Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,178

thigh, his gaze flickers to me. I see pain. I see sorrow. Worst of all, I see defeat. Holyrood birthed him and Holyrood will be the death of him, too.

“I will walk through darkness with you,” I rasp, my voice barely audible, “and I will dance in the pits of hell at your side. I am here, and you are not alone.”

His blue eyes slam shut, as if he’s felt my vow like a brand on his skin. A visible shudder rolls over his frame as he slams the helmet down on the ground by his left foot.

He kneels, as told.

He bows his head, as told.

And the queen only smiles.

“All of England has searched for you, Mr. Priest. My father hunted you; Edward Carrigan hunted you—the Met, well, I’m sure they hunt you still.” Her voice rises, every word feeling like a dagger to the gut. Hard. Unforgiving. Blue eyes roam the Commons. “Today, I give to you the country’s number one fugitive. Today, I reveal the man behind the mask. Damien Priest, a man who kneels before his queen—my brother, the bastard prince.”

56

Damien

Chaos erupts. War begins.

I kneel before a queen and hear nothing beyond Mum’s whisper in my ear, just before she died: You are a weapon, and you will be shown no mercy when they come to destroy you.

Oh, hell.

Oh, fucking hell.

Air saws in and out of my chest, my gaze lifting past the red-velvet train to the white-satin dress, and then, finally, to the silver crown perched primly on the queen’s blond head. Her mouth is flat, her gaze sweeping resolutely over the MPs at my back. She doesn’t spare me a second glance.

What she said . . .

What she implied—

I must make a noise—ragged, choked—because her attention immediately shifts south and the blue eyes peering down at me are wholly unapologetic. The same callous shade of blue as King John’s. The same merciless shade as my own. My stomach heaves. Hands turn sweaty. Jesus, I’m going to be sick.

Something hard strikes my spine.

Baring my teeth, I whip around to find an apple rolling to a stop near my boot. My assailant had the bollocks to pummel me but not the common sense to walk away. He stands, a lean streak of paleness, with his knees bobbing and his fists raised. “He’s a bloody traitor and no prince of mine. He deserves to rot in prison for what he’s done!”

I’m no traitor.

And neither am I a prince, bastard or otherwise.

“Throw one more thing at me,” I growl tightly, “and I’ll shove it so far up your ass, you’ll know the taste of it for days.”

The man blanches.

Then he jabs a finger at me like I’m a freak in a circus ring. “Did you hear him?” he crows. “He’s an animal! To even suggest that King John would acknowledge his bastard from the grave—when he never did so while alive—makes a mockery of the entire monarchy. No illegitimate heir will ever stand in line for the throne.”

“He’s an anti-loyalist!”

“His brother killed the king!”

“He’s a criminal!”

No mercy, Mum had said. The world would show me none, and it was best that I learned early. A warning. A prophecy. All of it my new fucking reality as MPs from across the aisle stand to get a good look at me. Their accusations are poison. And with every new object thrown at my broken body, the familiar rage that’s always been my closest companion blooms, unfurls.

Dominates.

War beats in my blood and hate lives in my heart, and I snatch the queen by the arm to shove my face into hers. “What have you done?”

“I can pardon you.”

Catching her crown to ensure that it doesn’t fall from her head, she sends a hasty look toward the pandemonium. Anti-loyalists chant for usurpation; loyalists demand capital punishment. Hauled against me, the woman who claims to be my half-sister wears an expression of steely determination. “Dad changed the laws after the Riots,” she says. “He may not have claimed you, but you have royal blood, Damien, which means that I can pardon—”

“Pardon me?” I shake my head, breathing heavily. “They want me dead.”

“Authorities can’t oppose, not if you’re in line for the throne.” She winces as something new hits my back, and I don’t have it in me to turn around and see what it is. “Carrigan won’t ever let you go free and we can’t risk . . . Dammit, Damien, we can’t risk a new PM hating you too. This is the way—the