Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,13
pitiful flat. The anger she reserved for me alone when I begged for more food or turned our cheaply made furniture into toys—fortresses that I hid behind; tabled shelters from which I watched her wither away, each day with battered hope inside my chest that she would just die. The pain she wielded with her words in my ear and her palm across my face and her constant talk of “no mercy.”
The world would show me none, and it was best I learned early.
Her lesson.
Her prophecy.
My own fucking reality.
I circle Guy’s wrist with my fingers. Yank him away before I give in to the undiluted anger unfurling in my veins—that constant, humming mantra of no mercy that never, ever quiets—and purposely add two, then three, steps between us.
I don’t agree with Guy assigning Clarke to the queen with any motive beyond the obvious: keeping her safe. It’s counterproductive to play underhanded moves when you’re a team working toward a common goal.
And since Holyrood’s inception, our mission has remained unchanged.
Protect the Crown.
Die for the Crown.
Do not fuck the Crown.
Not for the first time do I wish Saxon were here instead of holed up in Oxford. He may be sleeping with the king killer, but there was no mistaking the fear in his voice when he rang earlier tonight. Fear for the worst—that the family he’s spent a lifetime protecting was gone for good. For now, I’ll let him stay in that house he thinks is a secret. For now, I’ll let him think that he can walk away from Holyrood.
No one walks away, least of all a Godwin.
He’s shoved that lesson down my throat so many times that I’ve choked on the words.
As if we’ve come to some unspoken truce, Guy scrubs a hand over his soot-covered jaw. “Where is she?”
She.
Otherwise known as the queen.
“She came out of surgery a few hours ago.”
“And?” Guy’s blue eyes, a shade identical to my own, shift from me to the Glenfiddich soaking the pale blue rug. “Is she breathing?”
“According to Matthews, she’s a miracle.”
He rakes his fingers through his dark hair, visibly tugging on the strands, before nodding once. “I’ll shower then head over to talk to her.”
I wait until he’s stepping out of the library. Then, “I’ll go with you.”
Guy’s stride grinds to a stop, and he looks back at me over his shoulder. “I think I can handle her on my own.”
“And I think I’ll go with you anyway.”
“What?” A rough, cynical bark breaks from his mouth. “I keep one secret and suddenly you can’t trust me?”
“Maybe I just think that those of us who are leashed should stick together.”
“You aren’t bloody leashed,” he bites off.
“Feel free to let Jude know that.”
As if his shoes are weighted with anvils, Guy turns all the way around. Slowly. With dread etched into his features. “What did you do?”
“Your confidence in me is really something else.”
“Damien, what did you do?”
“We had a discussion,” I offer, keeping the vibration of my tone noncommittal, “and we came to an agreement.” The memory of digging my boot into Jude’s back brings a small, satisfied smile to my lips. “The queen isn’t the only one who’s predictable, brother.”
Holding Guy’s gaze, I tuck my fingers into the front pockets of my trousers when we’re shoulder-to-shoulder. “One of these days,” I murmur, “your need to always have the upper hand will bite you in the ass.”
A vein in his forehead strums to life. “I’m keeping you safe.”
“No, brother, you’re killing me.”
“Damien—”
“I’ll wait for you outside the queen’s room.”
When I make a move to pass him, Guy locks a tight, unrelenting hand around my arm. “If you leave this estate, they’ll kill you. Guthram. Fucking Carrigan.” His gaze hardens to steel. “You can keep your name off the internet, and you can lie to Saxon all you want about what went down that night, but the facts don’t change—you’re a dead man walking.”
Probably.
But even if I am, I’m taking them both down with me.
And unlike both Guthram and Carrigan, I have a newfound ace up my sleeve. A woman stranded in enemy territory, who’ll no doubt be desperate to save her own neck once she realizes that the queen intended for her to die.
Rowena Carrigan is my Trojan horse.
6
Rowena
“I need to see the queen.”
Behind me, Dr. Matthews huffs out an aggravated breath. “You’ve mentioned,” he mutters, smoothing the last of the ointment over my burns before stepping away, “and like I’ve already said, I don’t hold that sort of sway.”