Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,55

a quiet entrance,” I mutter, stepping back to clear the space.

Reaching for my holster, I pull out my pistol.

Aim. Squeeze the trigger. Fire.

The lock explodes. Tossing the broken chain to the floor, I rip the doors open and—

A man straddles Isla’s waist, pinning her to the ground. Blood coats the floor around them. It’s painted across his legs, on her hands. Between them, a knife gleams under the florescent lighting, revealing more blood dotting the steel.

A violent mural of imminent death.

Rage the likes of which I’ve never known floods my veins.

Starting forward, I raise my pistol, ready to pick the bastard off.

Only, a body slams into me, full-force, and I stagger to the left. Grabbing the man’s arm, I drag him down with me as I fall. Turn us as we crash to the ground so that I land on top, my legs straddling his thick waist, my hand splayed across his face, jamming his profile into the polished floor. I lift my weapon, preparing to shoot to kill, when the sound of footsteps rushing toward us jerks my attention up.

Six, maybe seven men.

All trucking toward me as though they’re extras in some B-Grade action film and believe that charging in numbers will save them. Maybe it would have, had they been attacking anyone else but me.

Switching the gun to my left hand, I lock in on the only one carrying a firearm—a bald bloke.

I take aim. Squeeze. Fire.

Down he goes.

The man under me scrambles to shove me off, bucking his hips and pushing at my chest. In a pathetic move, he takes advantage that I’ve swapped hands and tries to bite my thumb. Not happening. Nostrils flaring, I crack the butt of my pistol over his crown, and watch his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Saxon!”

Isla.

Ignoring the other loyalists on the hunt for my blood, I launch to my feet and run. Toward her. Toward the man trying to kill her.

And, for the first time since King John scarred me, I turn my back on my own destiny.

20

Isla

My arms tremble so violently that I fear my bones will snap and I’ll have a blade buried in my jugular within seconds.

Hold, I rage with all my heart, hold on!

Beyond the roaring in my ears, I hear commotion on the other side of The Octagon.

A gun unloading a round.

Followed by a startled cry seconds before Death steals into the room and claims its first victim.

Saxon came for me.

If I weren’t seconds away from death myself, I’d weep with relief.

The knife sinks another centimeter, drawing closer, closer, and I let out Saxon’s name on a blood-curdling scream. My throat tightens from the effort, my chest constricts with my inability to breathe, and life as I know it becomes nothing more than the man pinning me to this bloodstained floor with my own father’s weapon aimed for my neck.

Come for me, please, please, come for me.

I want to shout the words. I want to beg for Saxon to hear me, but I do nothing but hold my position, using all of my strength to grip Coney’s wrists and survive another second.

“You think he’ll save you?” Above me, Coney’s mouth twists in a sneer. Blood is spattered across his neck, the left side of his body. His blood, not mine. “He won’t get close enough to even try.”

Craning my neck to avoid the knife’s sharp tip, I squirm in place. I’m strong. I’ve always been strong. Dad put me in mixed martial arts as a child. He thought it would be a good outlet, since I had the particularly bad habit of picking fights in school with the bullies who targeted the smaller children. Quinns were raised to lead, to do better.

I exceeded all expectations.

And now . . . And now I’ve let terror render me useless.

I twist my head, my eyes scouring The Octagon until they land on Saxon, who’s fending off two other men and Gregg. He’s poetry in motion, a violent storm of sharp jabs and roundhouse kicks.

Turbulent. Powerful.

Savior. Devil.

All in one.

Saxon came to save me, but I’ll be dead before he even has the chance.

Muscles faltering, I take a deep breath . . .

And let it happen.

Dad’s knife descends like a guillotine dropping to sever its victim.

I watch it fall, watch it aim for my neck, and then, at the last second, I slam my hand against its serrated edge and send it clattering to the wood floor, where it slides out of reach. Searing agony erupts in