Is she waiting for me?
Guy tugs his arm back, then drives us down the narrow one-lane road that leads directly to Holyrood’s main compound. “She is, yes.”
Thank fuck.
I’m going to devour her where she stands. Throw her over my damn shoulder, the way I did that first day, and carry her to the first flat surface that we find. The floor will do, too. So long as she’s in my arms, I won’t be—
“She made a deal.”
Stiffening, my gaze cuts to Guy, just as he pulls the car into the car park to the left of the manor house. “What the hell do you mean, she made a deal?”
Without giving an immediate answer, he throws open his door and slides out. I follow suit, tagging his heels as we wind through the small courtyard before stepping through a set of trees that brackets the entrance to the Palace itself.
I wrap a hand around Guy’s forearm. “What deal?”
“She chose you,” he says, meeting my stare, “and sacrificed herself in the process. If only our forebears knew that one day, the woman who killed a king would take the oath for Holyrood.”
My feet come to an abrupt halt, my mouth parting and closing. “I’m sorry, I thought you said that—”
“Holyrood owns her now.” Guy’s smile is nothing short of humorless. Before I can even react, he claps me on the shoulder and brings me in for a hug. By my ear, he murmurs, “Her contract is in the vault in your office. Signed on the dotted line. Yours to do with as you wish.”
Chin snapping back, I stare at him. “Why would you—”
“Let her go?” He shrugs one shoulder, casually, then steps away. “Because I’m not a total heartless bastard.” Another step, this one accompanied with a mirthless grin. “And because I prefer to keep my enemies close, brother. As you well know.”
Then he turns, hands stuffed inside the pockets of his trousers, and ambles away.
I follow at a more sedate pace, my eyes scouring the estate for a head of strawberry-blond waves. I find her, ten minutes later, by the stream and the stone bridge. With her shoes kicked off to the side, and her feet splashing in the water, she stares up at the early morning sky.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Mine.
I kick my shoes off as I approach her. Pull off my shirt, leaving it to flutter away in the breeze as I let the fabric go. And then I destroy what’s left of the space between us, and say the only words rattling around in my chest: “Holyrood will never own you.”
46
Isla
I feel him before I see him.
Feel the way his gaze hungrily roams my body. Feel the way he’d strip me naked, if he could, and take me until I come screaming his name, to hell with whoever might stumble upon us here. Feel his heat and the raw strength of his power, both of which leave me desperate to fold myself into his arms where I belong.
My first and only.
The same goes for me, too.
Saxon Godwin is my destiny, and there is nothing that—
“Holyrood will never own you.”
Heat scrapes through my lungs as I turn, too fast, and see him coming toward me with smooth, long strides. His shirt is gone, leaving him bare-chested in the brisk morning chill. But true to form, Saxon is like some ancient god, untouched by human weaknesses. The first sweep of the sun glances off his golden skin, turning his already pale eyes nearly yellow. Tawny, in its truest hue. His muscles contract with each step, as do the scars that litter his chest and abdomen and arms.
He’s a portrait of pain and bravery and . . . And then his declaration sinks in.
My mouth goes dry. “Saxon, I—”
“You aren’t a woman meant to be owned,” he says, eclipsing the final distance between us. He sinks to his knees before me in the dewy grass, his thighs slightly spread apart, his big, calloused hands reaching for me, as if he can’t bear the thought of us being so close and not touching. “No one owns the king killer.”
On instinct, I retreat. From his touch, from that label that feels like less of a compliment and more like a noose around my neck. A noose I placed upon myself, but a noose, nonetheless. “Please . . . please don’t call me that.”
His palm skates under the curve of my jaw, lifting. “Look at me, Isla.”
Feeling more vulnerable than I’d like to admit, I do as he says.
An answering smile hitches the corner of his mouth. And then his palm smooths north until he’s tucking a lock of blond hair behind my ear. “You told me once that we all bear scars. Mine exist for all to see, and yours . . . Yours you keep buried inside your heart.”
Right now, my heart is beating in overdrive. From his closeness, from the tangible warmth in his husky baritone.
“I see you, Isla Quinn,” he tells me, letting his big hand fold over the back of my neck. Gentle. Affectionate. His Adam’s apple bobs with a tight swallow. “I see all of you. Your strength and your bravery, your hard-headedness and your grit.”
“Saxon,” I start, but he quickly shakes his head.
“Let me get this out—please.”
Rubbing my dry lips together, I stare up at him. Give a small nod for him to continue.
“You are the king killer, Isla. But you’re also the woman who sheltered your siblings after your parents died, and the woman who took a position to give our fellow countrymen the truth. You take risks because you rely on your gut. Right from wrong, good versus evil. For my whole life, I’ve done the opposite. I stick to what I know—I fucking burrow myself in the familiar—because it’s what I can control and manipulate and put an end to, should I want.” His thumb grazes down the length of my throat, so softly that his touch feels like nothing more than a kiss from the breeze. “Seeing you is like learning to look at the world through a brand-new lens.”
Feeling the flutter of my pulse, I reach up and place my hand over his. “You risked a lot by saving me. We were on two sides of this war, you said.”
As if embarrassed by the praise, his dark lashes lower over his pale eyes. “I did it without thought.”
“On the night of the riot?”
His hand flexes against my flesh as he confesses, “I had you in my arms before I even knew it. You fit. Christ, you fit there, against my chest, in a way that every part of me rebelled. But still I carried you. Still.”
My throat tightens with emotion. “What of The Octagon?”
“I would do it all over again, just to have you next to me now.”
“And . . . and about what happened at The Bell & Hand? D-Did you react without thought then, too?”
Tension seeps into his frame, and then his hand is lowering to my spine, between my shoulder blades where the bullet from Jack’s gun exited. He stays just like that, linking us together, his palm lingering over the dressing covering my wound. Our breathing is rhythmic, completely in sync, the rise and fall of my chest dictating when he inhales.
“Saxon?” I prompt on a whisper.
His unholy eyes meet mine. “I’ve chased Death for years, sweetheart. Doled it out like it was my right. Killing Jack was not enough. I almost lost you. I almost lost years with you, and I—Christ.” As if unable to stop himself, he drags me closer, until my legs are straddling his and my knees are buried in the soft grass. He tucks his face into the crook of my neck. Levels my flesh with a soft, agonizing press of his lips. “I’ve been a wreck without you. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or still in that fucking hospital bed.”