Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,78

beneath the covers, seemingly content with a world that has me bossing her around.

I barely make it out of the room before claustrophobia rears its ugly head again. I need fresh air, a place to breathe.

Guy mentioned that the property has a rooftop garden and I stumble toward the stairs, gripping the bannister and taking the rungs two at a time. Once on the small, second-floor landing, I swing my gaze left, then right, seeking an entrance to the outdoor space.

Nothing.

Unless . . .

Arms rooted down by my sides, I stare at the door that might lead me to freedom. Saxon told me that I need to stay here, on Lyme Street, but that can’t mean I’m relegated to spending every waking moment within these four walls.

I’ll go mad. Absolutely and proper mad.

On silent feet, I approach the door, my hand already itching to rip at the knob and lead me to a night spent under the full moon.

There’s a fifty-fifty shot that I’ll be walking into Guy Priest’s room.

A fifty-fifty shot that it’ll be Saxon on the other side.

I send up a prayer and test fate.

Twist the knob and step inside.

The room is completely black, the curtains drawn shut. The fireplace hasn’t been lit, not the way Peter sparked ours for some heat before we all hit the sack, him in the bedroom next door to mine and Josie’s.

It feels like I’ve walked into a void.

And then I hear his voice—dark, cold, chill-inducing—and I’m not sure if it’s relief I feel or a growing sense of dread for waltzing into the lion’s den and expecting anything less than a skirmish.

“What are you doing, Isla.”

A statement thrown down like an iron gauntlet.

Blinking, I search the room, looking for his familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette. When I come up blank, I take a tentative step forward. “I couldn’t sleep.”

My ears prick at the sound of a chair creaking. Is he standing? Walking toward me?

“Too hot with the fire?” he asks, his voice a low hum that sends a shiver down my spine.

Wait. How did he know that Peter lit the fireplace for me and Josie?

Tempted as I am to learn the answer, I opt for the truth. With him, I feel as though I can. No judgments cast. No raised eyebrows and silent disapproval. Just me. Just the paranoia that won’t quit, no matter how much I try not to feed into the fear.

“A nightmare,” I tell him, just above a whisper. “I saw Coney—how he was when I . . . when I did what I did to him.”

“Describe it to me.”

“What?” More movement, this time from my right. Toes digging into the carpet, I turn in that direction, seeking him out. “I want to forget, not recall every last detail.”

“Trust me, Isla.”

Trusting him seems counterintuitive to everything that my gut is screaming at me to understand. I trust him with my body. I trust him with my safety, even. But my heart?

My shattered soul?

It’s a risk. A big risk. One that’s more likely to blow up in my face than lead to a happily-ever-after with the two of us honeymooning somewhere warm and tropical. Not that marriage to a Priest is on the table for discussion.

Darkness lurks and silence stalks what’s left of my confidence.

I cock my head to the side, listening for his approach. “Let me see you—please.”

A long beat passes, then another.

And then I sense him coming up behind me. His big hands settle on my shoulders, his thumbs tracing a line from the base of my neck into my hairline. His breath coasts over my bare skin, making my stomach flutter with something that sounds a whole lot like yes, please, this with every flip and flop that tangles me even further within his web.

“Trust me,” he reiterates. “Please.”

Rubbing my lips together, I run my sweaty palms over the silky fabric of my pajama bottoms that Josie snagged from my drawers before leaving our flat. “You’re begging.”

“No, I’m giving us what we both want.”

My breath catches in my throat. “All right.”

“Sit down.”

At his raspy command, I squint, wishing the fabric of the curtains wasn’t so thick in this room. No moonlight seeps in, and yet . . . Where I felt stifled downstairs, I feel only a thrill now, like the darkness isn’t a plague but a cure.

“Where?” I ask, reaching up a hand to capture his. “Lead me.”

So, he does.

One foot in front of the other, his palms on my shoulders guiding me through the pitch-black room.