Road To Fire: Broken Crown Trilogy, Book 1

by Luis, Maria

  The orgasm tickles at the base of my spine.

  I feel it, the heat, the pull for me to let go.

  Saxon doesn’t let me fly.

  With one last thrust of his fingers, he pulls his hand out from my bottoms and plants it on the grass beside my head. “You’ll come with me,” he growls against my mouth, “and not a second before.”

  “Cruel,” I tease on a heavy pant, “so bloody cruel.”

  “No, not cruel,” he rumbles, as he sinks back on his heels and reaches for my shirt, arrogantly gathering the fabric in one fist, which he uses to pull me from the ground. My hands clamp down over his hard shoulders, just as he adds, “Starved. For you, for this.”

  He whips the shirt over my head, discarding the material a heartbeat later. My bra follows next.

  Silence steals over our small corner of the world, until there’s only the gentle trickle of the stream and the birds waking in the trees, and the harsh sound of Saxon’s pained groan when he spies the new, finger-length scar that descends like a line drawn in the sand between my breasts. The stitches will come out soon, but not yet.

  I lick my lips. “Looks like you’re not the only one with visible scars now.”

  It’s a modest attempt at humor, as ill-timed as the rest of my jokes. But Saxon barely gives me the chance to crack another because his lips descend on mine, urgent yet confident. Palm hovering over my scar, he doesn’t touch me directly. But he waits, lingers, then ducks down to kiss my collarbone.

  I breathe out his name.

  He places another kiss a millimeter north. And his eyes never leave my face. “I see you, sweetheart. The scars you bear, inside and out. Just like you see mine.”

  My mouth trembles as I soak in his frame. “Broken,” I whisper, tracing the raised, hardened flesh beneath his arm, down his left side, “ruined.”

  Dragging my knickers down the length of my legs, Saxon shakes his head. “Beautiful. Brave. Fierce.” Stripping off his joggers, he lowers me down to the grass, using my shirt as a blanket, before lining up his cock with my core. Instantly my toes curl, spine arching as his thick crown slips through my wetness. “You pieced me back together, Isla. You saw the broken and misshapen parts of me, and you filled them with warmth. You made me want.”

  On the final word, he thrusts home.

  A cry spills from my mouth, and I move my hands to clutch his powerful arms.

  “And to a man like me,” he growls, gliding his hips in a sensual rhythm that has me straining for more, “wanting is a dangerous thing. It made me curious.” Gathering my wrists in his hands, he pins them above my ahead. Holds them there while his gaze holds mine and that rhythm . . . God, I feel it in my toes. So good, so good. “It made me desperate. And the wanting, it led to more. It led to love. Christ, I love you.”

  Love. Love. Love.

  His gruff admission tears through me, burrowing so deep within my veins that there’s no telling where I begin and he ends. Fate. Destiny. “Say it again.”

  “I love you,” he grunts, “my only, Isla. You’re my only.”

  I throw my head back, even as I loop one leg around his waist.

  We’re in the middle of the estate, the early morning chill rapidly warming under the weight of Saxon’s frame. Anyone can see us, hear us, find us, but instead of panicking, I bathe in the moment. The sun kissing my naked skin. The stream gently lapping at the grassy bank. Saxon’s groans as he winds us both higher, tighter.

  The fact that he loves me.

  I wrestle against his hold, fighting off the urge to last longer before my orgasm claims me, but his green eyes darken and his fingers don’t release their cage around my wrists. “Say it back, sweetheart. Say it back.”

  “I love you.”

  His strokes plunge deeper, hitting harder, rougher.

  “I love you.”

  He groans deep in his chest, a sound so tangible, I swear I can feel it between my legs.

  “I love you.”

  With little fanfare, his tongue thrusts inside my mouth, much the same way that his cock grinds against my core. The kiss is a duel, a power struggle of love and lust and adoration, and I live for every second of it. I nip his upper lip, fearlessly, and he moans against my lips, his thrusts gaining speed.

  Sparks ignite down my spine and I whimper into his mouth.

