one hand off the wheel to scrape down his clean-shaven jaw. “Trust you to find the one woman in this country who has balls bigger than any man.”

  “Christ, get on with—”

  “She came to the Palace.”

  White noise rings in my ears, startling in its ferocity. Beneath it, I hear the roar of tires ripping down A20, toward Kent; there’s the sound of my brother’s steady breaths, too. The white noise, I think, is the sound of my soul shattering.

  The photographs fall to the floor, between my seat and the center console, and I can’t find it in myself to pick them up. To do anything but whisper, horrified, “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Saxon—”

  “Tell me you didn’t!” I roar the words, breathing fire into every syllable. “Tell me you didn’t put her back in that fucking cell. That you didn’t”—I gasp for air, my hands clawing fruitlessly at my chest—“tell me that you didn’t . . . Fuck, I can’t say it. I can’t say it.”

  An arm flies across my torso, the way a parent might with their child to keep them from going headfirst into the dashboard. Guy twists his arm, so that his fingers dig into my clavicle, keeping me restrained.

  “She’s alive. A little worse for wear after what Jack did to her, but she’s fine, Saxon. She’s fine.”

  A wretched noise climbs my throat, and I find myself gripping my brother’s arm. Holding tight, the way I did as a child frightened by the world that we were thrust into, alone. My head falls back, my lids slam shut. Emotion assaults me from every angle: joy that she’s alive and safe; relief that my brother is still the honorable man I’ve always known him to be; greed because I need years more with Isla Quinn and I’m selfish enough to demand that she spend each one with me.

  Swallowing, roughly, I jerk my head in a short nod. “Is she there now? At the Palace?”

  Is she waiting for me?

  Guy tugs his arm back, then drives us down the narrow one-lane road that leads directly to Holyrood’s main compound. “She is, yes.”

  Thank fuck.

  I’m going to devour her where she stands. Throw her over my damn shoulder, the way I did that first day, and carry her to the first flat surface that we find. The floor will do, too. So long as she’s in my arms, I won’t be—

  “She made a deal.”

  Stiffening, my gaze cuts to Guy, just as he pulls the car into the car park to the left of the manor house. “What the hell do you mean, she made a deal?”

  Without giving an immediate answer, he throws open his door and slides out. I follow suit, tagging his heels as we wind through the small courtyard before stepping through a set of trees that brackets the entrance to the Palace itself.

  I wrap a hand around Guy’s forearm. “What deal?”

  “She chose you,” he says, meeting my stare, “and sacrificed herself in the process. If only our forebears knew that one day, the woman who killed a king would take the oath for Holyrood.”

  My feet come to an abrupt halt, my mouth parting and closing. “I’m sorry, I thought you said that—”

  “Holyrood owns her now.” Guy’s smile is nothing short of humorless. Before I can even react, he claps me on the shoulder and brings me in for a hug. By my ear, he murmurs, “Her contract is in the vault in your office. Signed on the dotted line. Yours to do with as you wish.”

  Chin snapping back, I stare at him. “Why would you—”

  “Let her go?” He shrugs one shoulder, casually, then steps away. “Because I’m not a total heartless bastard.” Another step, this one accompanied with a mirthless grin. “And because I prefer to keep my enemies close, brother. As you well know.”

  Then he turns, hands stuffed inside the pockets of his trousers, and ambles away.

  I follow at a more sedate pace, my eyes scouring the estate for a head of strawberry-blond waves. I find her, ten minutes later, by the stream and the stone bridge. With her shoes kicked off to the side, and her feet splashing in the water, she stares up at the early morning sky.

  Beautiful.

  Perfect.

  Mine.

  I kick my shoes off as I approach her. Pull off my shirt, leaving it to flutter away in the breeze as I let the fabric go. And then I destroy what’s left of the space between us, and say the only words rattling around in my chest: “Holyrood will never own you.”

  46

  Isla

  I feel him before I see him.

  Feel the way his gaze hungrily roams my body. Feel the way he’d strip me naked, if he could, and take me until I come screaming his name, to hell with whoever might stumble upon us here. Feel his heat and the raw strength of his power, both of which leave me desperate to fold myself into his arms where I belong.

  My first and only.

  The same goes for me, too.

  Saxon Godwin is my destiny, and there is nothing that—

  “Holyrood will never own you.”

  Heat scrapes through my lungs as I turn, too fast, and see him coming toward me with smooth, long strides. His shirt is gone, leaving him bare-chested in the brisk morning chill. But true to form, Saxon is like some ancient god, untouched by human weaknesses. The first sweep of the sun glances off his golden skin, turning his already pale eyes nearly yellow. Tawny, in its truest hue. His muscles contract with each step, as do the scars that litter his chest and abdomen and arms.

