Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,8

on my face, “then hearing the word No shouldn’t be out of the norm.”

My entire body stiffens. “On the contrary. When someone like me does their job to perfection, all I hear is Yes and Let’s have more of that, please.”

The words fly from my mouth before I can regulate them—or even consider how they might be interpreted—sexual, aggressively forward—and my cheeks instantly heat like I’ve baked under the sun for hours, naked. This is a nightmare, an absolute, bloody nightmare.

“That isn’t—that’s not at all what I—”

Saxon Priest is clearly no gentleman. Instead of allowing me to wallow in my own embarrassment, in solitude, mind you, he ends my stammering with a raised brow. “The Bell & Hand isn’t that kind of establishment, Miss Quinn.”

He hasn’t just—

He didn’t just imply that I’m a . . . that I’m a—

“For that sort of work, I suggest King’s Cross instead.”

My eyes go wide.

What. A. Wanker.

Not that it matters, but I haven’t shagged anyone since Stephen. The prized land between the valleys is experiencing a years’ long drought, if you will. And even if that weren’t the case, I would never consider sleeping with a man for money.

Although money is exactly what I need right now, and it’s the only reason I’m still sitting here and not introducing him to my swinging fist.

Gritting my teeth, so hard that I swear I can hear my molars grinding to dust, I purse my lips into a tight smile. “A miscommunication. I’m here to apply for a front-of-the-house position. I can clean tables, refill drinks, that sort of thing.”

Shifting his weight back, he reclines like an animal, predatory down to its marrow but content to watch its prey feel the anxiety of the hunt. One muscular forearm rests on the table; one long leg stretches out past mine. Having effectively blocked me in, his mouth—scarred and all—curves upward. It’s wicked and uneven and lacks all signs of warmth.

A foreboding shiver streaks down my spine, even as I bite back my pride and allow myself to beg. For the sake of my siblings. For the sake of my long-term goals. For the sake of survival.

“Hire me,” I whisper. “Please.”

“Apologies, Miss Quinn, but the answer’s still no.”

Tossing my CV on the table, he makes a move to stand. And this time it’s despair that kicks my arse into gear. I jerk out my right leg, cutting off his upward momentum by kicking him in the soft flesh of the back of his closest knee.

“Fuck—”

His weight destabilizes, big hands clutching and releasing the air as he fights for purchase. I sweep his chair forward, hooking my toes around the wooden leg, then plant my hand against his stone-hard thigh—and push.

With his balance already unstable, he topples backward, once more collapsing in the seat.

Raw, undiluted fury flares in his expression. In a voice pitched so low that I can barely hear it over the other customers in the pub, he growls, “Get. Out.”

Stand your ground.

You need this.

He called you a prostitute!

Swallowing a healthy dose of unease, I shake my head. “I cannot.”

Those pale eyes of his empty of any and all patience—not that he had much to begin with. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss you out on your ass.”

It’s now or never.

This moment is five years in the making. Five years of putting myself directly in the fire and stoking the flames. Five years of planning and doing everything in my power to prove that my parents didn’t die in vain.

That my siblings will live in an England—in a world—where a king or a queen can’t cause chaos with a flippant flick of the wrist.

The man seated across from me may look savage but looks can deceive. Souls . . . souls can’t, and mine was lost to a riot that tore my family to shreds. I can only hope that somewhere, deep inside, his humanity outguns his frigid personality.

There’s one item missing from my CV.

One achievement that can never be listed.

I’m Isla Quinn, and I killed the king.

For my siblings.

For my country.

And for vengeance.

“Time’s running out, Miss Quinn.”

Leaning forward, I smile at the scarred man seated opposite me. I need him, and though he doesn’t realize it yet, he needs me too. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Priest, and I think it’d be in your best interest to hear me out.”

3

Saxon

In my world, Isla Quinns are a dime a dozen.

Women—and men—who think they can hack it in London’s underground and offer something crucial