Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,28

approval. “Very well. Your friend will come to confession in your place, then, yes?”

Words of protest bubble to the surface, threatening to jump to freedom, but I stifle them at the last second . . . and wait.

Instead of responding, Saxon reaches down and tugs at the hem of his trousers. Fastened to his calf is Dad’s knife, which he removes from the leg holster with a familiarity that speaks to years of handling weaponry. A good thing to know, considering we find ourselves at odds more often than not.

With his knees spread wide, he balances the knife on a single finger, as if testing its craftsmanship. The blade wavers, straightens out once more, and then Saxon tosses it up in the air, catching the knife by the hilt, and holds out the only possession of Dad’s that I allowed myself to keep after his death. Tantalizingly within reach and yet feeling farther away than ever.

Stomach tightening, I make a swift move to grab the knife, only for Saxon to pull back. “Give the holy father your answer,” he says, his voice pitched low for my ears only.

That patience he told me to find? It snaps like a twig.

My hand shoots out to circle his wrist, and it’s only thanks to years spent training in martial arts that I catch him off guard. I tilt my father’s knife toward Saxon’s throat, bending his wrist at an angle that I know must ache like the very devil. The sharp tip punctures his skin and I despise the prick of guilt that echoes in my heart. King assassination aside, I don’t find a thrill in hurting people.

Wolves, not sheep, I remind myself.

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep Dad’s knife steady when I spot blood beading beneath the blade, coating the metal with a glossy red. My stomach heaves. “You have some nerve,” I whisper.

Saxon’s eerily colored eyes never leave my face. “And you have none.”

My grip on the knife goes slack at the unexpected cut of his words. Mistake number one. The confessional is tiny and the next thing I know, he’s leveled the blade with my collarbone, and I see it then, my entire life flashing before my eyes.

And it’s pitiful.

No big dreams.

No great ambitions.

No hope for anything but survival for myself and my siblings.

I draw in a ragged breath, at the same time that Saxon presses Dad’s knife into my lap, laid flat, so as not to hurt me. He twists away and taps on the screen separating us from the priest. “She’ll be here.”

I hear the quiet creak of a wooden bench beneath the priest’s weight, as though he’s shifted around. “Tell me, my child,” he murmurs, clearly directing the statement to me, “have you sinned?”

My fingers curl around the knife’s smooth hilt. I shot King John with a rifle that I stole then discarded in the Thames. I’d trembled as I lined up the shot. Then brought to mind every piece of advice my father ever gave me during all the times we hunted pheasant back in Yorkshire.

Aim, sweet Isla, he would tell me with a smile quirking his lips, and don’t you dare close your eyes when you shoot or you’re likely to hit me instead.

Pulling the trigger on another human being felt like scraping my soul raw.

In my lap, I grip the hilt of my father’s blade tighter, then confess: “Yes, Father, I have sinned.”

11

Saxon

If looks could kill, then I’d already be dead.

We’ve barely stepped outside of Christ Church when Isla storms past me. She manages three furious strides, her blond hair catching in the breeze, before whirling around. Blue eyes blazing, plump lips flattened in displeasure, cheeks reddened from the cold or anger, I don’t know, but she gets in my face and bravely—or stupidly—holds her ground.

“What was that?” she snaps, waving a hand at the church.

Involuntarily, my gaze latches onto the freckles scattered across her nose. Innocent, it’s how she looks, despite the all-black attire today—but bloody hell if she isn’t one step away from blowing a gasket. I’ve never had another woman repeatedly try to kill me. Maim me, yes. Kill me? Not so much. It’d give me a complex if I weren’t already such an emotionless bastard.

I catch her wrist. “You’re making a scene.”

“Oh, I’m making a scene? Right. I don’t even—” She snaps her mouth shut, tongue running along the seam of her lips. “I don’t appreciate being jerked around for your entertainment. You saw . . . You