  He jerks back, releasing my wrists, and grabs hold of my hips. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, his abdominal muscles rippling. His dark stubble nearly disguises the curve of his upper lip, and when he throws his head back, his teeth bared, all I know is love.

  This man has saved me.

  This man has fucked me.

  But this man, this one right here, has given me something that he’s showed no one else: all-encompassing trust.

  I find his hands with mine, linking our fingers together.

  “Fuck,” he grunts, “you feel good.”

  He angles his hips, propping one hand up by my shoulder, and that’s all the prompting I need. I come, with his name on my lips like a prayer—penance. “I love you,” I whisper, as my orgasm tears through me.

  Pale eyes bear down on me. “Again,” he orders, finding my clit with his fingers. He rubs in a tight circle, drawing the sensations out, determined to make me scream.

  A moan wrenches from my throat, and then I give him the words again: “I love you.”

  He orgasms with a roar, coming so hard that his shoulders tremble and his beautiful green eyes slam shut.

  A man unraveled. A man undone.

  Because of me.

  Only once we’ve come down from the high do I brush my hand over the crown of his head. “Do you have something to tell me?”

  Saxon’s fingers trace over my chest, tracing the shape of my breast before dipping down between my legs. “You won’t be working for Holyrood, in case that’s what you were wondering. It was a noble sacrifice, I’ll give you that. But if you even think for one minute that I’ll let you surrender the rest of your life to—”

  “That’s not what I was hoping you’d say,” I interrupt, laughter climbing my throat.

  “No? What else is there?”

  I pinch his rock-hard side. “Saxon.”

  He rolls on top of me, brushing my hair back from my face. All traces of good humor gone, he meets my stare. “I love you, Isla Quinn. I love you for reaching into the darkness and pulling me back to the light.” He takes my hand and lays it over his heart. “This is yours, and you . . . You are my only, sweetheart. I breathe, you inhale—”

  “—and we both go up in flames,” we finish, as one.

  47

  Saxon

  Isla sleeps like the dead.

  Sprawled across the mattress, stealing my pillows along with hers.

  I suspect that these last few nights that we’ve spent at my house in Oxford are some of the first that she’s experienced without night terrors. Maybe, if I hadn’t spent years in Holyrood, I would be more prepared to sleep a full eight hours.

  I figure I’m lucky if I manage five.

  The house is quiet as I rise from the bed, pressing a kiss to Isla’s forehead. Her strawberry-blond hair is tangled with her neck, and a gritty chuckle reverberates in my chest as I sweep the strands back before they strangle her. As if attuned to my touch, she follows the path of my hand, turning from her side onto her back, her chin lifting like she’s seeking a kiss. I’m no prince out to wake Sleeping Beauty, but still I take what she’s offering. A brush of my lips over hers, a nuzzle of my nose by her ear, and a roughly uttered, “I love you.”

  She snores, none the wiser, and warmth floods my chest. This is not the life I imagined for myself. I expected the bloodshed. Hell, I even expected betrayal. But what I never expected was love. Isla brought me that hope and then she fed the beast, filling me up with so much emotion that there hasn’t been a day in the last week that I haven’t looked over at her and just smiled.

  Like some lovesick fool.

  Like her lovesick fool.r />
  But as I move from the bedroom on silent feet—so I don’t wake Peter or Josie down the hall—it’s difficult to keep my brain from turning back to Holyrood.

  I’m out, still.

  Somehow still welcomed within the fold, out of familial obligation, but no longer a member of the pack, the tribe to which I’ve always belonged. I’m the first Godwin in over a century to have been booted from Holyrood.

  Quietly, I slip into my office. Close the door first before flicking on the overhead light.

  I sit at my chair, run my fingers over my desk, and gaze upon the computer where I’ve spent thousands of hours working.

  It sits blank now, unused.

  A soft knock comes on the door, and I turn, already knowing who it’ll be.

  “Come in.”