  He’s a portrait of pain and bravery and . . . And then his declaration sinks in.

  My mouth goes dry. “Saxon, I—”

  “You aren’t a woman meant to be owned,” he says, eclipsing the final distance between us. He sinks to his knees before me in the dewy grass, his thighs slightly spread apart, his big, calloused hands reaching for me, as if he can’t bear the thought of us being so close and not touching. “No one owns the king killer.”

  On instinct, I retreat. From his touch, from that label that feels like less of a compliment and more like a noose around my neck. A noose I placed upon myself, but a noose, nonetheless. “Please . . . please don’t call me that.
”

  His palm skates under the curve of my jaw, lifting. “Look at me, Isla.”

  Feeling more vulnerable than I’d like to admit, I do as he says.

  An answering smile hitches the corner of his mouth. And then his palm smooths north until he’s tucking a lock of blond hair behind my ear. “You told me once that we all bear scars. Mine exist for all to see, and yours . . . Yours you keep buried inside your heart.”

  Right now, my heart is beating in overdrive. From his closeness, from the tangible warmth in his husky baritone.

  “I see you, Isla Quinn,” he tells me, letting his big hand fold over the back of my neck. Gentle. Affectionate. His Adam’s apple bobs with a tight swallow. “I see all of you. Your strength and your bravery, your hard-headedness and your grit.”

  “Saxon,” I start, but he quickly shakes his head.

  “Let me get this out—please.”

  Rubbing my dry lips together, I stare up at him. Give a small nod for him to continue.

  “You are the king killer, Isla. But you’re also the woman who sheltered your siblings after your parents died, and the woman who took a position to give our fellow countrymen the truth. You take risks because you rely on your gut. Right from wrong, good versus evil. For my whole life, I’ve done the opposite. I stick to what I know—I fucking burrow myself in the familiar—because it’s what I can control and manipulate and put an end to, should I want.” His thumb grazes down the length of my throat, so softly that his touch feels like nothing more than a kiss from the breeze. “Seeing you is like learning to look at the world through a brand-new lens.”

  Feeling the flutter of my pulse, I reach up and place my hand over his. “You risked a lot by saving me. We were on two sides of this war, you said.”

  As if embarrassed by the praise, his dark lashes lower over his pale eyes. “I did it without thought.”

  “On the night of the riot?”

  His hand flexes against my flesh as he confesses, “I had you in my arms before I even knew it. You fit. Christ, you fit there, against my chest, in a way that every part of me rebelled. But still I carried you. Still.”

  My throat tightens with emotion. “What of The Octagon?”

  “I would do it all over again, just to have you next to me now.”

  “And . . . and about what happened at The Bell & Hand? D-Did you react without thought then, too?”

  Tension seeps into his frame, and then his hand is lowering to my spine, between my shoulder blades where the bullet from Jack’s gun exited. He stays just like that, linking us together, his palm lingering over the dressing covering my wound. Our breathing is rhythmic, completely in sync, the rise and fall of my chest dictating when he inhales.

  “Saxon?” I prompt on a whisper.

  His unholy eyes meet mine. “I’ve chased Death for years, sweetheart. Doled it out like it was my right. Killing Jack was not enough. I almost lost you. I almost lost years with you, and I—Christ.” As if unable to stop himself, he drags me closer, until my legs are straddling his and my knees are buried in the soft grass. He tucks his face into the crook of my neck. Levels my flesh with a soft, agonizing press of his lips. “I’ve been a wreck without you. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or still in that fucking hospital bed.”

  Pressed so close to him, my skin turns to fire.

  I sink my fingers into his thick hair, scraping my nails over his skull to soothe the rigid fear from his body. And then I press my mouth to the shell of his ear, and murmur, “Holyrood owns me because life without you wouldn’t be much of a life at all.” When he stiffens, imperceptibly, I settle myself more firmly in his lap. “You sent me that message like it was a good-bye. You gave me the money and the car and a house in the middle of Oxford like those were the only pieces of you I’d ever have left.”

  “You were better off without me. You’re still better off without me.”

  My heart plummets. “Saxon, I only want—”

  “But you’re mine.”

  Jerking back, I sweep my gaze over his rugged face, noting the notch between his brows and the firm set to his mouth. “I thought . . . you just said that—”

  “A girl like you shouldn’t be with a man like me,” he says, cupping the back of my head so that I have no choice but to be swept away on a sea of glittering green and tawny yellow, “but you lost any chance to walk away the second that I spotted your car outside the pub. You were mine when Josie let it slip that you hadn’t bathed, over missing me. You were mine when I heard that gunshot and felt terror the likes of which I’ve never known. You were mine, sweetheart, when your brother begged me to put you in the car and I couldn’t fucking let you go.”

