by Maria Luis
The wooden back catches Hugh in the solar plexus. His features fracture, a pained grunt breaking from his mouth. Unable to stop the downward momentum, he falls on his ass with a heavy-hitting thud.
“Jesus.”
“He’s a bloody madman!”
In one swift move, I palm the doctor’s blade and plant a hard knee on Hugh’s collarbone before he has the chance to clamber to his feet. The tip of the knife meets his quivering throat, pricking the skin. All around the room, chaos stalls in a frozen time lapse, all eyes trained on me. The Mad Priest has arisen, those looks scream. We’re so fucked—the wanker by the window. I’d know that panicked expression anywhere.
Hugh’s eyes are latched on me too. Wide. Petrified. He tries to swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before belatedly remembering that he’s being held at knifepoint.
I allow my knee to sink deeper, keeping him restrained. “Are you done?”
Giving into temptation, he swallows. Shakes his head quickly then strains his chin away from the knife. It doesn’t do him much good. A bead of blood pebbles beneath the sharp tip. “I think—”
“Louder, for your mates.”
His gaze promises mutiny even as he gasps, “I-I’m done.”
He’s nowhere close, and we both know it.
I’ve pricked his pride, literally knocked him down to the ground in front of his comrades. Unfortunately for his wounded ego, Hugh Coney can take a number behind Carrigan and Guthram.
“Good man.” Sweeping a glance over the rest of Rowena’s crew of misfits, I offer them a humorless smile. “We won’t be friends. Not today, not tomorrow. But I’m telling you right now, do not cross me.” I look to where Gregory has Rowena bundled, his massive arms circling her like a straitjacket. “Let her go.”
Lip curling, his stare shifts from me to her then back again. “Or what?”
“Gregory,” she mutters, squirming to be set free, “don’t argue. Just let me—”
I throw the knife.
It sails through the air, very nearly skimming the bridge of his nose like a lover’s caress, before embedding itself in the wall behind him.
His jaw drops.
A chair squeaks as if someone has literally dropped into it, like the whole night has just gone to shit.
“You had me at a disadvantage on the roof,” I acknowledge, my eyes never wavering from Gregory’s, “and I promise you, it was your only chance. Now let her go.”
Like a mechanical toy that’s been injected with new batteries, the bastard’s arms spring open. Only, when Rowena steps out, Hugh tries to rise again.
My knee keeps him trapped.
“Rowena.” Turning toward the sound of my voice, she takes an instinctive step in my direction. “Why don’t you fill everyone in on our terms?”
Her lips part on an uneven breath, and fucking hell, I can already feel her now: the warmth of that ragged inhale striking my throat, her nails biting into my shoulders as she cries out my name; the shudder that’ll rack her frame when I make her come on my cock, my fingers, and sweet Jesus, on my tongue too. Until she’s wrung out and limp and I roll her over, my hands pinning hers down to the mattress, and take her all over again.
I was the devil to give her an ultimatum, to bargain my safety against her own.
Because I knew what would happen the minute that she announced my presence—the unforgiving glares and the sharp verbal blows and the rash attempts to put me in my place. I predicted it all, and I anticipated every damned moment.
All so I can fuck her.
Squirming beneath me, Hugh pushes on my thigh. Exertion reddens his cheeks and contorts his features. “Rowan.” He shoves again, and I move my knee to his throat. Press downward until he gasps, “Rowan, what terms? What the hell did you agree to?”
“Mr. Priest believes that . . .” Her throat visibly ripples with a hard swallow. “He thought that there might be some unresolved . . . feelings you all had toward him, and he . . . and he—”
“Say the words, Rowena.”
Her eyes slam shut at my demand, and her arms slowly peel backward so that she can lace her fingers together again at the base of her spine. I bet she’s white-knuckled; bet she’s quaking in her trainers and wondering how likely I am to keep to my promise.
Oh, Rowena, I never break my word.
“Rowan?” Gregory’s brows furrow. “Just tell us.”
“Don’t touch him.”
