handle and add another tally to my already astronomical death count for the day.
What’s one more—really?
I take the seat opposite his. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough.”
I don’t indulge him with a response.
His knuckles whiten as his hands move to the armrests of his chair. “Since we came back from France, you’re the only one I’ve been able to rely on within Holyrood. Damien’s a genius but a complete hothead. Hamish and Jude are loyal but uncreative. Clarke sits with the queen and plays babysitter all day. And don’t even get me started on fucking Paul, of all people. But you, brother—you always know what has to be done, and you make it happen, no matter the cost.”
“I play by your rules, you mean.”
“You don’t fuck up!” Guy springs from his chair, hands locking behind his head as he sidesteps the elaborate desk setup and paces the room. “You’re ruthless. Smart.”
I’m broken.
Isn’t that what I told Isla just this afternoon? I recognized the traits in her because I see them in myself whenever I look in a mirror. I won’t cover up the damn thing, as if I can’t bear the sight of my own reflection. That’s never been who I am. I accept my faults. Sometimes I even relish them. But I’ve never shied away from what I’ve become, shadows and all.
“What happened today was—”
“A shitshow,” Guy finishes, clipping out the words, “today was a bloody shitshow. And while everyone at the Palace was trying to figure out how the hell to pull you out of this mess, you were off shagging the enemy, the one person you shouldn’t be—”
The rest of his sentence catches on my fist connecting with his jawbone.
Crack!
His head jolts to the side, his whole frame following in startled shock. Body limp, he falls onto my abandoned chair. But the wheels slide, then teeter off-balance from the sudden onslaught of his bulky weight, and—
He crashes to the floor.
The chair atop him.
His rage swirling and thickening the air around us.
I’ve never punched him, not ever.
And, as his younger brother, Guy has never laid a hand on me, not once.
Gripping the chair leg, he throws the whole thing to the side, where it slams against the wall. One hand lands on his knee as he hoists himself up and, based on his expression, he might as well have plumes of smoke to rival Mt. Vesuvius steaming from his head. “You ever do that again,” he growls, his voice thick with untapped fury, “and I’ll make sure my face is the last you’ll ever see.”
We Godwins always find trouble.
Biting my tongue, I issue a short nod.
Only when my brother has stood do I counter, “Mention her one more time and I’ll return the favor—tenfold.”
No answer.
“You hear me, brother?”
He meets my stare, his expression tight. “Loud and clear.”
Bloody brilliant, then.
Twisting away, I fist my hands on my hips. That wasn’t at all how I planned for this to go, but one minute . . . Christ. One minute I was collected, as usual, and the next I saw red. Unable to stop myself. Prepared to draw blood. And all because my brother tried to keep my focus trained on Holyrood and the queen.
Which is our job.
Getting sidetracked is dangerous for everyone involved, and today I managed to upset the balance that we work tirelessly to uphold. I murdered loyalists. Seven. I murdered seven. And, if that isn’t enough to throw all of Holyrood into chaos, I was sloppy when I left The Octagon.
The survivor.
The missing photographs.
I don’t blame Guy for wanting to shake some sense into me, but still my blood heats at the way he spoke of Isla.
“Damien’s about to get on the line,” comes my brother’s stiff voice from behind me. He pauses, maybe even touching his fingers to his already bruising jaw. Then, “Either you’re in or you’re out.”
He’s not talking about this room, filled with all sorts of tech that I keep here on the second floor, in case the Palace is ever discovered and we’re forced to move headquarters without warning. He means Holyrood as a whole.
In.
Out.
God save the queen or . . . I don’t even know what the alternative might be. This life is all I’ve ever known.
I hear myself rasp, “In.”
In, for Holyrood.
In, for my brothers.
In, for the people Holyrood has enlisted over the years who have become family.
Out, for Isla Quinn.
“Sit.”
I take Guy’s chair, leaving the one he threw for him to deal with, then roll it to the