“Maybe,” I say, my entire body vibrating with awareness, “but only because of how much I want it to be true.” Reaching out, I grasp his hand, then bring his fingers to my chest, right over my heart, so he can feel it race. In the darkness of the car, I can just make out his gaze flaring with a sudden surge of lust. “I like the wrestle of power. You catch me, flinging me over your shoulder, and I—”
“Press a blade to my throat,” he finishes, flicking my nipple.
“Yes.”
His thumb circles the hard bud, and it’s as though the fabric of my shirt and bra aren’t even there, because I feel his touch as keenly as I did when I was stripped down before him. When I gasp, he only swirls his thumb again, drawing out the sensation. “Some might think you’re mad for this.”
I grasp his wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Some haven’t felt numb to everything but fear and hate for five years.”
Saxon cups my breast, testing the weight in his palm. Oh, God, it feels so good, so good that I nearly miss when he muses, “You asked me to ruin you.”
“Yes.” Warmth crests my cheeks, no matter how chilly it is in the car without the heat blasting. “I did.”
“Then consider this a mission accomplished. Us fucking isn’t happening again.”
Before I can even process what he’s said, he pulls away and turns to look out the windscreen, his expression set like stone.
My jaw falls open. “What? Is this because . . . because I said that—”
“I was deformed?” The laugh that falls from his mouth is pure grit. “No, Isla. That’s just the truth.”
“Then why can’t we—I mean, what’s stopping us from having sex again?”
I sound desperate and angry but bloody hell, what is wrong with the man? Maybe he shags every Sue, Karen, and Joanne, but I’ve been going with just my fingers since Stephen dumped me five years ago. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of aching for more than this violent life I’ve landed in.
I’m exhausted, down to my marrow, and I want . . . Hell, I just want to be wanted.
And not in the way I’ll be wanted by the police, soon enough, for killing Ian Coney.
“Saxon?”
A pounding on my window has me jerking upright, twisting for Dad’s knife—that is, until I see the blue eyes staring back at me.
Guy Priest.
The man can wait another minute.
“So, what?” I mutter, returning my blade to my coat pocket. “You drop me off and leave, never to be seen again?”
I wait.
And wait.
And wait until finally I scoff under my breath, turning for the door—only for Saxon to catch me by the wrist, stalling me. I feel his heavy stare, centered on the back of my head, and I feel the tightness in his grip, as though he’s fighting some internal battle that he’ll never win.
Finally, he edges out, “The people I ruin end up dead.”
I swallow down the lump of nerves and peer back, meeting his unholy gaze that appears black from the shadows dancing across his face. “And as you’ve seen today, people who threaten me end up the same. But you make me feel, Saxon—hot and dizzy one minute, chilled to the bone and terrified the next. I like it. No, I crave it. Maybe that makes me mad or maybe that just makes me human.”
“Isla . . .”
I pull out of his grasp. “Just face it, the only person in this car who’s scared is you.”
24
Saxon
“Did you fuck her?”
I haven’t even closed the door to my security room before Guy’s words sink into me like a knife twisting in my gut.
Slamming my eyes shut, I seek patience, the ever-present calm—and sense nothing but simmering irritation. If I’d known coming up here would entail an interrogation about where I’ve stuck my cock in the last twenty-four hours, I would have stayed away.
Behind me, I flick the latch shut, locking us inside the room, and Isla and her siblings out. “No.”
Seated on a plush rolling chair, legs spread wide with his hands linked casually over his stomach, my older brother assesses me with a hard onceover. “Then why did you have your hand on her tits?”
I pause.
Slowly tilt my head from side to side, cracking the crick in my neck, because it’s either play this cool or fly off the handle and add another tally to my already astronomical death count for the day.
What’s one more—really?
I take the seat opposite his. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough.”
I don’t indulge him with a response.
His knuckles whiten as his hands move to the armrests of his chair. “Since we came back from France, you’re the only one I’ve been able to rely on within Holyrood. Damien’s a genius but a complete hothead. Hamish and Jude are loyal but uncreative. Clarke sits with the queen and plays babysitter all day. And don’t even get me started on fucking Paul, of all people. But you, brother—you always know what has to be done, and you make it happen, no matter the cost.”
“I play by your rules, you mean.”
“You don’t fuck up!” Guy springs from his chair, hands locking behind his head as he sidesteps the elaborate desk setup and paces the room. “You’re ruthless. Smart.”
I’m broken.
Isn’t that what I told Isla just this afternoon? I recognized the traits in her because I see them in myself whenever I look in a mirror. I won’t cover up the damn thing, as if I can’t bear the sight of my own reflection. That’s never been who I am. I accept my faults. Sometimes I even relish them. But I’ve never shied away from what I’ve become, shadows and all.
“What happened today was—”
“A shitshow,” Guy finishes, clipping out the words, “today was a bloody shitshow. And while everyone at the Palace was trying to figure out how the hell to pull you out of this mess, you were off shagging the enemy, the one person you shouldn’t be—”
The rest of his sentence catches on my fist connecting with his jawbone.
Crack!
His head jolts to the side, his whole frame following in startled shock. Body limp, he falls onto my abandoned chair. But the wheels slide, then teeter off-balance from the sudden onslaught of his bulky weight, and—
He crashes to the floor.
The chair atop him.
His rage swirling and thickening the air around us.
I’ve never punched him, not ever.
And, as his younger brother, Guy has never laid a hand on me, not once.
Gripping the chair leg, he throws the whole thing to the side, where it slams against the wall. One hand lands on his knee as he hoists himself up and, based on his expression, he might as well have plumes of smoke to rival Mt. Vesuvius steaming from his head. “You ever do that again,” he growls, his voice thick with untapped fury, “and I’ll make sure my face is the last you’ll ever see.”
We Godwins always find trouble.
Biting my tongue, I issue a short nod.
Only when my brother has stood do I counter, “Mention her one more time and I’ll return the favor—tenfold.”
No answer.