Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,36

Guy pauses, head cocked to the side, his thumb still idly tapping the Glenlivet bottle. “Could be a dramatized version of events—read it in a Norse saga—but still. The Danes were driven out of London that day.”

Watching my brother closely, I fold my arms across my chest. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because our queen isn’t ready to deal with her fate. She’s no King Æthelred, just biding her time until she can make a big move. She has no moves.” He thrusts the Glenlivet away, and the bottle nearly teeters off the island before he rights it at the last second. “You know who does, though? The Guard, who are meant to protect her, but are now sneaking into her rooms so they can slit her throat while she sleeps. Men like Alfie Barker, who swarm the streets, waiting for the right moment to take her out.”

“So we take Hamish or Jude and introduce the queen to her new bodyguards. Establish more protection around her.”

Frustrated blue eyes flit in my direction. “For how long? How long until the Guard isn’t only coming for her but for Clarke, for Hamish, for Jude, for the men that we put there?”

“They knew the risks when they were recruited.”

“Do you hear yourself? Really fucking hear yourself?” Guy bites out. “They were recruited, which means there’s no more getting out for us than there is for any of them. They didn’t make it through training, they died. They tried to opt out of training, they died. They decide, at any point in time, that they’re done with this life, they die. Holyrood is a one-track journey to the grave, and I’m not trying to bury them any faster.”

He’s right, of course. My brothers and I always knew what life in Holyrood entailed. We saw its ramifications, first with Pa, then with Mum. But the other agents—men like Hamish and Jude and the scores of others who work for Holyrood—knew very different lives before this one. Asking them to risk even more, when they’ve already given so much, would be selfish.

I set my hand on the counter. “Then I’ll do it.”

“You will not!” It’s an all-out explosion. Barely leashed rage twists Guy in my direction, his chest heaving, his hands coiled into fists at his sides. “You hear me, Saxon? You. Will. Not.”

Steadily, I meet my brother’s wild gaze. “You’re not a king doling out orders, brother—just a man. The queen needs more protection and I’m volunteering.” I pause, letting that settle in, then add, “We both know that if there’s anyone in Holyrood who can hold his own, it’s me.”

Guy charges forward, hands lifted like he’s considering throttling me. He wouldn’t be the first to try. “I taught you everything you know.”

Instead of answering, I tilt my head in acknowledgment.

My silence fails to mitigate my brother’s fury. He’s taller by three centimeters—though leaner—and when he steps in close, his breath ghosting over my face, I know he’s seconds away from wheeling back and trying to knock sense into me.

With his fist.

“Holyrood is mine,” he seethes, his blue eyes glittering, “do you hear me? Mine. If I say that we aren’t sending any more men to babysit the bloody queen, then you fall in line and do as I tell you.”

I’ve never been all that good with following orders.

Guy Godwin may be the head of Holyrood, but he’s no god. And his word certainly isn’t the law. Ironic, perhaps, that Damien said the same thing to me just the other day when I reprimanded him about leaving the Palace.

“We took an oath,” I say, roughly.

“We inherited an oath,” Guy returns, each word clipped out from between clenched teeth, “and I’m fully aware of the difference. We have a queen who can’t even wipe her own ass without someone trying to murder her, a parliament that’s tearing itself apart from the inside out, and at least a thousand people outside the gates of Buckingham Palace every goddamn night. She doesn’t need more men; she needs to leave.”

“She needs us to do our job,” I growl.

Guy slants me a harsh look before turning away. “She needs to find her spine before it, too, ends up strangling her in her sleep.”

Breathing deeply through my nose, I run my hand over the side of my face. I don’t remember the last time Guy and I argued. Maybe when Damien was outed by the Met’s police commissioner as having hacked parliament’s internal software. Accidentally outed, if you’re to believe his