He said nothing and yet . . .
And yet, I’d felt his rage as my own, as though it were a living, breathing entity skating beneath my skin and turning me furiously hot.
Even now, I clasp the tumbler so tightly that I fear it might shatter into a million little pieces.
Throat dry, I answer, “No, York.” I set the glass down, pushing it away with a single finger. It scrapes across the counter, leaving dampness behind. “I’ve lived in London for nearly seven years now. It’s more my home than anywhere else.”
“You must miss it, though—family, friends.” Guy picks up my glass and carries it to the sink. “I can only imagine what your parents think with you here. They must be worried sick.”
“They’re dead.”
My gaze snaps to Saxon, who only stares back, as though daring me to challenge him. Cold eyes. Unsmiling mouth. Rigid posture. That vulnerability is long gone, if it were ever there in the first place, but still . . . he’s rendered me completely silent.
He holds my stare as he continues: “Isla took her siblings in. If there’s anyone worrying sick, it’s her.”
For the first time since I sat down, he jerks his gaze away to focus on his brother. Standing side by side, it’s easy enough to spot the similarities between them: the dark, midnight hair and the matching aloof expressions. But the differences take over from there—Guy is taller, leaner. He reminds me of a wolf, always on the hunt, always prepared to take a swipe and make you his very next meal. His eyes are a searing blue and his features, though severe, are unmarred by scars.
Barely restrained energy versus pure ice. Purposely callous opposed to purposefully detached.
As though I’ve been tethered to a string, I find myself seeking out Saxon, just as he adds, “Reminds me of when we lived in Paris. Us against the world, with you at the helm.”
My abandoned tumbler clatters into the sink as Guy lets go. His wide shoulders draw upward, tensing, as if Saxon has breached some agreement to never bring up Paris. Have I read anything about them living there on the internet? No. I don’t think so. I would remember.
Curiosity gets the better of me when I ask, “How long were you all in France?”
“Five years.” Guy says five like it ought to equivalate to a hundred, as though those five years continue to haunt him still.
Saxon lifts a hand from the counter to pass his palm across his midsection. My eyes catch on the way the fabric of his shirt flattens under his touch, delineating a ridged stomach and what must be steel abdominal muscles. “Our mum died a year after we got there.” He waits until my gaze collides with his before saying, “It’s been the three of us—him, Damien, and me—for so long that Guy’s not one to trust easily.”
I hear everything that he isn’t saying: Guy doesn’t trust you.
Too bad.
Coming to my feet, I lift my chin and meet a pair of suspicious blue eyes. “Not that I’d expect anything else since we’ve only just met, but I promise that I’m not here to tear your family apart. The Westminster Riots stole my parents from me. I suppose you could argue that I had them long enough, but my siblings—” The backs of my eyes sting, and bollocks! I need to pull myself together. Unlike Saxon, I’ve always lacked the ability to smother my emotions. I breathe fire, not ice. “Well, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to keep Peter and Josie safe, and I’ll be dead before I come between anyone else’s family. But your brother hired me to do a job, and that’s why I’m here.”
For the job.
Only for the job.
Saxon pushes away from the counter and my lifted chin falls as I feel him at my back. The pressing heat, the tangible tension. I swallow, hard, and immediately regret passing over my whisky tumbler. I need something to do with my hands, anything. As a last resort, I rest my fingers on the kitchen island and brace for another round with Saxon Priest.
“You weren’t to meet with Father Bootham until tomorrow,” comes his gravel-pitched voice over my shoulder.
Schooling my features, I glance back at him. “It might shock you to know that I’m fully aware of how the days of the week work.”
Gritty laughter trips off Guy’s tongue. “You have bollocks, Isla, I’ll give you that.”
My nails scrape over the island as I turn to face Saxon directly. “Because I don’t dabble in BS?”
“Because you aren’t terrified to step up to my brother.”
I meet Saxon’s pale eyes. “He doesn’t scare me.”
He might not scare me, but my heart whispers another story. It races in my chest, a perfect juxtaposition to Saxon’s disciplined composure. As foolish as it might be, I’m tempted to press my fingers to his chest and discover for myself if he does, in fact, have a heart. Do I scare him? Logic says no, but there’s nothing even remotely logical about the way my own heart threatens to burst from my rib cage when he steps in close and demolishes yet another centimeter between us.
Demolishes it, like it’s in his right to make the space disappear.
Demolishes it, like he’s determined to discern whether I’ll crack and run for the hills.
One of his hands falls to the island beside mine, my pinky and his thumb brushing—I gasp at the contact, and barely manage to suppress another when he clamps his hand down fully on mine and juts his harsh face close.
“Tell me,” he orders, his green eyes searching mine. Hesitance keeps the words lodged in my throat, and he must read me well enough because he adds, “You can say it in front of him.”
There’s no pretending I don’t know who him is—Guy Priest.
The wild one.
My lower spine collides with the island, which bends my arm at an awkward angle. There’s no pain in the position, and even if there were, I wouldn’t pull away. To do so would imply that Saxon leaves me flustered, which he doesn’t. Not at all. Liar.
“Isla.”
I crane my head back, so I can maintain eye contact. “My brother attends Queen Mary. He hears all kinds of rumors on campus—”
“Elaborate.”
“The particulars don’t matter.”
“They do or you wouldn’t have come here.” He squeezes my hand. “Elaborate.”
It’s now or never.
Licking my lips, I prepare myself to force the words out—words that will either solidify my innocence or guarantee that I end up on his radar. And while I don’t think Saxon would turn me in as King John’s murderer—especially not when he hates the royal family as much as I do—I find that I need to hear his answer before I tell him anything else. Gut instinct. “They say you killed the king.”
Utter. Silence.
It sweeps over the kitchen, and heightened tension knits my shoulder blades together. Saxon’s fingers separate mine, as though he’s seeking to ground himself. It’s his only outward reaction, and I’m once again reminded that power speaks volumes in silence.
Guy curses beneath his breath. “Who the bloody hell is they?”
I keep my attention locked on Saxon. “The students at uni. Everyone thinks you’ve done it.”
His disfigured lips part on a growl. “I’ve done nothing.”
Yes, I know.
Since I can’t reveal that, I opt for a touch of humor. “Not a kidnapper, not a murderer, either. Careful, you’re close to convincing me that you believe in unicorns and happily-ever-afters.”