Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,20

my hips. “You have brothers. How would you feel knowing that they might be out there, hurting but unable to save themselves?”

“They’re self-sufficient,” he says, sounding particularly untroubled by the fact that his heart must be as dead as my hope in his humanity.

“They’re your brothers.”

“They’re grown men, Miss Quinn, and they can handle themselves.”

“Isla.”

Of everything I’ve said, it’s that which prompts a reaction out of him. Shadows dance across his face as his head snaps back. “What?”

“Don’t call me Miss Quinn. It makes me feel old. Which, all right, my soul feels positively ancient, so I guess there is some truth to it.” Aware that he’s openly scrutinizing me, I offer a loose-armed shrug. “I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. It’s an odd twist of fate that you found me at all. So, Isla.”

I don’t go so far as to stick my hand out for him, and even if I did, I doubt he would accept the offer for what it is: an olive branch.

Instead, he only studies me silently, his gaze flicking over my face. Then, brusquely, he mutters, “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?”

He lifts a hand, reaching for my head—but at the last second, he veers off course and rakes his fingers through his dark hair. “Right temple.” He points to his own forehead. “It’s not awful but you ought to visit a doctor.” A small pause and then a rather lackluster, “I’ll take you home.”

Take me home? Absolutely not.

“What? Is this your way of making yourself feel better for being a complete arse during our interview?”

He casts me a single, inscrutable look before striding down the paved path, as though he knows I’ll follow. And, damn him, but I do. Like some bumbling puppy determined to please its master. Which I’m not, of course, and even if I were, it certainly wouldn’t be him who I’m trying to impress.

I’d rather freeze to death than be sucked dry of all warmth by a coldhearted bastard like Saxon Priest.

When he doesn’t answer, I demand, “Well?”

“I wasn’t an ass,” is his only reply.

My temper, already simmering from my argument with Josie earlier, threatens to ignite. “You told me I’d be dead within the year.”

“Based on how I found you tonight, I’d say that I was right.”

No doubt about it, I should have clobbered him over the head while he had me hanging upside down from his shoulder. From between gritted teeth, I seethe, “I was trying to find my brother, which is clearly a concept you’re too boneheaded to understand.”

“Boneheaded, eh?” Sharp eyes find me over his shoulder. Any other man would have the decency to walk face-first into a lamppost, but not him. Never him, I’m starting to realize. “Suppose it’s unfortunate that I didn’t hire you, after all.”

“Why is that?” The words come out clipped, annoyed.

“Because, Isla, I would enjoy nothing more than to sack you.”

My feet stumble to a stop, just as we hit a main street—Birdcage Walk—where a black car is parked along the curb. Despite the fact that it’s a no-parking zone, the car looks like something yanked straight from a Hollywood-studded action movie, sleek and gleaming and utterly luxurious. My surprise ratchets up another notch when Saxon moves to the driver’s side door and pops it open.

He meets my gaze. Tilts his chin toward the vehicle. “Get in.”

I don’t even hesitate when I reply, “You’re out of your bloody mind.”

His big hand curves over the door, near the top. “I’m not the one with a possible concussion.”

As if he needs to remind me that my head is pounding like I’ve been thwacked with a two-by-four. “I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

“I saved you.”

“You want to sack me!”

“Semantics.” He thumps his hand down on the roof. “Either you get in or you walk yourself across London—to Stepney, isn’t it? You’re quite a ways from home.”

I’m starting to regret showing up to The Bell & Hand with my CV. No position is worth this aggravation. Not. A. One. And since the Tube shuts down when protests take a violent turn, I’m right and truly stranded. Although I could hail a cab . . .

Reaching for my interior coat pocket, I pat around for my purse. Wait—where—? My heart sinks when I brush nothing but the inner silk seam.

“Looking for this?” comes that taunting, antagonistic voice.

I snap my gaze to his, only to find him holding my canary-yellow purse between his index and middle fingers. My jaw drops open. “You . . . you pickpocketed