by Maria Luis
I drop to my knees.
Reach out to clasp his hand in mine.
“Come on,” I beg, “come on, you big bastard, wake up for me.”
Calloused fingers jolt against mine, and I throw my arms around Gregory with a relieved cry. His hand collides with my back, the gesture surprisingly gentle for a man so brutish, and he rubs in a small circle, as though I’m the one passed out in a dank, underground prison.
“Is ’e dead?”
Damien.
“No.” Feeling my lungs squeeze tight, I pull back onto my heels. “No, he’s not.”
“I’ll carry ’im with Priest, Rowan.”
It’s all he says before I’m forced to stand aside while they carry Damien to freedom. His booted feet trail behind him, the laces undone. His armored vest hangs open and loose at his sides. Every few minutes, Guy pauses to check his brother’s pulse.
He breathes.
He lives.
Just.
When I finally crawl into the backseat of Guy’s car, not fifteen minutes later, Gregory carefully shuffles Damien in beside me too. His legs are bent against the door, the size of him too large to be stuffed back here with me.
He doesn’t utter a sound.
Gently cradling his head in my lap, I run my fingers through his hair. My lips are pressed to Damien’s forehead when Guy rings Saxon, and my hand flat against his tattoo of Odin’s raven when Guy phones Dr. Matthews next.
I anticipate every inhale Damien gives me like it’s my own form of communion and dread every exhale that threatens to take him away from me forever. And I barter—with a god that I’ve never believed in and with myself too, for the lengths that I’ll willingly go to keep Damien alive.
Anything, my soul screams, I’ll do anything.
It’s a vow I will not break.
An oath I take for him and him alone.
43
Rowena
We reach Holly Village at daybreak.
Gregory carries Damien past the front door and immediately cuts left down the corridor toward Saxon’s exam room. Familiar faces peer back at me—those of my own men and others from Holyrood, whose jaws go slack at the sight of Damien—and I let their questions hit my back unanswered.
We stop for no one.
A chair props Sara’s door open and Gregory slips inside first, lowering Damien to the exam table with startling care before stepping back out to give the doctors room. Both Sara and Dr. Matthews are dressed in scrubs and I taste only panic when I think of the grime down in the Bascule Chambers—the same grime that dirtied my hands as I tore at Damien’s shirt to hear his heartbeat and the same grime that’s buried beneath my fingernails even now.
Fuck me.
On a burst of movement, I dart past Guy for the sink, where I shove my hands under the faucet.
“Three gunshot wounds,” Sara mutters to Dr. Matthews over the sound of running water. “We’ll need to get him scrubbed up and ready for surgery.”
My hands are still sopping wet when I twist back around. “You’ll save him.”
She throws me a sympathetic look. “He’s lost a lot of blood but I promise that I’ll do my best.”
“No.” I snatch paper towels from the rack and dry off my fingers. “No, Sara, you will save him. I don’t care what you have to do but he will—”
“She can’t.”
Dr. Matthews utters the remark so softly, with such resolution, that I’m entirely taken aback. The sole of my right trainer squeaks against the tiled floor as I turn to find him standing with his head bent over Damien’s prone body. Gingerly, Dr. Matthews’s gloved fingers peel back Damien’s shirt.
“He’s alive, Doctor”—the paper towels crumple in my fist—“which means he can be saved.”
For a moment, he doesn’t respond. He plucks at the bloodied shirt, prods at the wound on Damien’s chest, and then his somber dark eyes meet mine. “He can’t, Miss Carrigan.”
“I don’t . . .”
I don’t understand.
The air squeezes from my lungs when I bring my attention to Guy. His dark head is bowed, his bloodied hands clamped into fists as his sides. His shirt is torn, his trousers ripped at the left shin. This man just helped me carry his brother up from the depths of Hell, and while we have no connection beyond that, I swallow, hard, and say his name. The single syllable trips off my tongue as a question.
Blue eyes lift to collide with mine and, in them, I see only the shadows of ravaged misery.
