Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,144

touch two fingers to his lips anyway. I made a vow, a promise.

What would I do to save Damien?

Anything. Everything.

I would destroy the world ten times over just to feel his arms around me again.

“Miss Carrigan,” Dr. Matthews says, “I hope you understand that while I can respect your . . . feelings for Damien, I can’t—under good conscience—agree to—”

Silence grips his tongue when I cut a hard look his way. “You’ll induce him.”

Sara steps forward. “Rowan, you can’t just—”

“And you’ll remove the bullets from his flesh, so there’s no chance of infection.”

“His heart won’t—”

“Make it?” Steadily, I meet Dr. Matthews’ stare. “If you remember, you said that I wasn’t supposed to make it either.”

“Well, yes. But—”

“I’ve almost lost my life to fire twice now, Doctor, and I never should have made it free from Broadmoor Hospital. I should be dead, and we all know it, but here I stand before you.” Squeezing Damien’s hand, I skim my thumb over his cold knuckles. “How long did you think he’d live after my father’s men attacked him?”

Almost guiltily, he turns his back on Guy. “A fortnight, maybe.”

“And that was when?”

“Nearly eight months ago.”

“Eight months of life,” I utter, my voice laced with steel, “from a man who is too stubborn to die from a poison that should have killed him in under two weeks.” My fingers trail down to search for Damien’s pulse at his wrist. Though thready it still flutters with life. Without releasing him, I notch my chin. “Listen to me carefully because I’m going to say this only once: you will keep him breathing even when you’re convinced that he’s on the verge of no return, and you’ll keep him breathing even when you believe that all hope is lost.”

Commotion in the corridor comes in the form of the door slamming open and Saxon Priest storming inside. His green eyes are turbulent when they spot Damien on the exam table, and they turn downright wild when Dr. Matthews argues, “He’s dying, Miss Carrigan. Do you understand what I’m saying? He’s dying!”

I do not bend.

I do not break.

“He won’t die,” I return, shortly, “because I won’t let him.”

44

Rowena

I’m slipping a knife into my ankle holster when a knock comes on my bedroom door.

With a downward tug of the hem on my trousers, I pop back up and throw open my wardrobe. “Come in!”

Behind me, the door hinges audibly whine.

Then, “I come bearing peace offerings.”

My fingers still over a wool jumper, and one glance at the figure hovering in the doorway tempts me to take the knife and send it flying.

Strawberry blond hair. A stubborn chin. Blue eyes that study me with silent reproach even as she stands there with a wine bottle clasped in one hand and two glasses hanging by their stems from the other.

The woman Saxon chose over Holyrood.

The woman that he loves.

Isla Quinn.

As much as I’d love to put my knife to use, killing her would hurt Saxon, which, in turn, would upset Damien and bloody fucking hell. The plastic hanger rebounds roughly as I yank the wool jumper free. Only, by the time my head pops through the collar, Isla has already invited herself in and is setting the glasses down on my desk.

“It should be noted,” she says, carefully angling her body toward me, “that the wine is yours, as are the glasses.”

I narrow my eyes. “Brilliant. I do love being gifted my own alcohol.”

Undaunted by my sarcasm, she fills up one glass with chardonnay and then turns to the other. “I would have taken the time to buy you something, but it turns out that I’ve been too busy hanging out with the queen.”

As if I need another reminder of the chaos that my attack on the Palace has unleashed.

Ignoring the shadowed streak that cuts across my vision, I slam the wardrobe shut. “Thank you for the wine,” I mutter, my tone glacial, “but I think we’re done—”

“I killed Ian Coney.”

Dragging my attention away from the abandoned wine glasses, it’s only to find Isla watching me again, her expression strangely inscrutable considering everything that I know about her speaks to a recklessly impulsive spirit. Stiffly, I manage, “I’m aware.”

“And I killed the king.”

My molars grind together. “I know.”

“Because he told you.” Tilting her head, her blue eyes remain steady on my face. “Damien did, I mean.”

I don’t have time for this.

Ignoring the offer of my own wine, I tug the wool down to hide my blistered forearms while sidestepping Ian’s killer. Frustration, however,