Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,49

“No. Was she supposed to be?”

Yes.

“She’s probably running late,” I mutter, moving behind the bar.

But when fifteen minutes pass, and then yet another fifteen, with no signs of her strolling in through the front door, I’m forced to consider the inevitable: Isla Quinn quit on me.

Maybe yesterday’s verbal match pushed her over the edge. Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe she looked at her life, matched it against mine, and realized that she’s better off letting me rot alone in hell while she saves herself and her siblings.

I wouldn’t blame her.

Guy steps in beside me, taking a clean rag to a damp glass. “Still a no-show?” he asks quietly, his eyes scanning the dining area.

“Nothing.”

As much as I don’t want to entertain the thought of her quitting, it doesn’t seem at all like her either. Hell, yesterday she showed up to my brother’s flat simply to warn me that I’ve some university kids looking to cause some problems. That wasn’t part of our original terms. She came of her own volition because she wants to repay her so-called debt and keep me alive.

None of this makes sense, and I say as much to Guy.

My brother side-eyes me. “You know her well enough to make a claim like that?”

“Money talks, and she needs every penny that she can get.”

“Maybe she’s found herself another position.”

“In less than a day?” No, something is wrong. I can feel it in my gut, in the tightening of my chest.

My gaze cuts to the front door for what must be the tenth time in a matter of minutes. Ten seconds. That’s all it takes to cross from Christ Church to The Bell & Hand—twenty, if you’re purposely dragging your feet and taking your sweet time. I don’t want to even consider what could happen in the span of twenty seconds. Getting hit by a car. Being kidnapped right off the street.

I step to the left, so I can peer directly out our window onto Fournier. It’s a typical late-winter, London day. Gray skies interspersed with splashes of sunlight. A slight rain—just enough of a drizzle for Londoners to break out their umbrellas.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

My pulse quickens.

“I’m going to run by the church,” I tell Guy, who sets his now-dried glass down and picks up another from the rack, running it through with the rag.

“We don’t know her.”

“She isn’t for you to know.”

When I make a move to cut around him, Guy heads me off. “And she is for you?” he says, his voice pitched low enough to not be overheard by customers. “Be smart about this. We are not on the same side as her.”

“I’m aware.”

“Are you?” His blue eyes rove over my face, like he’s trying to get a read on me. “Because from where I’m standing, the view is crystal clear. Will you ever tell her that the intelligence she gathers is used to betray everything she believes in? Will you fake sympathy, pretending all is well when her own parents are dead because of a king that you protected? The woman I met yesterday would not turn around and kiss you in gratitude.”

I flinch.

Stepping forward, I bring my profile close to Guy’s, so that my mouth is directly next to his ear. “Don’t go there.”

He claps a hand on the nape of my neck, like we’re sharing a brotherly hug.

It’s anything but.

“You would break a girl like Isla,” he hisses, his breath rustling the strands that cover my scar from King John. “You’d break her heart when she realized who you are, and you’d break her spirit the second you put your hands on her.”

It’s not anything that I don’t already know. Hearing it from Guy, however, churns my stomach. I was nine when Mum died. Ten when a butcher dragged me into an alleyway, for daring to steal a slab of meat from his shop, and took a massive blade to my face, severing my upper lip in two and leaving me scarred for life. Twenty by the time I gained enough confidence to sleep with a woman, only for her to ask to be on all fours so she didn’t have to see my face while I fucked her.

A shattered soul doesn’t happen in a single instant. It’s gradual—a fracture that occurs time and again until there’s nothing left to stitch together.

For myself.

For Isla.

I push my brother aside.

“Fucking her isn’t happening,” I say over my shoulder, “but I’ll be damned if I don’t make sure that she’s