Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,120

of an expectation, an oath, spanning generations—but you are the only person, man or woman, who owns me. I was cold until you. Numb. Like the skin the king scarred, like my heart which wouldn’t beat.

One touch from you—one kiss—and you’ve left me burning, still.

You are my first, Isla Quinn, and my only.

Breathe for me, sweetheart, and know that somewhere I’m inhaling and taking up the torch for us both.

A noise like a wounded animal shatters the quiet, and it’s only after a moment that I realize that the sound belonged to me. I sit with my legs drawn up on the seat, my entire body curled around the mobile as though it’s my only lifeline. Tears coat my cheeks, and I don’t need to look in the mirror to know that my eyes are red-rimmed.

Acting on instinct, I tap on the phone app and wait for the callback.

It rings, only to answer with a curt, “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

I try again.

And again.

Each time more fraught with dread and frustration, until I throw the mobile onto the passenger seat, atop all those banknotes, and scream at the top of my lungs.

He’s left me with more money than I know what to do with, a car to shuttle me away to safety, and a note that’s effectively torn me in two. In return, he stole my heart—and I’m never, ever getting it back.

I don’t know how long I sit in that car park, watching the tree limbs sway in the breeze. Despite the late hour, customers go in and out of the brightly lit pub: couples holding hands, mothers pushing their babies in prams, fathers hoisting their toddlers up onto their shoulders.

I roll down the window and draw in fistfuls of fresh air.

And I dream: of ducking down before a pram of my own to stare at a baby boy. A son with his papa’s black hair and his unholy, glittering green eyes; of the solid weight of my husband standing behind me, his fingers playing with my hair as he stares down at the boy who is the perfect blend of us both.

Brave and stubborn and loyal, to a fault.

You are my first, Isla Quinn, and my only.

With my elbow planted on the open window, I press my mouth to my balled fist. There’s nothing but the hum of activity from the pub and the gentle wind blowing into the car, which teases at my hair. It’s quiet. Safe. Peaceful.

Inside my chest, there is nothing but chaos and desperation and aching need.

“I love you, Saxon Godwin,” I whisper, to myself, to the empty car, to the midnight sky with its diamond stars and faraway galaxies. I whisper the words like a prayer, as if, by saying them out loud, they might summon him to me.

They don’t.

By the time I pull up to the safehouse he plugged into the GPS, with Peter and Josie spilling out from the cottage and rushing toward me, I whisper another, “Please come for me, Saxon. Please, please come for me.”

He never does.

40

Isla

“How long do you suppose she’ll let the sadness get to her and go without bathing?”

“Oh, so that’s the stench I keep smelling. I thought you’d forgotten to take out the rubbish.”

“Peter Quinn, I’ll have you know that you’re a proper arsehole.”

“As opposed to what? An improper arsehole?”

“I can hear you both, you know.” Cupping a mug of steaming tea, I glance over my shoulder to where my brother and sister are hovering in the doorway. “Jos, no cursing. Peter, I’ll bathe when I feel like it.”

Which will be right around the time I swallow my misery and stop thinking about Saxon around the clock. At this rate, I’m looking at the prospect of never.

Red hair dancing behind her as she skips to the sofa, Josie swings herself over the arm and plops down beside me. She bends her knees and perches her chin atop them. “Tell me, since you’ve killed the king, I think I should be allowed certain freedoms. Like the right to say arsehole whenever I feel like it.”

I arch a brow. “Is that really the bargaining chip you want to use?”

“At least it’s creative.” Peter chuckles as he bypasses the sofa and props himself up on the coffee table, his gangly legs sprawled out. “Especially since you’ve dragged us to the middle of nowhere.”

Grimacing into my mug, I take another sip. “It’s Stokenchurch, not Thurso.”

“I wake up to peeping Toms staring at me through my