Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,138

my brother maintains his weight on the commissioner’s thigh, where the round went clean through.

Had Robert Guthram not betrayed us, he’d be alive right now.

Had Pa not allowed his best mate to disregard’s Holyrood’s rules all those years ago, Marcus Guthram wouldn’t even know we exist, and he wouldn’t be bleeding all over my brother’s palm.

One could argue that bad things happen when rules aren’t followed.

And I could argue that humanity, at its very core, rejects anything that limits our individual ambitions. We know greed and we know power and we know, more than anything else, that we will always put our own wants and needs first.

Mum told me that I would be shown no mercy.

But as I watch Marcus fumble with the mobile, his face contorting with pain the harder my brother pushes down on his wound, I realize that we’re meant to show mercy more than we should ever expect to receive it.

“Let him go.”

At my roughly uttered command, Guy’s head jerks toward me. “What?”

I swallow, hard.

Say the words, Godwin.

Mouth dry, I tip my chin toward his bloody hand. “Let him go, brother.”

“Damien,” he growls, “you’ve lost your goddamned mind.”

No, for the first time in my life, I know exactly what needs to be done.

I turn my gaze on Marcus Guthram, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, to find him already watching me. Suspicion crawls across his expression. “I went to the House of Commons that night on the king’s orders,” I confess, never allowing my stare to leave his, “because he suspected that Carrigan wanted him off the throne.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we’ve existed in the same world for decades,” I allow, feeling a hand settle on my shoulder in silent support. Rowena. Needing the connection, I slide my palm over hers and lace our fingers together. “Because I’ve been loyal to the Crown from the day I was born. I’m not”—the despised word sticks in my throat—“some terrorist, and I’m not mad like the prime minister wants all of the world to believe. I’m a spy for the royal family, Marcus. I am Holyrood.”

“And you think that’s enough?” The commissioner yanks his leg away from my brother with a stifled hiss. “Did you ever stop to think that I put the bounty on your head because it’s what I wanted? What I still fucking want?”

“Jesus.” I plow my fingers through my hair. “Until tonight, I’ve done nothing to—”

Rowena’s hold on my shoulder tightens a second before her choked “No!” hits my ears.

By the time it registers that she’s not talking about the commissioner, it’s already too late.

The staccato of gunfire reverberates in the chamber, and I twist around before my next breath even exits my lungs. Circling Rowena’s waist, I haul her off the floor as she screams over my shoulder, “Hugh, no!”

Cradling her in my arms, I turn my back on the tunnel. Flick my gaze over the shadowed chamber while my gut sinks like an anvil in the sea. No exit points. No way out and only one-way in. I picked the Bascule Chambers because I wanted Samuel and Gregory following Barker at separate intervals to ensure Marcus came alone. Only, I didn’t anticipate danger coming from within the fold.

I hear a gruff shout—and recognize it as belonging to the commissioner.

I hear a harsh curse followed by the immediate discharge of fire—and know that Guy is giving hell.

When you go to battle, brother, you don’t do it alone.

I may not be alone but now I’ve taken them all down with me.

With my chin pressed against Rowena’s temple, and my arms caging her to my chest, I sprint toward the shadows without ever looking back at the chaos. Rowena Carrigan is a woman capable of saving herself, but I can’t lose her . . . Won’t lose her. Her breathing is ragged in my ear, her voice strained as she continues to beg for Hugh to stop.

There’s no end to the bloodshed.

No end to the war.

Isla killed Ian Coney and now Hugh plans to kill us. Two Priests for the price of one.

More gunfire explodes, its release utterly deafening, and pain rips through my left shoulder. I twist at the waist involuntarily, staggering sideways from the force of the round drilling past the shell of my vest.

“Put me down,” Rowena begs, her fingers clawing at my shirt where I’ve been hit. “Oh, God, Damien, put me—Hugh, no!”

My left leg buckles.

The heat. The fire.

A hoarse groan dances across my tongue as I struggle to