“He doesn’t scare me.”
He might not scare me, but my heart whispers another story. It races in my chest, a perfect juxtaposition to Saxon’s disciplined composure. As foolish as it might be, I’m tempted to press my fingers to his chest and discover for myself if he does, in fact, have a heart. Do I scare him? Logic says no, but there’s nothing even remotely logical about the way my own heart threatens to burst from my rib cage when he steps in close and demolishes yet another centimeter between us.
Demolishes it, like it’s in his right to make the space disappear.
Demolishes it, like he’s determined to discern whether I’ll crack and run for the hills.
One of his hands falls to the island beside mine, my pinky and his thumb brushing—I gasp at the contact, and barely manage to suppress another when he clamps his hand down fully on mine and juts his harsh face close.
“Tell me,” he orders, his green eyes searching mine. Hesitance keeps the words lodged in my throat, and he must read me well enough because he adds, “You can say it in front of him.”
There’s no pretending I don’t know who him is—Guy Priest.
The wild one.
My lower spine collides with the island, which bends my arm at an awkward angle. There’s no pain in the position, and even if there were, I wouldn’t pull away. To do so would imply that Saxon leaves me flustered, which he doesn’t. Not at all. Liar.
“Isla.”
I crane my head back, so I can maintain eye contact. “My brother attends Queen Mary. He hears all kinds of rumors on campus—”
“Elaborate.”
“The particulars don’t matter.”
“They do or you wouldn’t have come here.” He squeezes my hand. “Elaborate.”
It’s now or never.
Licking my lips, I prepare myself to force the words out—words that will either solidify my innocence or guarantee that I end up on his radar. And while I don’t think Saxon would turn me in as King John’s murderer—especially not when he hates the royal family as much as I do—I find that I need to hear his answer before I tell him anything else. Gut instinct. “They say you killed the king.”
Utter. Silence.
It sweeps over the kitchen, and heightened tension knits my shoulder blades together. Saxon’s fingers separate mine, as though he’s seeking to ground himself. It’s his only outward reaction, and I’m once again reminded that power speaks volumes in silence.
Guy curses beneath his breath. “Who the bloody hell is they?”
I keep my attention locked on Saxon. “The students at uni. Everyone thinks you’ve done it.”
His disfigured lips part on a growl. “I’ve done nothing.”
Yes, I know.
Since I can’t reveal that, I opt for a touch of humor. “Not a kidnapper, not a murderer, either. Careful, you’re close to convincing me that you believe in unicorns and happily-ever-afters.”
His mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. “I kill, Isla, make no mistake. Past, present, future. But I’ve never met the king, let alone assassinated him.”
Past.
Present.
Future.
I feel the weight of his hand on mine and fight the urge to squirm. But . . . But I’m no better than him, am I? I killed the king. If the blame belongs anywhere, it’s on my head. In the two months since I pulled the trigger, Britain’s internal turmoil has taken on a sharp, primitive edge.
That’s my fault.
One could say that life under King John’s reign was worse. He became something intrinsically vile after Princess Evangeline died, a predator who hunted innocents and turned lives upside down, all on some crusader’s campaign to avenge his daughter’s death. The kind man that my parents’ generation remembered became nothing but a figment of the past.
But I’m not so short-sighted as to believe that Queen Margaret has done any better. Where her father attacked, she’s retreated. From the public eye, from Westminster, from her duties as queen. And so, the country has gone up in flames—her supporters want her to take control, as the king did before her, and anti-loyalists see this as their moment to strike and topple the entire political system.
I did that.
I created the ripple effect and now there’s no escaping my decisions. I see them every time I turn on the telly and watch coverage on the latest riot. I see them whenever I close my eyes, in bed, and sleep with my remorse for being the reason the death count continues to climb.
And I see it now, too, as I stare at Saxon—a man who’s been slandered for a crime that I committed.
If