“Don’t give up on him, remember?” I choke out. “Guy, he’s still breathing.”
His wide shoulders flinch. “He’s dying.”
“Of course he is!” The words explode from my core, and Sara’s feet physically come off the floor as she reels backward in surprise. “We’re standing around him like he’s not bleeding out. Meanwhile, his damned doctor won’t even try to—”
“Rowena,” Guy grits, “he’s been dying.”
“No.” The ground splits open wide beneath me and my entire world teeters on its axis. “No, he’s not. There’s nothing—”
“You hunted him, didn’t you? For months, you fucking hunted him.”
The vehemence in his voice sends me stumbling backward. “I don’t—”
“And didn’t you ever think it strange,” he continues harshly, “that you and your little mates always saw Saxon and me at the pub while never once coming across Damien anywhere in London?”
“The bounty—”
“This has nothing to do with the bounty!” he roars. “This has to do with your fucking father sending men to take Damien out because he wouldn’t kill the king. This has to do with Damien stabbed and poisoned just steps away from The Bell & Hand. I found him unable to move, Rowena”—the visceral pain glittering in his blue eyes nearly brings me to my knees—“and I clung to him then just as you did down in those chambers.”
I can’t speak, can’t breathe.
Damien’s shoulder, the scar that I pressed a knife to while I begged him to trust me. He hadn’t felt the tip of the blade; had admitted as much when he begged me to mark his left side instead of his right when we had sex.
Paralyzed.
His body heavy like stone.
My periphery distorts with tears as I collapse against the counter. He had to have known. If he’s been through this before—whatever this is—then he knew, down in the Bascule Chambers, and still he carried me in his arms until he could no longer stay on his feet.
Just like he could have left me to die at Broadmoor Hospital but came for me instead.
Wherever you are, I will find you.
Mistaking my silence for doubt, Guy growls, “Do you think I forced him into the Palace for all these months because I felt like it? Do you think I enjoyed watching my brother lose pieces of himself every bloody day? It was a choice I made to keep him alive because I couldn’t—” Cutting off with a low curse, his throat bobs with a convulsive swallow. “I would rather him hate me for all eternity, for chaining him to a prison, than lose him for good. He was safe. At the Palace, away from Carrigan and the rest of the world, he was safe, and then you—”
“Destroyed it,” I manage on a shuttered exhale. “I destroyed him.”
In following the king’s orders, I may not have harmed Damien, but I damned him all the same—but only after he was already sentenced to death by my father.
I’m sorry.
Oh, God, I’m so sorry.
I clamp my hand over my mouth but the world still hears my scream.
Dr. Matthews averts his gaze and Sara presses her lips together, like she wants to offer comfort but is terrified to step too close when I’m liable to explode. The mask Guy wears like a second skin is gone, torn away like a tattered page from a book, and all that’s left is exhaustion and grief. His back collides with the closest wall and he slips down until his arse is on the ground and his hands cling to his bent knees.
“I’ll admit that this isn’t my field of expertise,” Sara starts awkwardly, “but assuming th
at he’s been on medication all this time then maybe we can—”
“I’ve had him on daily doses of Atropine,” Dr. Matthews interjects. “It’s not . . . The short of it is, it’s not at all what he needs but it’s the best I could manage given the circumstances. When he was stabbed behind Christ Church Spitalfields, the tip of the blade drove halfway through the dermis layer of skin. The poison immediately affected the surrounding tissue. Nerve-endings shot; the muscles irreparably damaged. We . . .” He throws a brief, miserable glance toward Damien. “We tried everything but nothing I did could flush the poison entirely from his system.”
“Another doctor could have—”
“How?” demands Guy, his head tipping back against the wall. “When all of Britain wants his head on a stake, how exactly were we going to bring him anywhere for a second opinion? On any given day, Holyrood is a logistical nightmare but when you’re the most wanted man in England, it’s—”
“A cage,” I finish hoarsely.
