Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,70

had wanted a computer, and Guy, at thirteen, had no way of teaching Damien what he himself didn’t know.

So, I understand about worlds ending. I know that desperate, bleak feeling deep in my veins, where ice runs the thickest. But it still changes nothing in the end, not when it comes down to a matter of life or death.

“As of tonight, you’ll be taking a break from the public eye—at least until we can get a good sense of what’s coming our way.”

“What?” Feet stumbling to a halt, Isla spins around to face me. “Absolutely not. I’m not undergoing some version of bloody house arrest just because you order it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Her blue eyes narrow, shooting daggers in my direction. “I let you into my body—but trust when I say this: you don’t own the rest of me, Saxon Priest.”

I wait for the guilt of ordering her around to kick in, the bout of shame for bending her to my will, as though one round of earth-shattering sex will have somehow changed my genetic makeup for the better.

At the end of the day, I’m still me.

Saxon Priest, Holyrood agent.

Saxon Godwin, the ghost of a boy who no longer exists.

Skin cold from the lack of heat in the building, I ignore the quick tattoo of my heart and stick to the plan that gives us both a chance to make it to tomorrow, unscathed.

“We leave as soon as night falls, whether you like it or not.”

23

Isla

As Saxon promised, we slip out from the downtrodden mobile shop later that night, much the same way we entered: unnoticed and anonymous.

“Keep up,” he rumbles, throwing a quick look back at me, “or I’ll put you over my shoulder for a second time.”

I curse the darkness for concealing the rude gesture I flash him.

“Do that again and I’ll put those fingers to better use.”

Bastard. I suspect he’d enjoy it too.

As would you.

I silence the taunting voice. Right now, it doesn’t matter what I would or wouldn’t enjoy. I’m on edge. Both from the worry of possibly not finding Josie and Peter waiting for me—though Guy put them on the phone earlier, so I could speak to them myself—and the frustration of knowing that we’ll be putting our heads down after this, for God knows how long.

I’m no fool.

Saxon’s plan is smart, even discounting the fact that the media has yet to release any information about me as an accomplice in The Octagon’s murders. Still, my gut is screaming that something is seriously wrong.

Why wouldn’t the Met announce my identity?

How likely is it that the photographs went missing by the time that the police swarmed The Octagon?

Nothing adds up.

“One more block,” Saxon murmurs, his voice deep and impassive, as though today’s events are a regular occurrence for him. Based on the way he killed Coney’s comrades, without hesitation, I imagine that I’m not so far off base with that theory.

Who are you really, Saxon Priest?

Not the first time I’ve wondered that, but now that I’m following him into the dark, it’s the only question that keeps hammering at me.

“Were you ever in the military?” I ask.

There’s just enough light from the passing lampposts to reveal how his shoulders stiffen. “Another block, Isla,” he repeats, keeping his attention fixed on the pavement in front of him.

I wait the block.

Hell, I even wait until we’re in his fancy black car and driving to some unknown destination before pouncing again. “Well? Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“In the armed forces.” Leaning my shoulder against the door, I twist my frame so I can read his body language. “Did you ever serve?”

“No.”

Interesting. “What about mixed martial arts? Did you ever—”

His head snaps in my direction. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Don’t I have a right to be curious about you? After all, you were coming inside me . . . what—has it already been five hours ago now? Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.”

“Isla.”

I stare at his profile. The heavy brows. The crooked nose. The perpetually curled lip. Despite all of my good intentions to remain impartial, I find myself softening. “Saxon, you know more about me than anyone else has in years. But here I am, once again putting my life in your hands, and every part of me is screaming that I can trust you when the reality is that I shouldn’t.”

White-knuckling the steering wheel, he bites out, “What’s stopping you?”

“How about the fact that we’re in a car that must cost over a hundred grand? Or