  Isla enters with our blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her hair in complete disarray. Christ, she’s stunning. Beautiful in a way that sometimes feel otherworldly. Voice still raspy from restless slumber, I ask, “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Not without you next to me.” Instead of waiting to see if I’ll offer an invitation, she settles herself in my lap, her legs swung over mine, her head tucked into the crook of my neck. I sense her eyes wandering the setup before us. Then, with a hand pressed to my chest, she says, “You miss it.”

  It’s not a question. She’s entirely too perceptive, but that alone is one of the reasons I fell in love with her. She sees me when no one else does, and never casts judgments, even when maybe she should. I’ve never claimed to be a good man, but fuck, I want to be one for her.

  “I don’t know what I feel.” Pressing a kiss to her temple, I wrap my arms around her and prop her head up higher on my chest. “I broke the rules. Fuck, I didn’t just break them. I treated them like they didn’t even exist. For you, I would do it all a million times over.”

  “But?” she prompts.

  I turn my gaze on the blank-screened computer. “But Holyrood is in my blood. I feel . . . I feel itchy to do something. Anything.”

  “Can you show me Alfie Barker?”

  I furrow my brows. “Now?”

  She nods against my neck. “Yes.”

  Despite knowing that I probably shouldn’t, I fire up the computer and sort through the various files until I’m clicking on the security cameras at the Palace. Apparently, Damien hasn’t scrubbed my clearance yet because within seconds, I’m selecting Room 2’s video. The small loading symbol appears. A second passes. And then there’s nothing but black . . . and the telltale sound of Alfie Barker snoring somewhere in the cell. Immediately, my gut clenches at the thought of how I’d put Isla in there. Guilt, potent and real, snatches away some of the happiness I’ve found.

  “It’s dark,” she says softly, as if reading my mind, “a place where a person can easily lose their mind. How long has he been there?”

  I count the number of days back, to that first morning when Isla and I met. “A little over three weeks.”

  “It’s a long time to admit to nothing,” she murmurs idly, drawing her finger down the length of my arm. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s peaceful, affectionate. Familiar heat tugs at the base of my spine. “Whatever you think he knows, I don’t think that he does.”

  Resting my head against the chair, I drag my gaze down to her beautiful face. “Hypothetically,” I start, voice steady, “what would you do with him? Let him go?”

  She scrunches her nose then turns back to the computer. Reaches out to graze a single finger down the side of the monitor. “Hypothetically,” she answers, tapping the screen, “I would be open with him. Transparent. He lost his wife last year during one of the Easter riots. Now he’s locked in that cell while his two girls are alone in the world. He’s a father, Saxon, a caretaker. To get back to his daughters, you might be surprised at what he would be willing to agree to, given the opportunity.”

  It’s not the way I would go about it.

  Brutal intimidation. Mental tactics designed to see a person spiral then break. It’s what I do—what I did. Now, I . . . Well, I guess now I speak in hypotheticals about an organization I no longer serve.

  “I love you,” I whisper into the strands of her hair. “And you’re probably right about Barker.”

  She snuggles deeper into my embrace, hiding a yawn behind the back of one hand. “I love you more,” she replies, a tired but content smile gracing her face, “and I’m usually right about most things.”

  A small grin tugs at my mouth. “Anything else you want to see before I drag you back to bed?”

  Her blue eyes peer up at me, and already I see the wheels turning. My Isla is a sweetheart, the fiercest sort of protector, but she’s cunning. As ruthless as I am savage. And I know exactly what she wants before the words even leave her mouth: “The queen.”

  She doesn’t bother to deny it. “Show me her.”

  Isla props one forearm on the desk while still maintaining her spot, sprawled across my lap. I hook one arm around her waist, dragging her ass back so that her spine is flush with my chest. She tosses a knowing glance over her shoulder at me, and I don’t bother to apologize. I want her. I always want her. But I get with the program, hand to the computer mouse, and sift through a series of locations throughout the country that we—Holyrood—closely monitor for the queen. Windsor Castle in Berkshire. Dunrobin in the Highlands. Countless others that I’ve seen only in camera footage but which I have never visited in person. Finally, I settle on Buckingham Palace.

  “I used to visit every year,” Isla tells me, as I flick through the public rooms on the first floor. At this time of night, there’s no one afoot. “I didn’t always hate the monarchy, you know.”