Dr. Grafton pushes up from the piano bench. “Sorry?”
Rowena inches backward like she can sense the doctor’s approach. “No one is allowed to hurt Mr. Priest. Those were our terms. Because if you . . .” Her nostrils flare. “Because if any of you hurt him . . . then he’ll touch me.”
And I won’t wait for an invitation, I’d husked in her ear.
“I agreed,” Rowena adds on a hoarse rasp to the deathly silent room, “two hours ago.”
Before we came downstairs for my introduction.
Before Dr. Sara Grafton broke out her knife and Hugh Coney lunged for me.
“Bastard,” Hugh roars now, thrashing beneath my knee, “you fucking bastard!”
I look to Rowena.
And regret nothing.
22
Rowena
Dropping my hands onto the desk in my bedroom, I tuck my chin to my chest and feel the healing flesh stretch across my back.
I welcome the ache.
It’s a reminder, however gruesome, that agreeing to Damien’s terms has no bearing on the reality of my life ten years ago. Back then, I traded pieces of my soul to the men most likely to cause problems for Father’s career.
Tonight, I’ll give myself to the most hated man in England.
Who also faces Edward Carrigan’s wrath.
It’s an ironic twist of fate, and one I want no part of—even if I do want Damien. Crave him despite the fact that I’ve never craved anyone. His hand on my throat, and his fingers on my hips, and his velvet baritone whispering in my ear.
I agreed to his terms because it was easier than confessing to the want, and the craving, and the dark ribbon of desire that winds itself around my chest, my heart, and squeezes the air from my lungs.
I am not Young Rowena.
Rolling my shoulders back, I push away from the desk and pass a hand over my shorn hair. The welts from the fire have made way for peach fuzz. It’s a far cry from the thick hair that once swung freely down my back. Dwelling on it, though, won’t miraculously lengthen the strands.
For better or worse, this is who I am for the foreseeable future: powerful in a way that has nothing to do with the beauty of my face and everything to do with the steel in my spine.
Broken, but never defeated.
I knot the sash of my silk robe with my head held high.
My bare feet slip over the soft rug.
The bronze doorknob is chilly against my palm.
A warm draft from the ceiling ventilator heats my shoulders when I step into the hallway and turn left, toward the floor’s landing. Powerful or not, I pray that Hugh won’t leave his bedroom to find me fumbling my way down the hall. Pray even harder that none of the others will decide on an impromptu visit to my room, only to find it empty.
They were all horrified by Damien’s terms.
And disgusted.
It goes without saying that the Mad Priest hasn’t made friends in this house.
I stop outside Damien’s room and touch my fingers to the doorknob. It’s warm from the overhead ventilator, or maybe it only feels that way because I’m burning up inside. Nerves gnaw at my stomach and sweat pools in my palms. I should be just as horrified, just as disgusted, as Hugh and Sara and Gregory. Hell, it wouldn’t be hard to dredge up a sliver of self-loathing. Not when I’ve basked in it for years, smothering myself in hate and desolation and the never-ending frustration of despising what I once allowed to be done to my mind, body, and soul.
With my hand still on the doorknob, I wait for those long-ago emotions to surge again, prep
ared to turn my arse back around at the slightest hesitation. Only, all there is more heat, more want, more—
“The house isn’t a secret, brother.”
Damien.
Releasing the knob, I press my cheek to the door.
“How long have I known?” There’s the squeak of coil springs like he’s sat down on the bed inside his room. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I never would have said anything if not for what . . .”
A drawn-out pause has me white-knuckling the doorframe.
Which brother is he talking to? And, for his sake, he better not be discussing this house. God only knows what might happen if Holyrood catches wind of Holly Village on the same night that we laid siege to the Palace.
Unmitigated disaster seems like a gross understatement.
“Holyrood is in your blood,” Damien goes on, his voice slightly muffled. “It’s who we are . . . Don’t you think I know that? It’s not like . . . Saxon, she was shot. I had no idea what I’d be up against coming here, so I rang Guy . . . Then say nothing. For once in your goddamn life, don’t do the honorable thing . . . She’ll never even know.”
