Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,96
from Peter’s throat.
Welcome to the truth, brother mine. The cold, ugly truth.
The truth that’s kept me up at night for five years. The truth that’s guided every decision that I’ve made in all that time. The truth, for better or worse, that’s led me here to this exact moment, prepared to tear the safety net I’ve cast over him in two.
Completely irreparable.
“You say that you don’t know me,” I say, steel lacing every word, “and you’re right. I walked alone for years, knowing every piece of information that they’d gathered and sharing it with no one. I watched it all unfold, Peter. The increased disappearances. The gradual number of Brits who found themselves locked up or, worse, dead—and all because they had the wherewithal to stand up to a man so inflated by power that he couldn’t see the storm he was brewing among his own people.
“So, yes, I left the fancy job.” I smile, a thin, grim smile that bears the weight my soul has carried for more than a thousand days. “I’d hoped that working with the network would satisfy Mum and Dad’s goals. Give the people what they ought to know though no one else dared to do so. But I dared. Me, the girl you say our parents would be so disappointed in.”
“Isla.” This from Saxon. His voice is cut deep, as though filtered through the frozen tundra, and I swear I almost feel icy fingers grazing down my spine. He repeats my name again, harder, rougher, a pleading note turning the vowels curt. “Isla, what did you do?”
I meet his gaze head-on.
There’s a commotion in the hallway, the sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs, but I’m too far deep to stop now.
So, with my stare held captive by the man restraining my brother, I finally confess: “I did what my parents failed to do five years ago—I killed the king.”
32
Isla
Saxon’s scarred mouth moves, parting to speak—
No sound emerges.
Meanwhile, my heart hammers so erratically that I hear nothing over the thunderous din of adrenaline. You did it. You confessed. I should be nervous. Scared, even. Something, at least, given all the night terrors and anxiety that I’ve experienced in the last two months.
The fear doesn’t arrive.
Not in the ten seconds post-confession. Not in the next thirty either.
All there is, is pure, sweet relief when I seek out my brother’s gaze, then Saxon’s, wishing I could throw my arms around them both without appearing positively unhinged.
“It was me,” I hear myself whisper, as though they didn’t catch it the first time around. “I did it. I shot the king.”
Peter makes a strangled, wretched sound, even as palpable emotion spreads like wildfire across Saxon’s face. Dark brows knitting, a vein pulsing in his temple. The brush of relief fades to a dull throb when he rasps, “You lie.”
No.
No.
“I wouldn’t—”
“Don’t, Isla,” Peter counters, his tone begging, “you’ve done nothing but lie for years.”
Self-preservation drives me physically backward, away from the barbed comment that feels as precisely aimed as an arrow straight to the heart. He isn’t wrong. But, dear God, the words hurt. The surge of relief drains from the gaping wound my brother struck, leaving behind a hollowness that already feels ten times worse than all of the night terrors combined. I look to Saxon with a tendril of hope.
“I’m a lot of things,” I admit hoarsely, holding his gaze, pleading, “but a liar isn’t one of them. Not today. Not about this.”
Something twists in his expression.
Horror. Disgust. Doubt.
Maybe even a tragic mixture of all three.
“I should have told you.” I lick my lips. Scrape a sweaty palm over the fabric of my shirt. Flick my gaze to Peter, who’s staring at me from the prison of Saxon’s arms, and then back again. “There were so many opportunities and I . . . I never said a word. For that, I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Fucking hell.”
At the rough curse, Saxon releases my brother and twists away abruptly. Fingers clamping down on his nape. The hem of his shirt lifting to expose a strip of golden skin.
His green eyes are everywhere but on me.
Look this way, Saxon. Please.
He doesn’t.
As though tethered to his energy, my feet pad toward him.
One step.
Two—
A hand circles my wrist, and it’s Peter holding me back. Peter who warned me away from the Priest brothers. Peter who fessed up about the loyalist group at Queen Mary because he wanted to see me safe and aware of all signs pointing to danger.