Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,140

Please.” Head lowering, my throat knits closed. I’ve spent years shoving back tears, all trace of emotion, but I can’t manage stoicism now—Oh, God, I can’t. Heat spears my face and dampness gathers on my cheeks, and I fold my body over Damien’s to interlock my hands over his chest. “Wake up for me,” I beg, “please wake up for me.”

Own the darkness or it’ll own you, he said.

Harness it until it’s an asset and not a curse, he told me.

His breath slips over his lips. Shallow. Barely a rasp. If I look at him now, there’ll be nothing left of me to scrape together. Tears blur my vision as I grip his vest and bend my knees to leverage my weight against his. “You are mine, Damien,” I grit, digging in my heels, “do you hear me? You are mine and you are not dying.”

“Rowena, stop.”

When I don’t answer the gravel-pitched command, Guy’s lean frame drops into view. Blood paints his profile red. Resting on the balls of his feet, his hands visibly shake as he pushes mine out of the way to grab hold of his brother.

“He won’t move.”

His eyes slam shut at my plaintive whisper, but his fingers never loosen their grip on Damien’s shoulder. “Help me,” he breathes, turning his head to meet my gaze. “I need you to help me, Rowena. I can’t carry him alone.”

“He’s not dead. Don’t you understand? He’s not dead!”

Terror cuts me to the quick as I fumble for Damien’s hand. His pulse. I need to check his . . . Nothing. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Desperation brings my fingers to his armored vest. I tear at it wildly, pulling at straps, unzipping the metal tab, until the only thing separating me from his skin is the soft fabric of his shirt. I rip at that too. Only, there’s too much blood. It coats the raven, stains the skull. Choking back a ragged cry, I shove my ear against his heart with a prayer burning on my lips.

Breathe for me, Damien. Live for me.

His chest barely lifts.

I want to howl my misery and scream my despair.

Broken, but never defeated.

As if I’ve been thrust into a fog, I’m aware of wordlessly threading an arm under Damien’s neck to cradle his head. Soft black strands caress the scarred flesh of my forearm. The blisters. The blindness. Fire consumed me and, against all odds, I lived—I live, still—and Damien will survive too.

“We’ll bring him to Sara and Dr. Matthews.”

“Rowena, you don’t under—”

“He. Will. Live.” With courage seated deep in my bones, I stare Guy down as though he isn’t Damien’s brother but rather the Grim Reaper come to collect the dead. “I won’t let you write him off,” I growl, curling my hand protectively over Damien’s chest, where his heart still thuds softly against my palm. “Just believe in him.”

Those blue eyes—so calculating, so cold—could melt glass as he steps over his brother’s sprawled legs. He says nothing but I don’t need pretty speeches. Together, we haul Damien’s brawny frame off the ground. His dark head falls forward. His arm slips from my shoulder. All it takes is one intake of breath for my rib to scream bloody murder under the strain of carrying his bulky weight.

I put one foot in front of the other.

And I do not stop.

Like we’ve found ourselves submerged in the Underworld itself, we carry Damien past the dead. Silas Hanover and the Met’s commissioner. Alfie Barker, who must have roused with the commotion, only to be laid to rest in a bloodied grave beside Marcus Guthram. And then Hugh Coney.

The devil.

The wolf in sheep’s clothing.

He followed us with only destruction in his heart, and I hate him for taking what didn’t belong to him. Alfie Barker’s life was not his to take, Damien’s life not his to steal. Barker had his daughters and Damien had . . . he has me. Fresh tears well and I let them fall. Then I tangle my fingers with Damien’s, which hang limply over my left shoulder, and bring them to my lips.

Stay with me.

Please stay with me.

“All this bloodshed,” I hear myself whisper, “only to end up dead in the end.”

Over Damien’s head, Guy only clenches his jaw.

In silence, we trudge through the white-painted tunnel. The bright lights contrast and reveal the acute shape of my floaters. Blood stains the concrete beneath our feet, growing into larger pools the farther along we go, until finally Guy mutters, “He was already wounded