“So, yes, I left the fancy job.” I smile, a thin, grim smile that bears the weight my soul has carried for more than a thousand days. “I’d hoped that working with the network would satisfy Mum and Dad’s goals. Give the people what they ought to know though no one else dared to do so. But I dared. Me, the girl you say our parents would be so disappointed in.”
“Isla.” This from Saxon. His voice is cut deep, as though filtered through the frozen tundra, and I swear I almost feel icy fingers grazing down my spine. He repeats my name again, harder, rougher, a pleading note turning the vowels curt. “Isla, what did you do?”
I meet his gaze head-on.
There’s a commotion in the hallway, the sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs, but I’m too far deep to stop now.
So, with my stare held captive by the man restraining my brother, I finally confess: “I did what my parents failed to do five years ago—I killed the king.”
32
Isla
Saxon’s scarred mouth moves, parting to speak—
No sound emerges.
Meanwhile, my heart hammers so erratically that I hear nothing over the thunderous din of adrenaline. You did it. You confessed. I should be nervous. Scared, even. Something, at least, given all the night terrors and anxiety that I’ve experienced in the last two months.
The fear doesn’t arrive.
Not in the ten seconds post-confession. Not in the next thirty either.
All there is, is pure, sweet relief when I seek out my brother’s gaze, then Saxon’s, wishing I could throw my arms around them both without appearing positively unhinged.
“It was me,” I hear myself whisper, as though they didn’t catch it the first time around. “I did it. I shot the king.”
Peter makes a strangled, wretched sound, even as palpable emotion spreads like wildfire across Saxon’s face. Dark brows knitting, a vein pulsing in his temple. The brush of relief fades to a dull throb when he rasps, “You lie.”
No.
No.
“I wouldn’t—”
“Don’t, Isla,” Peter counters, his tone begging, “you’ve done nothing but lie for years.”
Self-preservation drives me physically backward, away from the barbed comment that feels as precisely aimed as an arrow straight to the heart. He isn’t wrong. But, dear God, the words hurt. The surge of relief drains from the gaping wound my brother struck, leaving behind a hollowness that already feels ten times worse than all of the night terrors combined. I look to Saxon with a tendril of hope.
“I’m a lot of things,” I admit hoarsely, holding his gaze, pleading, “but a liar isn’t one of them. Not today. Not about this.”
Something twists in his expression.
Horror. Disgust. Doubt.
Maybe even a tragic mixture of all three.
“I should have told you.” I lick my lips. Scrape a sweaty palm over the fabric of my shirt. Flick my gaze to Peter, who’s staring at me from the prison of Saxon’s arms, and then back again. “There were so many opportunities and I . . . I never said a word. For that, I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Fucking hell.”
At the rough curse, Saxon releases my brother and twists away abruptly. Fingers clamping down on his nape. The hem of his shirt lifting to expose a strip of golden skin.
His green eyes are everywhere but on me.
Look this way, Saxon. Please.
He doesn’t.
As though tethered to his energy, my feet pad toward him.
One step.
Two—
A hand circles my wrist, and it’s Peter holding me back. Peter who warned me away from the Priest brothers. Peter who fessed up about the loyalist group at Queen Mary because he wanted to see me safe and aware of all signs pointing to danger.
Had it been anyone else but Saxon on the proverbial chopping block that day, I don’t know . . . I squeeze my eyes shut as the startling truth reverberates through me. I don’t know if I would have risked my own life for anyone but him.
Saxon and I have known each other for only a week. And yet . . . And yet, it feels like our lives were always meant to cross paths. An intersection. A juncture with the sort of hard-hitting collision guaranteed to alter life forever after.
He may not believe in fate, but I do.
Saxon Priest has always been my destiny.
Desperate, I shake my brother loose and try again. “You saved me.” At my sides, my fingers tremble. I curl them into fists, not out of anger, but to keep myself from reaching for the man who still won’t spare me a single glance. “And I returned the favor by lying—first by omission and then completely outright. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve that. The world thinks you murdered the king but—”
“Stop.”
“—I did it,” I finish, raising my voice to speak over him. How many times did the confession sit on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be freed? And now that I’ve opened the gates, every grim, bitter detail is begging for escape. “All this time, it was me. Maybe you’re right—you and Peter both—because I’m exactly what you said. Ruthless. Broken.”
“I said stop!” Saxon whips around, his face a mask of anguish. Because I killed the king? Or because I lied and allowed the blame to fall on him? I don’t have the chance to voice either question. In three powerful strides, he demolishes the space between us. “I don’t want to hear another word, Isla. Not another fucking word.”
“Saxon, you—”
“No.” His big hand clamps down on my shoulder, driving his rough-hewn face centimeters from mine. So close that our noses touch. So close that I can feel his hot breath on my mouth. I shudder. “Never again,” comes his low hiss, his devil eyes locked on my face. “Do you understand?” He shakes me, fervent, demanding, torture written in every tense line of his body. “Promise me right now that you’ll never repeat any of this. Promise me.”
“The damage is already done.” I sweep my hand over his, squeezing once. “Father Bootham was found dead in my flat. Whoever stole those pictures obviously set me up, just as they did to you. There’s no stopping what’s coming, Saxon. I killed King John, and not even you can save me.”
Above the roar of paranoia, I hear Peter curse beneath his breath followed by a short, pained, “I-I don’t want you to die.”
Josie.
Oh, God.
Without missing a beat, Peter launches forward, his arms already outstretched to comfort our sister. He disappears behind the breadth of Saxon’s shoulders, out of my line of sight, but when I try to follow, Saxon blocks my path. There’s nothing but his broad chest and strong, stubbled jaw and his hand on my shoulder that shifts to cradle the base of my head as his gaze flicks between mine, searching.
“Promise me.”
At the roughly uttered command, I cave. “Yes, fine, I promise. Now please move so I can see my—”
“Isla Quinn, the king killer,” interjects a new voice, all-too-pleasantly. “It has quite the ring to it.”
The masculine timbre is instantly recognizable. Sharp hostility congealed with a mocking friendliness that instantly squares off my shoulders for battle.