Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,26
The rest of the world may be content to fall into line like a flock of sheep, but we Quinns are smarter, better, than that. Wolves, never sheep. And yet, here I am, not two hours later, proving myself to be, once again, the worst kind of liar.
When we cross Fournier, I finally find my voice. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
Five seconds later, he cracks open a wooden door on the eastern side of Christ Church Spitalfields and ushers me to enter. I pause on the threshold, my feet locked in place. “I’m Catholic.”
Saxon’s eyes narrow at my bluff. “Go in, Isla.”
I don’t move. “This is a partnership. I have something that works for you and you have a plan that involves me. Ordering me around is not inspiring a bout of goodwill, just so you know.”
He plants a hand on the door frame, his forearm grazing the back of my head. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so last night. I sure as hell wouldn’t need to lure you into a church to get the job done.” His arm drops south, and I feel the pressure, the very heat of him, against my shoulder blades in a not so subtle reminder that he’s blocked my only exit. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A chance to strike back at the Crown. A place to work where people understand you.”
I turn in place, so that we’re chest to chest. Or rather, chin to chest. “If you understood where I was coming from, you wouldn’t feel the need to mock me,” I hiss, locking my fingers around his arm to use as leverage when I stand on my toes and shove my face close to his.
His muscles flex beneath my grip, and for a second, I’m half-convinced he might throw me to the side. Restraint renders him motionless. But his mouth flattens, and the hollows of his stubbled cheeks seem only that much more pronounced as he stares, unflinching. “If I were mocking you, you would know.” His mouth brushes my ear, and a harsh breath fans out over my lips. “I don’t play games, Isla. Now, walk your ass inside or go the hell home.”
Against my better judgment, I walk my arse inside.
You’re doing it for the money.
The lie sits like a ton in my belly, and I force myself to take in my surroundings before I do the smart thing—the right thing—and leave exactly the way I came in, to hell with Saxon Priest.
The soles of my boots echo on the marble flooring, a quiet staccato amplified by the near silence of the church. Wooden pews line the length of the nave. White Corinthian columns stretch tall, extending north to barrel-vaulted archways that draw the eye up, up, up, to an intricately carved ceiling. Early morning light filters in from the massive windows, splashing sunshine on the detailed lines of a centuries-old organ in the west gallery.
Saxon’s large hand brushes my back before yanking away just as abruptly. “Come.”
I tear my gaze from the awe-inspiring organ and follow Saxon down the nave’s left flank. With each step toward the unknown, my pulse drives a little faster. Unease quickens my breathing, and the sensation of being watched doesn’t fade—especially when Saxon stops beside a confessional and cracks open the wooden door.
My jaw falls open. “Absolutely not.”
“Get in.”
“This is the third time in less than twenty-four hours you’ve told me that, and each time I’m struck with the resounding realization that you’ve taken my good sense and tossed it into a blender of utter destruction. First, the car and now—”
Movement snags my attention and I turn, just in time, to see the heavy, black robes of a priest swish around the corner. Gray-haired and balding at the crown, the man keeps his head down, eyes rooted to the floor. And yet, there’s no denying the small, telling pause he gives us before slipping silently into the confessional.
I haven’t been inside a church in nearly a decade but even I know this is highly irregular. Nor can I recall the last time that I saw a confessional booth inside an Anglican church, if I ever have.
Something isn’t right.
Adrenaline turns my palms clammy as I back up, guided by instinct alone.
A solid male hand collides with the center of my spine. Then, in a voice carved from devilry itself, Saxon orders, “In, Isla.”
Damn him, I go in.
And he—Saxon—follows right after before promptly clicking the door closed.