His mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. “I kill, Isla, make no mistake. Past, present, future. But I’ve never met the king, let alone assassinated him.”
Past.
Present.
Future.
I feel the weight of his hand on mine and fight the urge to squirm. But . . . But I’m no better than him, am I? I killed the king. If the blame belongs anywhere, it’s on my head. In the two months since I pulled the trigger, Britain’s internal turmoil has taken on a sharp, primitive edge.
That’s my fault.
One could say that life under King John’s reign was worse. He became something intrinsically vile after Princess Evangeline died, a predator who hunted innocents and turned lives upside down, all on some crusader’s campaign to avenge his daughter’s death. The kind man that my parents’ generation remembered became nothing but a figment of the past.
But I’m not so short-sighted as to believe that Queen Margaret has done any better. Where her father attacked, she’s retreated. From the public eye, from Westminster, from her duties as queen. And so, the country has gone up in flames—her supporters want her to take control, as the king did before her, and anti-loyalists see this as their moment to strike and topple the entire political system.
I did that.
I created the ripple effect and now there’s no escaping my decisions. I see them every time I turn on the telly and watch coverage on the latest riot. I see them whenever I close my eyes, in bed, and sleep with my remorse for being the reason the death count continues to climb.
And I see it now, too, as I stare at Saxon—a man who’s been slandered for a crime that I committed.
If it were possible to choke on one’s guilt, I would be dead on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, despising the tremor that I can’t quite disguise. I’m sorry that you’re about to be hunted. I’m sorry that I did this to you—to your brothers. I’m sorry I can’t fix this without putting Josie and Peter in danger. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Saxon’s dark brows lower, his mouth twisting in self-deprecation. “For what? You didn’t put the first gun in my hand. I did that.”
“No, I did.”
As one, we both turn to stare at Guy, who offers a grim smile. “You were thirteen. Too young for that kind of life. Too young for any of it.” Despite the cryptic words, Guy shakes his head, laughing this low, disbelieving sound, like he’s been damned from the start and is just accepting his lot in life now. “So, I did that. To you.”
Saxon’s throat works with a visible swallow, and he pushes away, turning toward his brother. “Guy—”
“No.” Hands up, he falls back a step, then another. “We’re all right. I need to . . .” He looks over his shoulder, but not before I see the way he slams his eyes shut, like he’s seeking reprieve from whatever it is that plagues him. “I need to go—pub business. Fill me in later, yeah?”
Before either of us has the chance to respond, Guy’s slipped out the front door.
It clicks softly shut behind him.
And the air . . . God, it’s as though I can feel it crackle to life the second Guy’s footsteps fade into nothingness. Chest tight, I remain plastered to the island and watch Saxon closely.
Even with his head bowed, he appears virtually untouchable. A king of death wreathed with a crown of torment.
I touch my tongue to my bottom lip. “Would you . . . Would you like to talk about it?”
He’s silent for a moment, self-control evident in every line of his body. And then he twists his head to meet my stare. The tawny yellow near his pupils appears starker, more effervescent. “About how I’m a killer?” he asks softly, dangerously. “About how killing is all I’ve ever known?”
Drawing in a sharp breath, I shake my head. “That’s not . . . that’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” He steps in my direction. Just one foot. Just one step. And yet I feel the shortened distance all the way down to my toes. “The other side of the coin is that killing one person often means protecting another—giving up a corner of your own soul to save someone better.”
I understand!
I want to shout the words, to scream them into the void. I thought—oh how I had thought—that murdering King John would mean safety for Peter and Josie. With the monster off his throne, life would return to its former self. A bipartisan government. A figurehead monarch. I was wrong. Stupid. A bloody fool.
At my sides, my hands tremble. I’ve been doused in isolation since that day, so alone with my decisions and my remorse and my fear, and Saxon . . . He knows how this feels. He knows the toll death takes on your spirit.
A confession begs for release but something in me renders it silent.
Hello, thy name is Paranoia.
“You’re more than that,” I tell Saxon, my voice little more than a ragged whisper. “Sometimes . . . sometimes we’re put in hard positions with limited options.”
He pins me with a cool stare. “And sometimes we simply amount to what we’ve always been destined to become.”
A killer. A monster of our own making.
Does one decision instantly revoke years of always being good? For my sake, I pray that it isn’t true. For Saxon’s sake, I would do everything in my power to prove that it isn’t.
I open my mouth, prepared to speak, and am soundly cut off when he demands, “Tell me the real reason you’re here, Isla.”
Oh, hell.
I raise my gaze to the ceiling, searching for the right words.
“Just say it.”
Pressing my knuckles to my eyes, I inhale, then let it out slowly. Drop my hands to my sides and spit out the words before I choose to keep them within me forever. “There’s been talk that . . . that—”
“Isla.”
“You’ve been marked, Saxon.”
15
Saxon
You’ve been marked, Saxon.
If I had a fiver for every time I’ve heard that, I’d be filthy rich by now—but Isla doesn’t know that. She stands before me, her fingers wringing together, her gaze anywhere but on my face. Or maybe the latter’s just for obvious reasons. I shut my wanker conscience up with a mental sod off.
I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is that all?”
Isla’s mouth gapes open. “Is that all? Are you . . .? Did you not hear what I just told you?”
“I heard.”
She slips away from the island, prowling toward me with furrowed brows and an unsmiling mouth. “How can you not care? Someone wants you dead. Multiple someone’s, actually, if we’re aiming for full transparency.”
Full transparency: someone has wanted me dead at one time or another since we opened The Bell & Hand. Playing two sides of the fence takes delicate balance and always leaves one party feeling particularly heated. I made a habit of looking over my shoulder a long time ago.
“If you haven’t noticed, pissing people off is something of a—”
“Personal skill of yours?” Isla stops in front of me, close enough that I spy gray speckles hidden amongst the cerulean blue of her irises. Right now, as she stares up at me like she would love nothing more than to bash me over the head, her eyes are turbulent. Intense. Beautiful. “Yes, trust me, I’ve noticed.”