Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,126
Holyrood and King John—and abandon them in favor of the unthinkable? A broken oath. A discarded family-in-arms. A death that left my world in ruins. A death, if he’s to be believed, that was sanctioned by my own father.
My lips part on all the words that won’t come, and I seek Damien’s gaze almost desperately. Help me, I beg him silently. Help me understand.
Because I understand none of this.
“Give me your hand,” he rasps.
Blankly, I look down at right arm, which hangs limply at my side. It feels weighted by stone boulders as I force it up and up and up. But when my palm is level with my waist, Damien jerks his chin toward my left, which has yet to leave Hanover.
“Let go”—Damien’s velvet baritone slices through the thick, impenetrable fog to reach me, confused and irreparably wounded—“and give me your hand.”
Let go of the pain. Let go of the hurt.
Dr. Matthews was right: grief is an endless cycle of life that I breathe into even now, twenty years after I heard Mum’s final scream.
As if my fingers belong to someone else, I watch them slowly peel away, one by one, from Hanover’s throat. My palm stings with the searing heat of mourning as I stagger backward. A retreat that lasts less than a heartbeat because Damien is already there, his arm slipping around my waist to catch my weight against his solid chest. His calloused palm skims my forearm, careful of my scarring, to tangle my fingers with his own.
He squeezes once.
I slam my eyes shut.
Focus on the mission, Rowan. Focus on what matters.
“His name is Silas Hanover,” I whisper past a dry throat, “and a lifetime ago, I heard him nightly down in my father’s study. He was also there on the night that Mum died.”
“Is that true?” Guy demands, the staccato of his steps near-silent on the stone. “Were you working with Carrigan?”
I open my eyes just in time to see Hanover tip his head back. His posture stays loose and untroubled when he murmurs, “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
Damien stiffens behind me. “Denial isn’t the game you want to play with us. It won’t end well.”
“Because of how you’ve grown?” Hanover’s grin is barely more than a leer. “Oh, if only Henry could see the two of you now. Though . . .” With mock concern, he cranes his head to eye the door leading to the servant’s staircase. “Now that I think about it, where’s Saxon? Don’t tell me that you’ve sacked him.”
My fingers are squeezed again, but this time, the gesture isn’t offered in comfort. Tension ripples through Damien’s frame. Against my back, I feel his chest shudder with a labored breath. “Mention his name again,” he warns, “and you won’t speak for the rest of your miserable life.”
Before Hanover can reply, Guy drops to his haunches in front of the former spy. His wrists are tied to the armrests and his ankles secured to the chair’s wooden legs, but none of that stops Guy from pushing Hanover’s right trouser leg up to his knee. His hands are steady as he pulls a blade from the holster at his waist and sets it down next to his boot. Dropping one elbow to his thigh, Guy cocks his head. “We aren’t the lads you remember . . . but I remember much about you, Robert.”
Dark eyes land on the blade.
“The first time I ever saw blood spill was by your hand, and do you know what I remember?” The unhurried smile that touches Guy’s lips sends a shiver skating down my spine. “I remember how you circled the man. He was bound, just like you, stubborn, just like you. And then you dropped to your heels, just as I have, and you turned to me and said, He’ll last longer this way.” Guy traces a finger over Hanover’s exposed calf muscle. “You wanted answers and answers you would get. Tell me, how many cuts did you make before he died?”
Hanover’s throat visibly bobs but he doesn’t utter a word.
“That was your first test, Robert, and unfortunately . . . you’ve failed.” With calculated precision, Guy reaches for the knife while never looking away from Hanover’s paling face. “The answer,” he goes on, dragging the tip of the blade across Hanover’s quivering flesh in one unwavering stroke, “is seventy-one.” The tip of the knife drips red when Guy pulls back. “Should we do a comparison and see where you fall?”