  “No one ever does. The misgivings come later, after you’ve been burned a time or two.”

  Sliding her the mouse, I give her free reign to peruse the palace. Once upon a time, these rooms were open to British citizens and people from all over the world. They sit empty now, with white fabric draped over priceless antique furniture and the ghosts of past kings and queens roaming the halls. The only set of rooms actively in use are Queen Margaret’s apartments and those used by her staff.

  I feel Isla shift on my thigh, her spine going ramrod straight. “Saxon? What time is it?”

  Languidly, my gaze moves to the digital clock on the desk. “Just before three. Why?”

  The image on the screen jumps backward, rewinding from room to room. Isla shoves her finger toward the monitor, tapping the glass in the upper right-hand corner. “Watch the clock. It doesn’t . . . If these are security cameras, wouldn’t they be live? But the time, it’s not—”

  “Changing,” I finish for her.

  And they aren’t changing, not at all. All are frozen at 2:21:15 AM. Frame to frame. Room to room. Despite the fact that she’s been virtually touring Buckingham Palace for the past twenty minutes. A quiet chill of foreboding skirts down my spine as I debate the merits of calling Damien. I’m no Holyrood spy, not anymore. My obligations to the queen ended the moment I chose Isla over Margaret. But still, better safe than sorry.

  “Isla, would you—”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  “My mobile. It’s on the nightstand in the bedroom.”

  “Say no more.” She scoots from my lap with a brief kiss to my cheek, and then I hear nothing but the quick tread of her feet padding down the hall.

  Be calm. Be cool.

  Moving through every room of the palace, I continue to note the unchanged time. 2:21:15. A few years back, we paid a fortune reinstalling new security at Buckingham. King John’s paranoia that Princess Evangeline’s killer was back had spread throughout Holyrood, forcing the lot of us to put in more hours. I barely slept, barely ate. We never discovered who killed her—an unsolved murder case spanning almost thirty years—but the new security system went a long way in settling the king’s ruffled feathers.

  And someone’s tampered with it now.

  “Saxon.” Footsteps gain momentum down the hall, and then
louder, more urgent, “Saxon!”

  Isla.

  Heart hammering in my chest, I enter the hallway in three strides. She stands there with my mobile in her hand, her blue eyes big in her face.

  I crowd her immediately, reaching for her arms to pull her close. “What is it? Sweetheart, tell me what it is.”

  “Clarke, whoever he—”

  Snatching the phone from her hands, I turn it over and see a single, unread message flashing across the home screen: HELLPP FIR

  “What the hell does that mean?” I check the timestamp of the text, and my stomach, it bottoms out completely. 2:35 AM. Sent ten minutes after the security cameras became frozen in time. Something happened. Something bad, something big, and, without pause, I turn on my heel, heading straight for the living room and the telly.

  “Is he one of your agents?” Isla asks, following closely. Unmitigated worry scrapes through her voice. “That text, it sent a chill down my spine, Saxon. He’s in trouble, wherever he is.”

  “He’s at Buckingham Palace.” I find the clicker, stuffed between the sofa cushions, and turn on the television. “We have him stationed with the queen.”

  To keep her safe. To keep her alive.

  Dread becomes a fist locked around my lungs.

  Isla’s hand lands on my back, moving in soothing circles. “Whatever happened, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. It has to be. Clarke will be fine, and the queen—she’ll be fine too.”

  Except that the second the news station appears on the screen, I know that it’s anything but.

  Buckingham Palace is on fire.

  Flames flicker toward the sky, angry and volatile. Glass windows implode from the heat stored within, shattering into thousands of broken shards, as the camera crew pans from one wing of the historic palace to the other. And then the entire upper floor detonates with a catastrophic boom! loud enough to be heard from London to Edinburgh.

  Screams erupt on screen, from the crowds gathered around the front gates of Buckingham. A frenzy stirs, the camera toppling over until the view ends with a sideways shot of the palace on fire, hundreds of feet trampling past in a flurry to flee.