Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,177
knew, didn’t I? From the moment Silas Hanover told me that Father promised to have him released from Broadmoor, I knew they’d both been wrapped up in something treasonous. But to hear it confirmed—to know that Father would happily start a war that’s only outcome is death . . .
It makes me sick to my stomach.
“Those who agreed,” Caren Fitz announces, raising his voice to be heard over the din, “weren’t seen again. I have a wife, children. I didn’t—I don’t—support the monarchy, Your Majesty, but I don’t want a war. So I said no to a revolution, and I sealed my fate.”
“Until you were found by an unlikely ally.” Margaret slips her hands forward so that her wrists dangle over the edge of the armrests. “Please, Mr. Fitz,” she murmurs, “give us your hero’s name.”
My entire body jerks as if I’ve stuck my fingers into an electrical outlet, and I’m frozen, my feet rooted to the carpet and my arms hanging listlessly by my sides. This was not the plan. Fuck, this was not the plan! When I scan the guards for Damien’s broad frame, I find him stepping backward.
Run.
Run!
Adrenaline hits my system the moment that Caren Fitz’s tepid voice echoes in the chamber, and I’m not even aware of moving until Damien’s body brushes up against my spine. A shield. A fortress. Until Margaret passes judgment, I remain the prime minister’s daughter and no one will have access to him.
“The Mad Priest, Your Majesty,” Fitz says, “it was Damien Priest who found me.”
A gloved hand finds my waist, holding me tight, and I seal my palm over his.
All this work, all this preparation, only for Margaret to throw him to the wolves. I choke on fury when she actually has the gall to make eye contact with me from the Speaker’s chair. The woman that I thought I knew . . .
We are nothing.
Not friends.
Not sisters.
Not even allies in this war.
“You were lucky to be rescued, Mr. Fitz. The irony, though, that you were saved by the same man who committed such a treasonous act in this very building.” The crown’s gems gleam with retribution as Margaret pushes to her feet. “And don’t we all feel lucky that we’ve been joined today by Mr. Fitz’s hero? Mr. Priest, please remove your helmet.”
I feel my heart cleave in two, feel what’s left of my soul shatter and surrender.
Margaret is no better than her father who manipulated me for his own gain.
“Mr. Priest,” she repeats firmly, “remove your helmet.”
Damien’s hand falls away from my hip, and with it, he takes the last of my hope.
Tears bleed to the surface.
We didn’t have forevermore. We didn’t even have days. I turn, in time, to see my panicked reflection in the dark glossiness of the visor. His calloused palms fit against the helmet. Then, in one sweep of motion, he tugs it off and all I see are flame-blue eyes.
A collective gasp from the MPs floods my ears but I can’t look away from Damien, who lowers his head and touches his lips to mine in a soft, devastating kiss. “Whether I’m in your arms or I’m buried in the ground, I love you with all my heart. And I’m happy . . .” He drags in a pained breath. “I’m grateful that I can call you mine. I only wish that I could be yours for just a little longer.”
My hands catch only the ghost of him.
Benches whine as people leap to their feet, and the silence that previously owned the chamber is now decimated by screams:
Traitor!
Traitor!
Traitor!
Expression grim, Damien turns his back on the MPs and faces the queen. From the flash of satisfaction on her face, she feels no qualms about tearing down a man who’s spent his entire life putting her survival first. “You may kneel, Mr. Priest.”
My lips part. “No!”
Arms catch me from me behind and a gruff voice hisses in my ear, “You attack her right now and none of us will get out of here alive.”
Saxon.
“Let me go,” I whisper, struggling against him, “please—I love him. I love him. Let me go, let me go!”
His arms are like iron shackles. “Guy’s outside with the others. Anyone tries to leave with Damien, and they’ll be dead. Do you hear me, Rowena? No one will hurt him.”
All of England has hurt Damien.
His bones bear the cracks of their rejection, his flesh the scars of their dismissal. As he lowers himself before Margaret, with one hand pressed to his wounded