Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,34

and those on the losing.

How this all turns out, I have no idea, but I can only do what feels right in my gut.

Spying on Father Bootham, gathering intelligence for Saxon Priest, feels . . . Well, it doesn’t feel good. But it feels necessary, like I’m doing my part for the cause.

My fingers interlace in my lap, and I force myself to say the words that I know will change the course of history—my history—forever: “I’m taking the position.”

Disappointment darkens Peter’s blue eyes. He drags in a shaky breath then blows it all out in one go. “Then there’s something you should know.”

13

Saxon

The door hasn’t even shut behind Guy before he’s stripping off his damp jacket, throwing it on the sofa, and dropping news I could have easily done without. “Clarke caught one of the Queen’s Guards trying to enter her apartments last night.”

For a moment, I only stare. Let my brother’s words infiltrate my head, turning them over for a quick analysis, and summon the only likely reasoning I can think of: “An imposter?”

“No.” Guy’s mouth twists in a self-deprecating sneer. “We aren’t so lucky as that.”

Luck has never been on our side. Not as Godwins, not as Priests either.

Plowing my fingers through my hair, I tug sharply at the strands and then drop my hands to the miniscule kitchen island in my brother’s flat. I came over to catch him up to speed on Alfie Barker, but this . . . fuck. As if we aren’t already embroiled in enough pandemonium to last a century, the last thing we need is the queen’s own security turning on her. Which then begs the question: how many more are biding their time before making a move? It’s the sort of thought that’ll keep me wide-eyed at night, working out all the probabilities.

Although I have a feeling that I already know the answer, I ask, “Was he armed?”

On cue, Guy reaches for his waistband and removes a gun from its holster. “With the bayonet they all carry,” he answers, briefly meeting my gaze before moving toward the bedroom to my right. “Claimed he only wanted to check on the queen after he heard a commotion from his post.”

“Sure he did—all the way from a different part of the palace. Stupid bastard.” I grunt out a disbelieving breath, my flattened hand balling into a fist. Days later, my knuckles are still bruised from my round with Alfie Barker. Bruised and sore and itching for another bout. Lady Luck may not grace my family, but she’s visited Barker, and done so under my watch. The man is still alive. Breathing without the aid of an oxygen tank, too, which speaks more to my own self-restraint than any particular resilience on his end. Barker knows more than he’s letting on, and until he spills his soul—and possibly his guts—at my feet, he’ll stay exactly where he is: miserable, alone, and cuffed to that tiny table in the interrogation room.

Which is far more than can be said for the guard, I’m sure.

“Clarke took care of him?” I call out to Guy.

“I did.”

Narrowing my eyes, I push off the stool, trailing after my brother. Noise echoes from the bedroom—the clang of a drawer slamming shut, the rustling of fabric. I pause in the doorway, leaning up against the frame. “How.”

It’s not a question.

Bare-chested, Guy shoves his arms through the holes of a fresh shirt. “Don’t worry, Mother, I didn’t attract any notice.” His tone verges on mocking as he draws the shirt down over his head. “In, out. I could have done it in my sleep.”

Knowing Guy, he probably has.

“And the queen?”

“Properly teary-eyed and terrified.” A humorless smile stretches my brother’s mouth as he draws on a pair of loose joggers. At my silence, he rolls his eyes. “I’m taking the piss, Saxon. She won’t be seeing me in her nightmares anytime soon. I waited for Clarke to bring the bastard outside. For all she knows, the man’s only been let go of his position.”

“She’s no fool,” I mutter, turning to follow my brother as he brushes past me. “You don’t think she looks out her window every night and knows that she’s hated?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

My shoulders stiffen as I swallow back a low growl of frustration. I won’t deny my own apathy to the cause. I give because I must, and I bleed because it might as well be a rite of passage to protecting the monarchy, but I do it.