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and there’s nowhere to hide.

  Saxon watches me, and surrounds me, and I let them fall. A warrior at her most vulnerable—for him, for us.

  “You said that that no one should own a woman like me.”

  “I don’t own you, Isla. I’m choosing to walk by your side.”

  The dam breaks open, then, and maybe it’s a week of being stuck in that bed with my nerves on edge. Or maybe it’s the leftover adrenaline of storming the keep, so to speak, and expecting to find myself locked back in that cell beside Alfie Barker for a second time. Either way, I curl myself into Saxon’s arms and allow myself the freedom of being comforted by the man I love.

  My first, my only.

  He rubs my back, careful of my healing wound.

  He husks out words that I can’t quite make out but nevertheless feel their vibration against my skin.

  He holds me like I’m his, now, tomorrow, forevermore.

  Only once my tremors have stopped does he raise his dark head, and the look on his face, it’s . . . sinful. Downright sinful. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  Answering heat blooms between my legs. “I told you, you don’t have to ask permission.”

  “I’m not asking for anything,” he retorts, leveraging his hand at the base of my head, “it’s a promise. A warning. Because once I do, there’s no stopping. I’m going to lay you out on this grass and drive myself so damn deep inside you, they’ll hear you at the Palace. I’m going to remind us both that we’re alive because right now . . .” The fingers of his free hand flit over my shirt collar, dragging it down, down, down, until he’s exposed the lace of my bra. “Right now, this still feels like a fucking dream and I’ll be damned if I wake up to find you gone again.”

  “I’m not going any—”

  The rest of the word breaks on a stifled gasp, and then Saxon is kissing me.

  My back pressed into the damp grass.

  My legs spread wide to make room for his brawny frame hovering above me.

  My mouth parted, devoured, ravaged.

  There’s tiny discomfort in the pressure against my battle scar, but it’s gone within seconds. Lost to a man who balances pain with pleasure, who offers possession and dominance on the heels of endearing affection.

  Saxon kisses me like he may never have another chance, his calloused fingers fluttering over my face. Teasing down my temple, dancing across my cheek, firming over my chin, so he can angle me just right. My eyes are peeled open, and there is nothing beyond him but the wide breadth of his shoulders, and the soft, dark hair that falls over his forehead, and the harsh planes of his face.

  And then his eyes meet mine, our mouths still fused, and I might as well be falling.

  Raw vulnerability mingled with stark need dances in those pale green depths. He pulls back. Touches his tongue to his upper lip, and rasps, “You asked me, once, if I believe in fate. I said no.”

  My hand finds the firm contour of his shoulder. “Have you had a change in opinion?”

  “The day you walked into the pub,” he says, hoarsely, “I should have realized it then. Of all the thousands of people that we meet in our lifetimes, it was you who sat down in front of me. You, just you.”

  His mouth slants over mine, his tongue teasing at my lips until I grant
him entry.

  There is lust in this kiss, but there’s something more. Something that brings an ache to my chest because Saxon . . . there are no walls built around him. I’ve scaled them, or maybe he tore them down, but as his tongue tangles with mine, there’s no denying the possessive roll of his hard cock against my core or the way he breaks from my mouth to utter “fucking beautiful” and “mine” against my temple.

  This is Saxon Godwin unrestrained by the chains of Holyrood and prescribed loyalties and forever-present ice. And it’s wonderful.

  I strain my neck, arching my back and thrusting my breasts into his body. “Please. Please.”

  “Please, what?” The words are a taunt against my mouth, a dare for me to rise to the occasion and demand what I want from him. “Don’t be scared now.”

  With my fingers raking through his hair, I yank on the strands. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “You should be, sweetheart. You fucking should be.”

  His nimble fingers flirt with the elastic waistband of my joggers. An intentional stroke along the seam. Another well-positioned drag over my clit. With his chest pressed flush with mine, he holds me captive as he works me into a writhing, trembling mess. I want more, and I part my lips to demand just that, but then he’s already moving.

  Beneath the cotton of my sweats, beneath the silk of my knickers.

  Until I feel the rough pad of his finger coasting along the all-too-sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of my sex. He strokes me in a soft, barely-there caress, but it’s enough. Enough for sensation to flare. Enough for me to bury a cry into his shoulder while he rewards me with a guttural groan that has me turning into liquid beneath his body.

  “Oh, God. Saxon.”

  He plunges two fingers inside me, then angles his body so that I have a clear view of what he’s doing to me. My pulse skips a beat at the sight: my knees propped up, my hips rising again and again, shameless in my desire, his hand tenting the material of my joggers while he curls those fingers inside me and drags a moan from my lips.