Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,131

die on me, I’ll fucking drag you back from heaven myself.”

The moment a member of staff spots our car pulling up in the emergency lane, controlled mayhem ensues.

There’s clear, concise shouting about stretchers and body scans and then Isla is being ripped from my arms. I feel her loss immediately, and I flex my fingers, as though in doing so, I might retain the feel of her warm weight within my embrace.

“I’m her brother,” Peter announces to a nurse in scrubs. “We have to go with her. Please.”

The nurse turns dark eyes on Josie, who sticks her tear-stained face in the air with complete defiance. “Younger sister,” she says primly, before pointing a finger at me. “And that’s her husband.”

Peter doesn’t bat an eye at her claim, nor does the nurse, and I . . .

I step forward, linking an arm around Josie’s thin shoulders. “We need to be with her, however we can. The waiting room. The cafeteria. I don’t give a fuck where we are, so long as we’re seconds away when she comes out of surgery.”

Blinking back at me, the nurse offers a gallic shrug and turns on his heel.

We follow like a dog trailing its master’s heels.

“She’ll be fine, right?” Josie asks me.

I swallow, tightly. “Yes. Yes, she’ll be fine.”

Peter slants me a disbelieving look, and I avert my gaze. I’ve seen men survive worse injuries, and others die from a wound that shouldn’t have amounted to more than a scrape. And never have I been as terrified as I am now.

The nurse leads us to a small room with green-painted walls and uncomfortable chairs scattered throughout the space. He points to a water fountain with a dismissive wave of his hand, and then mentions something about food being available right around the corner and down the hall.

Peter and Josie collapse onto chairs, side by side, and I stalk the empty space.

I meet the gaze of every nurse and doctor that walks past, as though daring them to tell me the worst. They drop their eyes to the floor, every one of them. Cowards. Anxiety ripples through me as an hour turns into two with no updates from the trauma surgeon. And then, finally, commotion starts from down the hall.

Isla’s siblings launch from their respective chairs, moving to my side.

But it’s not the doctor’s grim-set face that I spot striding toward us.

It’s Marcus Guthram’s, and the satisfied smirk he’s wearing has me growling obscenities beneath my breath. He’s sandwiched by four other Met officers, all donned in the same navy-blue uniform that I wore, just days ago when I broke into the Coroner’s Court.

Josie’s small hand lands on my arm. “What’s happening? Did they find the shooter?”

“No,” I mutter, clenching my teeth, “they’ve found me.”

The Metropolitan’s police commissioner stops in front of me then snaps his fingers at the officer to his right. “Cuffs, Barnaby.”

The younger officer leaps into action, nudging Josie and Peter aside and coming around to my back. Aggressively, he grabs my arms and jerks my wrists together at the base of my spine. The second that cool metal encircles my flesh, I try to wrench away, only for three of the other officers to swarm me.

Josie cries out and Peter shouts at the men to let me go and Guthram only picks at invisible lint from his cuff. “Saxon Priest, you’re under arrest for the murder of William Bootham.”

For the first time since I spotted Isla comatose on the floor, something other than fear roots itself in my veins. Anger. Retaliation. “You fucking bastard,” I growl, spitting at his feet. “You know that I didn’t kill him.”

Tsking his disapproval, Guthram only cups my shoulder and brings his mouth to my ear. “Don’t insult an officer of the law, Godwin.” He steps back, then motions toward his men. “Come on, lads. Time to pack him up and bring him to the station—and don’t be afraid to rough him up a little. I daresay he might even enjoy it.”

44

Isla

A breeze settles over my skin.

Cool. Damp. Like wind before a heavy summer rain, when the sky threatens with ominous clouds but the sun still manages to peek through.

Too cold.

It’s much too cold.

I lift my arm to push whatever it is away but don’t get very far. A moan of protest stings my throat, just as I hear, “Miss Quinn, no. Don’t pull at that.”

I pull anyway, hoping to escape the bite of ice.

“A stubborn one, aren’t you,” remarks that same voice again, and this time,