Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,103

rumble, and a chill skates down my spine. “You wondered about the car and the houses and the security system at the Stepney place . . . Josie wasn’t wrong.”

“And you work together with your brothers?”

“For better or worse.”

“Interesting.” I continue down the short hall, listening for Saxon’s footsteps and realizing that he’s so light on his feet that his stride barely makes a sound. “What did you want to show me?”

“It’s right down here.”

He motions for me to turn right when the hallway ends, and I slow, just a little, to trail his heels and survey the space around me. More dark walls and dark, polished floors and it’s as though I’ve been thrust inside a maze. Had there not been any light from the diamond-paned windows lining the left side of the hall, I would be completely lost.

I watch Saxon’s broad shoulders as he stops and waits for me to catch up. When I do, he taps his fingers on a fancy-looking panel, and shock riots through me when I realize that we’re actually standing before a door. A glass door.

My jaw falls open. “Is that . . . is that a—”

“An ally to the queen,” he answers, his voice completely impassive. “His name is Alfie Barker.”

I stare, open-mouthed, at the man huddled in the corner of the room. His clothes are bloodied, his stare blank, and I barely manage to choke back a gasp. My fingers graze the door, the glass cool to the touch. “He can’t see us.”

It’s not a question, and Saxon doesn’t treat it as such. “A one-sided mirror. We can see in but he can’t see us. He can’t hear us, either, unless I want him to.”

Which I don’t.

Saxon doesn’t say the words out loud, but I hear them, nonetheless.

Something that feels acutely like discomfort swirls in the pit of my stomach. I drop my hand back to my side. Rub my fingers along my hip, hoping to erase the bite of cold from the door. Loyalist or not, that man—Alfie Barker—looks . . . broken.

“You’ve beaten him.”

Saxon’s answering pause lasts so long that I look up at him. Only then do I realize he was waiting for eye contact. Slowly, softly, he confesses, “I told you that I have no heart, Isla.”

I swallow, hard. “But you have choices. You could choose to treat him kindly instead of—instead of—” I wave my hand at the door, to the man ensconced inside who looks like he’s been to hell and back.

The wave is all I can manage, and Saxon catches my hand in his. “You had a choice, too. With the king.”

“I did.” Lifting my chin, I add, “And maybe I made the wrong one but, in that moment, it felt right. It felt like the only option.”

“Then maybe you can see that I feel the same with Barker.” A tick appears in his jaw. “I had no choice. I’ve never had a choice. That was decided for me a hundred years ago, and it’s either family or—fuck.”

A hundred years ago? Is his secret organization with his brothers truly that old? A hundred years ago, life in Britain was normal. Unmarked by domestic unrest. But knowing what I do now—about my parents and this world that keeps so many secrets—I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s always been a group like the Priests who have wanted the royal family stripped of their crown.

Wanting to comfort him, and with my back to the cell imprisoning the queen’s ally, I intertwine our fingers. “Clearly, I don’t agree with your methods. But I don’t . . . I’m still on your side, Saxon. I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames, remember?”

His features splinter.

With relief? Gratitude?

Then, voice raspy, he says, “There’s one more person I need to show you. Come.”

With my heart lodged in my throat, I follow.

Five steps.

An erratic pulse.

Sweaty palms.

Saxon pauses at the room beside Alfie Barker’s, his face turned away as he plugs a code into the panel on the wall. I don’t know what to make of him keeping this all a secret—some government organization that he’s never once hinted at—but I trust him.

I trust Saxon Priest with my whole heart.

The door cracks open.

“In here,” he tells me.

“Are we . . .” I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. If the other room held a supporter of Queen Margaret, God knows who this one houses. “Are we supposed to go in, just like that?”

His stare ensnares mine. “I have you, Isla. Go

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