Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,53

angle. I wait, my breathing suspended, to see if it was a mistake that he’ll quickly rectify. Perhaps with an added apology for slipping and bumping into me.

He doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t apologize, either.

Instead, he only chuckles, soft, low, like it’s a fine game that we’ve decided to play while the rest of the group watches with piqued curiosity, heads tilted, eyes studiously assessing.

I have zero interest in participating.

I shift on my seat, inching away, only to be jerked back into place like an errant child fleeing punishment. My soft grunt breaks the charged silence as my head cranes forward and my shoulders remain trapped within his hold.

“Miss Linde?” Professor Coney prompts.

Focus. Play nice. Do what the crazy tosser says before you end up dead in the Thames.

With my gaze zeroed in on my knees, I utter, “I think you’ll be better off taking Gregg’s approach. A half-cocked plan is no plan at all.”

There’s nodding from half the group, including Gregg and the bald man.

I breathe a little easier.

“Funny you should say that,” the professor murmurs. One hand comes off my shoulder, and then is followed by a distinct rustling sound, like he’s fishing in his pockets. “See, we’ve been debating how best to—shall we say—eradicate Saxon Priest for weeks now. Do we recreate King John’s assassination? Do we go for something completely different? We can’t quite come to a mutual decision.”

A thin stack of photographs lands in my lap.

The moment the face in the picture registers, every muscle turns to ice.

Saxon.

His unique green-yellow eyes are bright from the sunlight which bathes his brawny frame from one of the pub’s windows. He’s speaking to one of the servers at The Bell & Hand, hands fixed on his hips, his scarred mouth set in that rigid line that I’ve grown to recognize all too well.

Dread keeps me paralyzed as Coney leans over me, his front plastered to my back, his fingers finding the first photo and tossing it haphazardly to the ground. “Of course, I don’t believe in doing anything half-cocked,” he continues, pointing to the next frame, which shows Saxon bussing a table at the pub. “You learn by watching. Their mannerisms, who they trust, the motives behind their every move.”

At my sides, my fingers twitch. “I agree.”

“Do you?” Coney’s breath warms my face as he turns to stare at me, but then we’re cheek to cheek once more. No one else says a word, their attention riveted on us. “Then perhaps you can understand my surprise when I showed up today and found you standing in the rain.”

He flicks to the next picture, and it’s me.

Me standing there, talking to Saxon, that day we went to Christ Church.

Shite, shite, shite!

“See, you being here doesn’t align with what I’ve learned of you . . . Isla Quinn.”

Swapping to the next photo, it’s instantly recognizable: Saxon and I standing next to the side entrance of Christ Church, my hand wrapped around his arm, Saxon’s expression murderous, seconds, perhaps, before he told me to get my arse inside the church or go home.

Each picture proves more incriminating than the last.

Anxiously, I scan the others in the group, looking for an ally. A potential friend. Anyone, really, who might prove useful in helping me get out of here unscathed. But as my eyes dart from one man to the next, their mouths stay zipped shut. Poses casual, albeit alert. There’s no help coming, not from that lot.

“I’ve been trying to garner information from him,” I edge out, thinking quick on my feet, “that’s all. So I could come here and tell you.”

“No, I don’t think that’s the case.”

Before I can even plot my next move, Coney’s made his.

The hand that showed me the photographs fits around my neck, squeezing, and I scream. I scream so loud that I’m surprised the glass ceiling doesn’t shatter.

Coney clamps his other hand over my mouth.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

“I think you’re as much a traitor as Saxon Priest,” he grunts in my ear, below the sound of the other men mocking my strangled gasps for air. Deftly, Coney sweeps his thumb along my jaw as he chokes me.

And he is choking me. Every bit of training from my youth flies out the window as pure survival mode kicks in. It isn’t pretty and it certainly isn’t strategic. My feet skate over the floor, legs twisting wildly as I grab his wrists, yanking hard enough to leave marks behind. But his grip doesn’t slacken and dear God,