Mum, God rest her soul, hadn’t been able to even move from the loo to her bed on her own, let alone keep three boys under the age of fourteen on the straight and narrow.
Guy fed us; he clothed us.
He stole what we needed to survive, never uttering a word of animosity when Damien cried because he was hungry and I asked, time and again, when we could return home to London.
Guy had been saddled with two brothers to raise on his own. Instead of crumbling under the weight of expectation, he gave us more than we could have ever dreamt of. He taught me to use my fists, as well as my wits. He snuck Damien into local classes because our youngest brother had wanted a computer, and Guy, at thirteen, had no way of teaching Damien what he himself didn’t know.
So, I understand about worlds ending. I know that desperate, bleak feeling deep in my veins, where ice runs the thickest. But it still changes nothing in the end, not when it comes down to a matter of life or death.
“As of tonight, you’ll be taking a break from the public eye—at least until we can get a good sense of what’s coming our way.”
“What?” Feet stumbling to a halt, Isla spins around to face me. “Absolutely not. I’m not undergoing some version of bloody house arrest just because you order it.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
Her blue eyes narrow, shooting daggers in my direction. “I let you into my body—but trust when I say this: you don’t own the rest of me, Saxon Priest.”
I wait for the guilt of ordering her around to kick in, the bout of shame for bending her to my will, as though one round of earth-shattering sex will have somehow changed my genetic makeup for the better.
At the end of the day, I’m still me.
Saxon Priest, Holyrood agent.
Saxon Godwin, the ghost of a boy who no longer exists.
Skin cold from the lack of heat in the building, I ignore the quick tattoo of my heart and stick to the plan that gives us both a chance to make it to tomorrow, unscathed.
“We leave as soon as night falls, whether you like it or not.”
23
Isla
As Saxon promised, we slip out from the downtrodden mobile shop later that night, much the same way we entered: unnoticed and anonymous.
“Keep up,” he rumbles, throwing a quick look back at me, “or I’ll put you over my shoulder for a second time.”
I curse the darkness for concealing the rude gesture I flash him.
“Do that again and I’ll put those fingers to better use.”
Bastard. I suspect he’d enjoy it too.
As would you.
I silence the taunting voice. Right now, it doesn’t matter what I would or wouldn’t enjoy. I’m on edge. Both from the worry of possibly not finding Josie and Peter waiting for me—though Guy put them on the phone earlier, so I could speak to them myself—and the frustration of knowing that we’ll be putting our heads down after this, for God knows how long.
I’m no fool.
Saxon’s plan is smart, even discounting the fact that the media has yet to release any information about me as an accomplice in The Octagon’s murders. Still, my gut is screaming that something is seriously wrong.
Why wouldn’t the Met announce my identity?
How likely is it that the photographs went missing by the time that the police swarmed The Octagon?
Nothing adds up.
“One more block,” Saxon murmurs, his voice deep and impassive, as though today’s events are a regular occurrence for him. Based on the way he killed Coney’s comrades, without hesitation, I imagine that I’m not so far off base with that theory.
Who are you really, Saxon Priest?
Not the first time I’ve wondered that, but now that I’m following him into the dark, it’s the only question that keeps hammering at me.
“Were you ever in the military?” I ask.
There’s just enough light from the passing lampposts to reveal how his shoulders stiffen. “Another block, Isla,” he repeats, keeping his attention fixed on the pavement in front of him.
I wait the block.
Hell, I even wait until we’re in his fancy black car and driving to some unknown destination before pouncing again. “Well? Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“In the armed forces.” Leaning my shoulder against the door, I twist my frame so I can read his body language. “Did you ever serve?”
“No.”
Interesting. “What about mixed martial arts? Did you ever—”
His head snaps in my direction. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Don’t I have a right to be curious about you? After all, you were coming inside me . . . what—has it already been five hours ago now? Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.”
“Isla.”
I stare at his profile. The heavy brows. The crooked nose. The perpetually curled lip. Despite all of my good intentions to remain impartial, I find myself softening. “Saxon, you know more about me than anyone else has in years. But here I am, once again putting my life in your hands, and every part of me is screaming that I can trust you when the reality is that I shouldn’t.”
White-knuckling the steering wheel, he bites out, “What’s stopping you?”
“How about the fact that we’re in a car that must cost over a hundred grand? Or what about the front door at the phone shop—that sort of technology is not cheap. Not to mention that it’s completely unnecessary to anyone who isn’t expecting some sort of physical attack.” Holding my breath, I tack on, “You own a pub, Saxon. And I don’t doubt that it’s a successful one, but I can’t imagine you’re pulling in enough money to afford all of this.”
When I gesture at the car’s fancy dashboard, Saxon snags my wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”
I mimic his deep, gravel-pitched order while tugging at my hand to no avail. “See? First it’s only a security system and now I’m meant to sit in my seat like a good, little girl—”
“There’s nothing girlish about you.”
“—and I’ve not only put my life in your hands, but I’ve done the same of Peter and Josie.”
“I won’t let anything happen to them.” His thumb strokes my inner wrist, over my pulse, as he keeps his focus centered on the road. I’m not even sure he realizes that he’s done it. “Or you.”
I’m positive that he can feel my heart racing, there where he holds me in his calloused grip. Gooseflesh erupts over my skin at the utter conviction in his voice. I twist my head away, needing a reprieve from all things Saxon Priest. The blasted man is sneaking under my defenses, one rigid smile at a time.
As a little girl dreaming of weddings and husbands, I often pictured some variation of Prince Charming. Sometimes he had a thick head of blond hair and bright blue eyes. Other times he was dark, his skin a deep umber and eyes the color of an ancient bronze coin. But always he was sweet and kind and forthcoming with his affection.
Saxon is none of those things.
He keeps his thoughts to himself—except, I suppose, when he’s stripping me bare—and rarely allows any glimpses of vulnerability. If I weren’t so sure that I felt his heart beating wildly against my back when he thrust inside me, I might be able to convince myself that he’s a robot from the future come to wreak havoc on my life.