Help doesn’t come.
I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Saxon Priest has turned me to ash and I’ve never been more alone.
34
Saxon
I see only Guy’s face when I enter the library.
Smug.
Victorious.
My boots land like anvils on the eighteenth-century Persian rug. I hear Damien call my name. Barely acknowledge Hamish when he toasts me with a celebratory cigar and a tumbler of whisky. I ignore Paul completely.
“Saxon, tell me. How is the king killer finding her new accommodations?”
It’s the only thing Guy says, and he says it like he’s discussing whether or not he needs to take a piss. But his blue eyes remain trained on me with a certain glint that threatens the last vestiges of my sanity. Any chance of him saying anything more is obliterated two seconds later when I snatch him by the shirt, haul him from the chair, and plow my fist directly into his face.
His head snaps to the side, a grunt pulling from his mouth.
Undeterred, I punch him again.
The left side, this time.
The audible crack of bone breaking shatters the room, followed only by Damien’s urgent shout, but there’s only rage. Rage that swarms my vision. Rage that has me snarling, “You fucking bastard,” as I rear back, prepared to deliver another blow.
Strong hands grapple at my forearm at the final moment, swinging me around.
“Jesus,” Damien grunts, shaking me, “stop.”
I don’t stop. “Let. Me. Go.”
“Are you mad?” When I try again to jerk away, Damien tightens his unyielding grip around my chest. His blue stare, so eerily similar to Guy’s, hardens with irritation. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”
“Isla Quinn.”
At the rasped remark from behind me, I shove Damien off and turn on my heels to stare down my older brother. I want to tear him limb from limb. Carve out his dead, unforgiving heart and drop it at his feet. My chest expands with heavy, ragged breaths, and it’s only a matter of self-restraint that keeps me from starting round two.
“I told you what would happen if you mentioned her again.”
Guy digs his thumb into the cut below his left browbone. When his finger comes away with blood, I feel not an ounce of regret. Given the chance, I’d do it all over again. “And I told you what would happen the next time you hit me.” Without even a grimace, he drags his bloodied thumb across his white shirt, leaving behind a trail of red. “But here we are, both of us still alive. You’re losing your touch.”
Baring my teeth, I lunge forward, only to have a heavy arm band across my stomach and limit my forward mobility. I swing my gaze to the side. “Get your hands off me.”
Damien shakes his dark head, offering a bitter laugh. “So you can kill him? No chance.”
I drag my elbow back, nailing him in the gut. “Better him than—”
“Who? Your precious Isla?” Guy taunts, stepping forward until he’s so close that I could almost headbutt him. Almost. Just another few centimeters. Come closer, dear brother. “The big, bad Saxon Godwin has lost his mind over pussy. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Out of sight, Hamish makes a gurgling sound, as though he’s choked on his drink. “I don’t think provoking the beast is the best course of action.”
“He wants to provoke the beast,” I growl, never taking my eyes off Guy’s bruised face. The imprint of my fist from the other day has yet to fade, and I find a sick sense of satisfaction in that. “Because he thinks everyone should have to listen to his preaching.”
“And here I was remembering our conversation,” he drawls, “when you told me that, as the head of Holyrood, it’s necessary that I give my opinion. So, here it is.” He shoves his face close to mine, wrath dancing in his blue irises. “You cast the blame everywhere but on yourself. That scar you touch when no one is looking? You earned that. Pa knew how much John hated when he brought us along, but you wouldn’t quit. Every bloody day you begged.” His voice pitches higher, like a child’s, when he says, “Take me with you, Pa. I want to go with you. And he told you, every time, that the two of you could get in trouble if he did.”
Stiffening, I jerk my head back. “I’m not the reason he’s dead.”
“No, but you’re the only reason why you’re deformed.”
“Jesus, Guy,” breathes Damien.
But my older brother will not be deterred. His words flays me alive. And the rage I feel, it twists and contorts, metamorphizing into something so much worse—pure, undiluted hatred—when he opens his mouth for another round: “The world doesn’t see you the way that you do. Ugly. Emotionless. You’ve done that to yourself.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? You think you’re mad at me and I can take it. I’ve dealt with shit you will never understand, felt worse pain than you could ever imagine. Broken bones don’t even crest the surface.” He taps his face, over the bleeding wound that I hand-delivered personally. “But you’re no martyr. You locked her up. You looked her in the eye and betrayed her trust. Fact is, you’re the reason why she’ll hate you, and you can’t fucking deal with it.”
Anger tears through me, potent and visceral. It ignites my blood. Steels every one of my muscles until it feels as though I’m a living, breathing anomaly—human derived from granite. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have something to say if I let her walk free.”
Coolly, his gaze flicks over me. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t choose the queen over her.”
Prove it to your son that the Crown must always come first.
Pain registers in my chest.
A crippling, unwieldy sensation that drives my lungs inward.
As if sensing that I’m coming undone, Damien releases me and I stumble away from him, away from Guy, away from what’s left of my family. It’s been the three of us for so long that to tear at the fibers of our relationship feels like slicing the limbs from my body.
I chose Holyrood.
I chose the queen.
I chose us Godwins.
I’m barely aware of grabbing the first object I see—a chair, dating back three centuries—and hurling it across the room. It crashes against the wall, splintering upon impact. I see nothing but red. The red of my father’s eyes when he begged me to look at him. The red of the king’s ring, just before he slid the knife behind my ear and scoured my flesh. The red of my own blood, now, as shadowed recognition hits that I’ve shattered glass.
Crystallized shards cling like teardrops to my butchered skin.
“Jesus, someone get me the kit. I’ll clean him up.” Damien.
“And here we’ve always thought you were the unstable one, Damien.” Paul.
“Everyone, out.” Guy.
My voice booms over the din: “No.”
“If I don’t sew you up, we’ll be standing over your dead carcass by midnight.”
Ignoring the blood dripping from my palms onto the prized Persian rug, I look at Damien. “I’ll do it myself.”