Who won’t know what?
Like the cat that ate the canary, I shove my ear flat against the door.
“Paul will keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him. As for Hamish and Matthews, they respect you. They won’t turn around and backstab . . . I know. I know. Jesus, I’ve never heard you so worked up . . . Listen, the queen can stay there and still be fucking blissful in her ignorance that Isla killed John. No one—”
The gasp slides out unbidden.
Loud enough for Damien to stop talking and the bed to creak with the release of his weight. Loud enough for me to estimate that I have only seconds before he finds me eavesdropping outside his door, and . . . oh, fuck me.
I run.
Without thought, without a plan.
Vertigo turns my limbs weightless, uncoordinated, and I careen into the wall with a pained grunt. Don’t stop. Don’t stop! The world around me spins and spins and spins like a swirling fog that won’t dissipate. Desperate, I thrust out my arms to grope my way along the hallway.
A door cracks open.
Footsteps enter the corridor.
And then we’re both running, him chasing me, as he promised he would, just hours ago, and I-I—
Isla Quinn killed the king.
The same woman who murdered Ian. The same woman who Saxon Priest loves.
We have a suspect in custody, Damien said. Not, we’ve let the suspect go free. Or we’ll make sure to never put the suspect and the queen under the same goddamned roof. He planned to keep Isla Quinn’s past a secret, to never reveal the truth of her, and the lie—
When the hell have I lied to you? he’d demanded of me.
The bloody nerve of the bastard.
The wall gives way on my left and I tumble into the abyss. The old servant’s stairwell. It leads to only one place but it’s too late to turn back now. With air trapped in my lungs, I take the narrow steps two at a time, tripping over my feet, cursing my lack of sight with every bump of my head on the sloped ceiling.
Damien bellows my name from the top of the stairwell.
There’s no stopping now.
I run and I flounder, my shoulder bashing into the wood-paneled walls as the stairwell winds me in, winds me out, and cool stone abrades the soles of my feet when I hit firm ground. The pure silence of the undercroft reaches into my chest, and twists. There’s nothing but the exacerbated sound of my breathing and the scrape of my bare feet shuffling over the floor.
Memory paints brushstrokes over where only darkness thrives: the solemn candles flickering on either side of the arched door to my left and the wooden sideboard pushed against the stone wall to my right. A sideboard weighted with framed photographs of different sizes; Mum and her parents and their parents, all standing in front of the Victorian mansion.
Mum died in the fire and I inherited Holly Village.
Blood inheritance.
With my heart lodged in my throat, I wrap a hand around the iron handle and wrench the door open to duck inside the private chapel.
The scent of melted beeswax still perfumes the air, cloying and sweet. Stone floors contrast dark-stained pews congregated on either side of a narrow aisle. Matching wooden rafters run parallel across the ceiling, giving the impression that the room is small and suffocating. Pointed Gothic windows along the far-right wall overlook the garden. And, before me, past the six rows of pews, an altar.
I head there now.
The air crackles with tension and a draft from a cracked-open window sweeps around my ankles. Goose bumps flare. The skin on the back of my neck tingles. Hearing movement behind me, I twist around and edge backward on silent feet.
And then, so low, so gutturally visceral, his voice: “You ran.”
Because you’re unpredictable. Because you’re harboring the woman who killed King John and see no problems with that. Because you terrify me in more ways than I could ever imagine, and this time, there’ll no be resurrection when you leave me ruined.
Like he’s an animal that I have no hope of outrunning, my hands come up slowly, palms out. Another step back. “I did.”
“You ran,” he growls thickly, “like a coward.”
Instead of answering, I continue to inch backward until my arse bumps into the altar. I’ve hit a dead end. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to flee. It’s becoming a ridiculously familiar turn of events for the two of us.
I grasp the altar with both hands. “You weren’t going to tell me about Isla Quinn.”
“You didn’t need to know.”