Damien wanted his freedom, and I’d thought . . . God, I thought it had to do with the bounty. But that was only the first act in his plan to step into the sunshine—he wanted to live like only a dying man can.
He understood the darkness because he’d spent his days lost to it.
He refused to kill me because he’d already tasted the promise of death.
And he inked his skin with Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Muninn, who attended to the hanged and the slain, because he saw himself in the abyss with no chance of crawling his way back to the realm of the living.
Sara peels back Damien’s shirt. “His veins are black.”
“The first time, the Atropine helped to stop the poison from spreading past here.” With his mouth pressed flat, Matthews gently taps Damien’s right shoulder. “It wasn’t a permanent solution, by any means, and it was only a matter of time before it stopped working entirely. But this . . .” He shakes his head, his gaze downcast. “If his veins are black then the poison is already in his bloodstream, and I still can’t tell you what the toxin is. I thought botulinum, maybe, but the symptoms . . . they don’t align.”
“Tetradotoxin, do you think?” asks Sara, her brows furrowing.
Matthews lifts his head. “Whatever it is, I’ve never seen anything like it. The Atropine won’t save him from this—it was barely managing when we only had to worry about muscular atrophy in his shoulder.”
“Then how—”
“Induce him.”
Three pairs of eyes swing in my direction.
On weak legs, I move toward Damien on the exam table. Curling my fingers around his, I suck in a harsh breath when I feel how stiff the digits are against my own. Within the shadowed cavern of the Bascule Chambers, it was difficult to spot the small details but now I see the black, spider-like veins that crawl from the exit wound in his upper left clavicle to spread across his chest. If I were to cut away his trouser legs, I’m sure that I would find similar markings around his thigh and calf. And while he might not be able to sense me here beside him, I touch two fingers to his lips anyway. I made a vow, a promise.
What would I do to save Damien?
Anything. Everything.
I would destroy the world ten times over just to feel his arms around me again.
“Miss Carrigan,” Dr. Matthews says, “I hope you understand that while I can respect your . . . feelings for Damien, I can’t—under good conscience—agree to—”
Silence grips his tongue when I cut a hard look his way. “You’ll induce him.”
Sara steps forward. “Rowan, you can’t just—”
“And you’ll remove the bullets from his flesh, so there’s no chance of infection.”
“His heart won’t—”
“Make it?” Steadily, I meet Dr. Matthews’ stare. “If you remember, you said that I wasn’t supposed to make it either.”
“Well, yes. But—”
“I’ve almost lost my life to fire twice now, Doctor, and I never should have made it free from Broadmoor Hospital. I should be dead, and we all know it, but here I stand before you.” Squeezing Damien’s hand, I skim my thumb over his cold knuckles. “How long did you think he’d live after my father’s men attacked him?”
Almost guiltily, he turns his back on Guy. “A fortnight, maybe.”
“And that was when?”
“Nearly eight months ago.”
“Eight months of life,” I utter, my voice laced with steel, “from a man who is too stubborn to die from a poison that should have killed him in under two weeks.” My fingers trail down to search for Damien’s pulse at his wrist. Though thready it still flutters with life. Without releasing him, I notch my chin. “Listen to me carefully because I’m going to say this only once: you will keep him breathing even when you’re convinced that he’s on the verge of no return, and you’ll keep him breathing even when you believe that all hope is lost.”
Commotion in the corridor comes in the form of the door slamming open and Saxon Priest storming inside. His green eyes are turbulent when they spot Damien on the exam table, and they turn downright wild when Dr. Matthews argues, “He’s dying, Miss Carrigan. Do you understand what I’m saying? He’s dying!”
I do not bend.
I do not break.
“He won’t die,” I return, shortly, “because I won’t let him.”
44
Rowena
I’m slipping a knife into my ankle holster when a knock comes on my bedroom door.
With a downward tug of the hem on my trousers, I pop back up and throw open my wardrobe. “Come in!”
Behind me, the door hinges audibly whine.
Then, “I come bearing peace offerings.”
My fingers still over a wool jumper, and one glance at the figure hovering in the doorway tempts me to take the knife and send it flying.
