Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,150
I find it—do you understand?”
“You seem so sure that you know what you’ll find within these walls.”
“And you’re testing my patience,” I bite off, thrusting my chin forward so that he has no choice but to jerk back to avoid a collision. “I might not know how Keely found himself indebted to you—whoever the hell you even are—but those flowers out front tell me that you’ve at least kept some of his ways alive and well. So, either shoot me and be done with it or let’s move to the part where I tell you what I need and you hand it over.”
The gun shoves upward. “You push a hard bargain, Miss Carrigan.”
“I don’t put up with fools.”
“And Keely is—”
“The biggest fool of them all,” I say, not bothering to temper my voice, “but something tells me you already knew that.”
Digging my nails into the back of his hand, I sweep my gaze over the devil’s face. Tiny scars scatter across the slope of his forehead and one cheekbone. The bridge of his nose hooks gently to the left as if it’s felt the brush of knuckles more than once in the past. A square jawline melts into a clefted chin while dark bristles lend a certain sullenness to the curve of his mouth.
He’s not classically attractive.
Not in a way that’s elegant or posh or welcome in Quentin Keely’s world, who’s always made it a point to surround himself with pretty, exclusive things. Whatever stronghold this man has over the MP, he clearly earned his power with brute force and cunning savagery. And he keeps his foot on Keely’s throat in much the same way that he holds me at gunpoint now—without remorse, without emotion, without anything but razor-sharp ambition.
“I need an antidote for a poison that I’m sure is one of Keely’s and—”
“How dare you accuse me of—”
The devil cuts a hard glare toward Quentin, and any further protest from the MP descends immediately into silence. Then those inscrutable dark eyes return to me. “Go on.”
I angle my head in a wordless demand that he release me.
He doesn’t let me go.
My nostrils flare. “We both know Keely’s side hustle has nothing to do with his pharmaceutical company. If anyone is going to have an antidote, it’ll be here, somewhere in this house.”
“Symptoms?”
It takes every bit of wherewithal not to remember Damien down in the Bascule Chambers. Focus, Rowan. Focus on the here and now. “Immobility,” I force out, struggling to subdue my quickening pulse. “Within seconds, he . . . the victim was paralyzed. Consciousness lasted no more than a handful of minutes. The veins are completely black surrounding the gunshot wounds.”
“If they are, then it’s in his bloodstream.”
“Don’t you think I already know that?”
Not even a glimmer of pity in his expression. “You’re better off letting him die.”
Behind him, Saxon releases a guttural growl and I feel his pain like a slash of Isla’s knife against my own skin. The shadows creep inward, casting a dreary haze over my vision until I’m fighting for air and ripping my hand away from the gun to grip the armrest with all that I am. My arse is firmly planted in this seat but I might as well be swaying in the breeze when I breathe, “He deserves to live.”
“I didn’t say anything about deserving.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“CL-152 treats the body like a honeycomb—every muscle, every tendon, all disintegrate to make way for the flood of toxin. Recovery isn’t guaranteed. You wake him up and he’ll be wishing that he were dead.”
The clip of Isla’s stride is nearly muffled by the rug but her voice rings loud and true: “And you sell this?”
“For a price, I’ll sell anything.”
Saxon enters my line of sight as he positions himself to my left. “Who the hell are you selling this to?”
“To anyone with a pulse, Priest.” The man’s mouth doesn’t even twitch. “I’m not in the habit of playing favorites.”
Saxon’s green eyes narrow. “You know who I am.”
“Unlike the fool over there,” he rumbles, returning the muzzle to the back of my skull as he straightens to his full height, “I recognize all of you. Saxon Priest, the man who killed the king. Isla Quinn, the woman who murdered a priest. Aren’t you lucky that I don’t give a fuck about politics?”
“You have us at a disadvantage,” Saxon bites off, “because we don’t know you.”
It doesn’t matter.
Bloody fucking hell, it doesn’t matter who he is when Damien is suffering. How long will he last