Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,25

flower boxes are the same. The bloke seated at the window with his newspaper—I swear it’s the same man from yesterday, too. And when I go to open the glossy front door, a patron steps out and we commence with an identical awkward shuffle-shuffle-shuffle.

The dark hair. The tweed flat cap. Even this man is the same, though today he doesn’t offer a smile before taking off down the street. Even so, my gut still churns . . .

Pure déjà vu. It’s uncanny.

Fighting off a wave of nerves, I step into the pub and take in the familiar scent of coffee and pastries. Seconds later, a familiar figure comes barreling to a stop at the sight of me.

“You again?” Jack, the cranky server, demands irritably. “How many times do I have to tell ya? We ain’t fuckin’ interested.”

“Saxon asked me to meet him here.”

“Saxon now, is it?” His bushy brows furrow as he inches toward me, a half-step that seems to span the distance of ten. “You think you can just waltz in here, and what? We’ll bend over backward to cater to y’er every whim—”

“Jack.”

The tiny hairs on my nape stand tall at the terse voice that cracks like a whip through the pub—Saxon’s voice. Last night, after I crawled into bed, I was unable to stop replaying the entire evening in my head. Like a hot brand to the skin, I felt his muscular frame straddling my thighs . . . but instead of holding me captive, my traitorous brain turned me down a different path.

A path where he did use me: his scarred mouth devouring mine and his calloused hands pinning my wrists to the soft earth, so I had no choice but to accept the pressure of his weight, his feral kiss. In my dream—a nightmare, really—he hadn’t released me, and fear mingled with lust to create an addictive concoction that felt like it would be the very death of me.

Now, as I watch him stride purposefully toward Jack and me, I feel heat rise to my cheeks.

Please don’t let him notice.

When he’s an arm’s width away, he kicks his chin toward the bar. “Leave us.”

Jack does a double take, volleying his gaze from me to Saxon and then back again. “You takin’ the fucking piss, Priest? Don’t tell me you’re actually hirin’ her?”

But I could use you.

As if composed from stone, Saxon’s expression reveals nothing. “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.”

Jack’s shoulders square off. He opens his mouth, clearly prepared to fire off a comeback, before seemingly thinking better of it. Nostrils flaring, he glowers at me before storming off toward the bar.

Silence closes in and I fight the urge to turn tail, which is a shock all on its own. I’ve never been one to run from my problems. Even after my parents died, I stepped up and did what needed to be done without hesitation. But standing here now, under the cold stare of Saxon Priest, my fight is dwindling fast.

Flight seems like a much better option for getting out of this alive.

Discreetly, I run my gaze over him, taking in his black leather loafers and the crisp black trousers that cling to his thighs and the charcoal-gray pullover that hugs his brawny torso. Even his thick hair is combed over, lightly styled. Unlike last night, he looks the part of perfect gentleman—except for his knuckles, I notice, which are bruised and scraped raw.

Did he get into a fight once he dropped me off at my flat?

The thought leaves me rattled, but I raise my chin, anyway, and adopt a nonchalance I don’t feel. “Well, I’m here.” I splay my hands out, as though bowing to his infinite greatness—insert all the sarcasm. “As was demanded of me.”

Saxon doesn’t take the bait. Those pale eyes of his dip south, charting a slow path from the black choker encircling my neck all the way down to the black, lace-up boots on my feet. I made a concerted effort this morning to ditch all pretenses with my wardrobe. If he wants me here, then he’ll get me as I am. Blunt. Badass. Me.

Pulse racing faster than I’d like to admit, I wait for a reaction—anything at all.

Rather predictably, he doesn’t give me one. Only says, “Walk with me,” before striding toward the pub’s front door. Not a request but a command that practically begs me to defy him.

I don’t.

This morning, I spent thirty minutes lecturing Peter on the idiocy of not thinking for himself.