Strawberry blond hair. A stubborn chin. Blue eyes that study me with silent reproach even as she stands there with a wine bottle clasped in one hand and two glasses hanging by their stems from the other.
The woman Saxon chose over Holyrood.
The woman that he loves.
Isla Quinn.
As much as I’d love to put my knife to use, killing her would hurt Saxon, which, in turn, would upset Damien and bloody fucking hell. The plastic hanger rebounds roughly as I yank the wool jumper free. Only, by the time my head pops through the collar, Isla has already invited herself in and is setting the glasses down on my desk.
“It should be noted,” she says, carefully angling her body toward me, “that the wine is yours, as are the glasses.”
I narrow my eyes. “Brilliant. I do love being gifted my own alcohol.”
Undaunted by my sarcasm, she fills up one glass with chardonnay and then turns to the other. “I would have taken the time to buy you something, but it turns out that I’ve been too busy hanging out with the queen.”
As if I need another reminder of the chaos that my attack on the Palace has unleashed.
Ignoring the shadowed streak that cuts across my vision, I slam the wardrobe shut. “Thank you for the wine,” I mutter, my tone glacial, “but I think we’re done—”
“I killed Ian Coney.”
Dragging my attention away from the abandoned wine glasses, it’s only to find Isla watching me again, her expression strangely inscrutable considering everything that I know about her speaks to a recklessly impulsive spirit. Stiffly, I manage, “I’m aware.”
“And I killed the king.”
My molars grind together. “I know.”
“Because he told you.” Tilting her head, her blue eyes remain steady on my face. “Damien did, I mean.”
I don’t have time for this.
Ignoring the offer of my own wine, I tug the wool down to hide my blistered forearms while sidestepping Ian’s killer. Frustration, however, slows my hasty escape. No, not frustration. Reluctant understanding. Didn’t I speak about this exact thing with Damien when I asked to apologize to Holyrood for all that I’ve done
? Apologies are given without any expectation of acceptance, and I’ll be a right hypocrite if I don’t give Isla the chance to get it over and done with.
With a low growl, I force my feet to turn back around.
She stands exactly where I left her, looking completely unruffled by the fact that I can’t be bothered to make pleasantries.
Play nice, Rowan, and get on with it.
A pained smile stretches unnaturally across my face. “If you’ve come up here to ask for forgiveness, then you have it. I forgive you, Isla. Now let’s just call this quits before—”
“I’ll help you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
It’s the same reply that Silas Hanover gave us down in the undercroft, over and over again, even when we knew he lied through his teeth. The same lies that he took with him to the grave, just hours ago, at Guy’s hand.
Isla must recognize my unease well enough because she retorts, “Yes, you do.”
Feeling the knife at my ankle and the revolver tucked into the waistband of my trousers like time-ticking explosives, I breathe, “You don’t know anything about me.”
The smile that she gives me isn’t sweet or kind. It’s the look of a warrior before she steps into battle. Fierce. Determined. If I had any doubt about her before, it’s long gone now. This is the woman who killed King John, who murdered Ian. “I know that I would kill anyone who hurt Saxon,” she says, “and I would do it without thought because I love him.”
My skin prickles with heat that has nothing to do with the wool jumper I’m wearing and everything to do with the growing ache in my chest. No matter what I do, I can’t unsee Damien down in the Bascule Chambers.
I see him on his knees, his calloused hands clasped in mine.
I see the panic in his gaze just before he crashed down on the dirty brick.
Had he felt my hands on his body? Had he heard the terror in my voice when I begged him to live? The idea that he might not have, that his last few moments were filled with only condemning silence, makes my heart palpitate.
“I left my brother and sister in Oxford,” Isla says, approaching me slowly, “because when I saw Saxon’s face after Guy rang him about Damien, there was no other choice. He needed me and I ran, Rowena. But I’m standing here now—with wine that I stole from your kitchen as a shite excuse to stop in—because I overheard what you said to Matthews.”