for obvious reasons. I shut my wanker conscience up with a mental sod off.
I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is that all?”
Isla’s mouth gapes open. “Is that all? Are you . . .? Did you not hear what I just told you?”
“I heard.”
She slips away from the island, prowling toward me with furrowed brows and an unsmiling mouth. “How can you not care? Someone wants you dead. Multiple someone’s, actually, if we’re aiming for full transparency.”
Full transparency: someone has wanted me dead at one time or another since we opened The Bell & Hand. Playing two sides of the fence takes delicate balance and always leaves one party feeling particularly heated. I made a habit of looking over my shoulder a long time ago.
“If you haven’t noticed, pissing people off is something of a—”
“Personal skill of yours?” Isla stops in front of me, close enough that I spy gray speckles hidden amongst the cerulean blue of her irises. Right now, as she stares up at me like she would love nothing more than to bash me over the head, her eyes are turbulent. Intense. Beautiful. “Yes, trust me, I’ve noticed.”
I wrench my gaze away. “If I panicked every time someone set their sights on me, I would drown in worry.”
“It’s a good thing you have no heart, then.”
At the frustrated note in her voice, I slide her a subtle glance that starts at her black boots—the same pair she wore to Christ Church—and ends on her freckled face. “At least you agree.”
Instead of cracking a smile, as I expected she might at my sarcasm, she only drops her head back and props her hands on her hips. A sharp inhalation expands her chest and, fuck me, draws my attention down to her breasts. “I’m going to come right out and say it: I need you to care. If you die, then I’m proper screwed.”
The corner of my mouth curls. “Not so altruistic, are you?”
A second passes, and then another, and I’m nearly convinced that her head might explode when she snaps her gaze to meet mine. “Altruistic? I’m trying to help you!”
“You’re trying to help yourself.”
Her lips firm mulishly. “It’s mutually beneficial, all right? Yes, I need to keep this position. I’d be a liar if I claimed otherwise.” A pause fractures her words, and she takes another one of those heavy breaths that tempts me to look down and keep on looking. “But you saved me, Saxon. I don’t . . . I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t found me the other day. If you hadn’t ignored that nonexistent heart of yours and carried me to safety.”
My mouth grows dry at her utter conviction.
Praise unsettles me. When it isn’t offered with some form of quid pro quo attached, then it’s given when praise shouldn’t exist at all. Theft. Murder. Lies. Rarely have I ever done anything worthy of admiration, not after peeling back the layers and revealing my ulterior motives.
And what ulterior motive did you have for saving Isla Quinn?
None.
I hadn’t thought twice. Instinct guided my feet forward. Instinct guided my fingers to her neck, checking—no, praying—that her pulse would still be fluttering beneath my touch. And instinct guided my arms around her body, swiftly picking her up before any more harm could come to her.
I had no motive—nothing but an unexpected, devastating need to see her safe and out of harm’s way.
Softly, I hear my name trip off her tongue, a question hovering within the two syllables.
I swallow, tightly, and twist around to give her my back. “You did try to strangle me,” I mutter, all too aware of the grit in my voice.
Isla laughs. “I said that I was grateful, not that I was a saint.”
Chest tight, I flatten my mouth, killing a smile before it can even breathe itself into existence. “Nor am I—a saint, I mean.” Unable to stop myself, I trace the scarred flesh behind my ear. 502. A reminder of who I am, now, yesterday, and forevermore. “The only outcome of you telling me who wants me dead is more violence.”
“You told me that knowledge is power.”
“I did.”
I hear her footsteps behind me, coming closer, until she’s at my back. Slowly, I slide my eyes shut and simply . . . listen. To her steady breathing, to the wood floor groaning beneath her slight weight, to the movement she makes, as though she’s tempted to lean forward and lay a hand on my spine—but won’t.
“Maybe