A startled laugh bursts from my lips. “I didn’t need to know? Really, that’s the angle you want to take with this?” That maddeningly arrogant stride storms down the aisle, shoes clipping against stone, bringing him closer and closer until the aroma of beeswax is eclipsed by the scent of him. Cloves. Spice. A virile masculinity that curls my fingers around the altar’s edge, gripping the marble even harder as I hang on for dear life. “I had orders to kill you, your brothers. I took an oath—”
“An oath is nothing but a vow and vows are broken every day.”
Disappointment hardens my jaw. “Spoken just like a man.”
“Not even close.”
“Then what?”
“He chose her.”
“And that’s enough?” I shake my head, bewildered. “Saxon choosing the woman who assassinated the king is enough for you to break your oath? Enough for you to disregard what every single Godwin before you has done to protect the Crown?”
“It’s enough,” Damien edges out, “for me to do what’s right for my brother. Saying that Saxon was living was only a matter of technicality. He was dead—in his heart, in his goddamned soul. The king said that love is carnage, and it must be, because Isla Quinn destroyed everything that made my brother cold and she made him human.”
He steps forward, steps into me, his hands locking on either side of my hips to grasp the altar. Calloused fingers slide over mine. The fog returns with swift vengeance and, once again, I’m spinning, spinning, spinning, a round top with no hope of ever falling still.
“You’re a closet romantic,” I mutter when his knuckles slip between my fingers, locking me in place, “the hero that you so desperately don’t want to be. Don’t even bother to deny it.”
“Is that what you really think?”
No. Yes.
I don’t even know.
I can’t even remember my own name when he stands this close. His muscular legs bracket mine, and the hard edge of the altar cuts into my lower back, and my hands, now pinned beside my hips, are trapped under the delicious weight of his.
I’ve never been the woman who melts for a man, never been the sort of woman who falls prey to the big, bad wolf. No. I am the wolf. Always have been. But holy hell, here, right now, with Damien’s broad frame plastered against mine, I might as well be drowning. Kicking my legs, pumping my ar
ms, anything to break to the surface when the undertow is intent on swallowing me whole.
Needing to assert myself, I squeeze his fingers between mine, all too aware of the confession burning in the pit of my stomach.
I think that I ran, knowing he would follow.
I ran, because it’s the first time in my life where I haven’t chased a man, a target, for anyone else’s benefit but my own.
I ran, because I wanted to be caught.
Not by the hero, not even by the closet romantic, but by the Mad Priest, a man with heat in his veins and arrogance in his bones and a voice that leaves me shaken, shattered. Without my vision to piece together the rest—the nuanced expressions and humanizing tics—it’s all I have of him. A voice that beckons me closer, a voice that drags me deeper into the shadows. A voice that thrusts every dulled, unpolished desire of mine into the light.
In Damien’s arms, every broken shard of my soul feels infinitesimally beautiful. And I want . . . I think that I want to be worshipped.
Mustering the nerve, I tilt my head back. “You lied. That’s what I think.”
He growls deep in his throat. “How? Because I didn’t tell you who really murdered the king? Or because I tricked you into a bargain that you never had a hope of winning?”
If they hurt me, then I’ll touch you, and I won’t wait for an invitation.
Words that caused warmth to explode in my blood. Words that I knew, deep down, would change my life forever. Damien Priest is universally despised, for reasons that aren’t necessarily his doing, and it was a foregone conclusion that someone would be out for his head once introductions were made.
I knew all of that and still said yes.
“No,” I answer honestly, straining under the prison of his fingers, seeking the irrefutable tension of him keeping me restrained, “not because of that.”
“Then what?”
It’s now or never.
As I suspected he would from the very second that I heard him at the Palace, Damien Priest has the ability to push me from the cliff with nothing but a crook of his finger and the purr of his voice. I leap, recklessly, and fall into the crashing waves below: “You told me that you break the weak and wreck the strong, and that I’d never hear you when you came for me—but Damien . . . that was a lie.”