Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,71

what about the front door at the phone shop—that sort of technology is not cheap. Not to mention that it’s completely unnecessary to anyone who isn’t expecting some sort of physical attack.” Holding my breath, I tack on, “You own a pub, Saxon. And I don’t doubt that it’s a successful one, but I can’t imagine you’re pulling in enough money to afford all of this.”

When I gesture at the car’s fancy dashboard, Saxon snags my wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

I mimic his deep, gravel-pitched order while tugging at my hand to no avail. “See? First it’s only a security system and now I’m meant to sit in my seat like a good, little girl—”

“There’s nothing girlish about you.”

“—and I’ve not only put my life in your hands, but I’ve done the same of Peter and Josie.”

“I won’t let anything happen to them.” His thumb strokes my inner wrist, over my pulse, as he keeps his focus centered on the road. I’m not even sure he realizes that he’s done it. “Or you.”

I’m positive that he can feel my heart racing, there where he holds me in his calloused grip. Gooseflesh erupts over my skin at the utter conviction in his voice. I twist my head away, needing a reprieve from all things Saxon Priest. The blasted man is sneaking under my defenses, one rigid smile at a time.

As a little girl dreaming of weddings and husbands, I often pictured some variation of Prince Charming. Sometimes he had a thick head of blond hair and bright blue eyes. Other times he was dark, his skin a deep umber and eyes the color of an ancient bronze coin. But always he was sweet and kind and forthcoming with his affection.

Saxon is none of those things.

He keeps his thoughts to himself—except, I suppose, when he’s stripping me bare—and rarely allows any glimpses of vulnerability. If I weren’t so sure that I felt his heart beating wildly against my back when he thrust inside me, I might be able to convince myself that he’s a robot from the future come to wreak havoc on my life.

And, still, I feel the pull between us, however inexplicable that it is.

“Collateral.”

I stiffen in my seat, aware of the way my hand jerks in his. “Pardon?”

“I tell you something about me that no one aside from my brothers know,” he says, drawing out the words slowly, like he’s surprised even himself, “and you have that information . . . should you need it.”

Lights from the passing buildings shine into the car, illuminating the bridge of his nose and the tight line of his jaw. He doesn’t like the direction of the conversation, that I can see plainly, but he’s offering an inner peek into his life anyway.

Because I asked.

“Okay,” I say, softly, “yes . . . collateral.”

Silence fills the car, so that the only sounds come from the rhythmic tread of the tires zooming us along and the steady pace of Saxon’s breathing. Mine, in comparison, traipses at a full-fledged gallop.

“When we lived in Paris,” he begins, his voice pitched low, “it was . . . difficult. My mother was sick, the same way she’d been since giving birth to Damien.”

Rubbing my lips together, I ask, “And your father?”

He shoots an inscrutable look my way, then returns his attention to the road. “Dead.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not the only orphan around these parts.”

“No,” I murmur, wishing I could offer my sympathies with a hug or a kiss to his cheek, despite knowing that he would reject it all, “I suppose I’m not.”

His lips tighten as he releases my hand to shift gears.

He doesn’t take my hand back.

“I didn’t lie when I said Guy was the glue that kept my family together, especially after Mum died. He was the eldest and to kids that young, it made him the leader. Damien and me, we looked up to him.”

I think of the way that Josie and Peter have leaned on me since our parents’ deaths. Until recently, when my paranoia has, admittedly, made me a bit overbearing, they’ve always put me on a pedestal. I kept them safe, I kept them alive.

After today, that’s not a guarantee.

Shoving the damning thought away, I focus on Saxon, finding surprising comfort in the husky baritone of his voice.

“But I got older, and with that I wanted to—” Breaking off, he winces, like he’s determined to find the right words. “I wanted to . . .”

“Help,” I say, studying him from my side of the car, “you