Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,68

just how misshapen my upper lip is.

Just how ruined I am.

Pushing up to my full height, I retreat to the table and rest my ass against it.

Blinking at me, like she’s confused as to why I abandoned her side so quickly, Isla runs her uninjured palm over her thigh. “The first one was simple enough, just a snapshot of us talking.”

“And the second?”

“The second one is”—grimacing, she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip—“the second one is damning, not so much for us as it is for Father Bootham. Coney caught us going inside the church, Saxon. Being completely honest here: I don’t know how safe it would be for him if we kept seeking him out for information. I don’t even want to think about how many others have caught on already.”

Dammit.

I drop my head back to stare up at the ceiling.

For years, I’ve bided my time, knowing that all the lies we’ve spewed were bound to catch up to us at some point . . . while simultaneously hoping that they never would. The other Holyrood agents have it easier, and we’ve purposely kept it that way. Men like Hamish and Jude—the public would never recognize them if they were spotted on the street because they keep a low profile.

The same can’t be said for my brothers and me.

We stuck out our necks to gather more intelligence, and it’s worked brilliantly. But all good things eventually burn to the ground, and with Damien already out of commission and my face now appearing on every news outlet known to mankind, there’s only so much time left before we can’t dig fast enough to keep the earth from swallowing us whole.

“But there’s nothing on me?” Isla draws out slowly, studying me with an alertness that sets me on edge. “Right?”

I nod my head toward the abandoned mobile sitting idly on the table. “According to the last search that I did, no, you’re still in the clear.”

“So, we’ll use me for whatever needs to be done.”

My molars crack together. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Every chance in hell, actually.” Leaping from the chair, she begins to pace the length of the room; the fractured sunlight streaming in through the curtains highlights her pursed lips and stubborn chin. “You were right, earlier. I came to The Bell & Hand because I’d heard just enough rumors to know that I could be useful to the cause. I’m a godawful cook, and I doubt my skills at serving food are any better, but I know how to shoot a pistol, Saxon. I know how to fight. I can help.”

And what, exactly, would she be helping? A battle that goes against everything that she believes in, all right under her nose? A fight that might land her dead and literally breathless by the end of the week?

A visual of her struggling for the knife against Coney turns my muscles to stone. The blood on her hands, the remorse and fear that brought tears to her eyes when I finally reached her side, has me seeing red. We’re on opposite sides of this war, and still I can’t. Call it selfish on my part. Call it being shortsighted to not use what she’s offering, the way I’ve always done in the past. But I won’t put her in a position that might reenact today’s events in any fashion.

“No.”

Frustration snaps her brows together. “You aren’t even hearing me out.”

“It’s not happening.” Planting one hand on my thigh, I jut my chin forward. “Those photographs—where are they now, huh? They aren’t here. I didn’t even know they bloody existed until ten minutes ago.”

“I should have grabbed them before we left.”

“We were running, Isla.” I shake my head, lifting a hand to skim the side of my face. “We barely had time to breathe before someone overheard the gunshots and called the police, let alone be stopping to pick up pictures off the ground. It’s too late now.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, and the rhythmic parting of her mouth gives me the feeling that she’s counting to ten. Seeking patience from beating me over the head, I imagine. When she’s done, she inhales deeply through her nose.

I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames.

Today, she caught me in an inferno. Any more heat, and I’ll turn to ash.

“I hate this,” she whispers, defeat evident in the sudden slouch of her shoulders. “Five years ago, I planned to move to America. I’d been offered a transfer to Los