Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,148
to my early twenties.
Rough, sweaty hands. Fragile skin pinched between greedy fingers. Bruised thighs. Numb, so damned numb—mind, body, and soul—that even now, all these years later, perspiration dampens my palms at the sickening memory.
I’ve stood in this house before, been ruined here before, and all I want to do is run.
It’s for Damien that I sidestep Saxon’s large frame to catch my first glimpse of Quentin Keely in over a decade. He looks the same, albeit older. Heavier. Wrinkles crease his forehead and jowls soften a once hard jawline. A lifetime of dipping his fingers into his own medicinal buffet has chipped away at smooth skin to reveal pink, splotchy patches. Unsurprisingly, he has the gall to give me a thorough onceover with a condescending lift of his brows. “You’ve gone for a new . . . look.”
I smile, thinly. “And you haven’t changed a bit.”
He’s still the same greasy bastard that I once scrubbed from my skin, and he preens now like I’ve given him high praise.
Then his gaze skates right past me and Saxon to land on Isla.
Like the yellow daffodils planted in his window boxes, it seems not much else has changed. Quentin Keely lives in a bubble that no one has ever dared to pop, completely ignoring the infamous anti-loyalist standing in his home in favor of checking out a pretty woman. His lips turn up at the corners, revealing teeth stained from countless cigars, and he pushes his hips forward to saunter toward her—only to be cut off by a quick-moving Saxon, who angles his big body neatly in front of Isla’s. His expression promises murder and, sensing immediate danger, Keely snaps back around like a naughty dog caught pissing on a rug.
Without invitation, I sit in the armchair and cross my right leg over my left. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“We missed you . . .” His hands land on the back of the closest chair. “For a little while, at least.”
The implication is clear: he and his mates enjoyed the use of my body before moving on to newer, fresher meat.
Bile rises swiftly in my throat and I struggle to battle it down, to smash it to smithereens and hold my head up high.
I am not Young Rowena.
And even if I was—even if I am—I’m not at fault for the misdeeds of men. They dehumanized me, stripped me of my womanhood until I wanted only to crawl out of my skin—but they do not own me. They don’t even own a piece of me. Keely’s power comes only from what I allow him to take, and the days of breaking off fragments of my soul at Father’s demand are long over.
You are strong.
Clinging to the memory of Damien’s velvet baritone, my nails bite into the armrests. “It occurred to me,” I murmur, keeping my voice deliberately light, “that when I last visited, I noticed the most fascinating collection of yours.”
Predictably, Keely puffs his chest out.
Just as predictably, he darts another glance toward Isla. “I do own the largest assortment of Hellenic-era busts—outside of the British Museum, naturally.”
I sink back into the armchair. “Naturally.”
“Did you come here for a little look-see?” Face reddening, he sinks one finger into the starched collar of his shirt. “It’s not up for public viewing but for a friend I might consider—”
“I think we both know that I’m not talking about some Greek bust.”
“And I’m not sure that I know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Carefully, I hook my foot around the backpack to drag it before me like bait. “Because I remember stumbling from your room, a long time ago, and when I couldn’t find my way back, I distinctly recall discovering an entire wing dedicated to . . . toxins.”
“Miss Carrigan—”
“Back around the time you weren’t missing me, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” My lips curve in a smile that tastes of gritty satisfaction. “Only, it wasn’t your prick I was missing, Mr. Keely. Instead, I spent a ridiculous amount of time wondering if the authorities knew about your collection. Considering the padlock on the door, I’m guessing your pets have always been a dirty, little secret.”
His shoulders heave with a sharp inhalation. “Are you . . . are you blackmailing me?”
“Not at all.”
“Then what—”
“You have something that I want.”
“I’ll repeat this again for you,” he clips out, “in case you didn’t hear me the first time around: are you blackmailing—”