Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,22

personally crashes me to the ground. “But we’re going to play anyway. Cooperate and I’ll let you visit with the queen.”

If I could see him, I’d punch him.

As it is, I sit so still that I’m surprised I don’t become living, breathing stone. “Another one of your ultimatums?”

“Think of it as a gift,” he counters smoothly. “Give me what I want, and I’ll make sure you get the same.”

“You had me thrown in a bloody cell!”

“That was all Matthews.”

I shake my wrists, making the cuffs clink noisily. “Then prove you’re sorry by unlocking these.”

Godwin’s answer is a solitary, deafening, “No.”

“Take. Them. Off.”

His footsteps pause. “Say please.”

I grind my teeth. “Only a chauvinistic arse would demand that I beg—”

“Say the word, Miss Carrigan, and maybe I’ll play nice with you.”

How many times have I been forced to play nice for the sake of stroking a man’s ego? How many times have I flirted when I felt sick to my stomach, and laughed when I wanted to scream, and prostrated myself before men I didn’t give a damn about and who most certainly didn’t give a damn about me?

And this man expects me to beg.

I won’t do it, not even to be free.

“Sod off.”

If he’s at all surprised by my change of heart, he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of an audible reaction. But his pacing recommences a moment later, that loose-limbed stride of his surrounding me, cornering me, until I find myself shifting in my seat, just to alleviate the mounting tension threatening to choke the air from my lungs.

“Get on with your little game, Godwin.”

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

My head begins to pound. “Are we seriously back to that again?”

“Answer the question.”

“For God’s sake, my father is not trying to kill Margaret. The sooner you get that through your thick skull, the sooner—”

The chain between the handcuffs jerks forward, nearly sending me sprawling from the chair to the floor. But I hang there, in the delicate balance of neither here nor there—heart in my throat, fingers searching for purchase—fully prepared for an abrupt landing.

“This game,” Godwin growls, “will only turn out well for you if you play along.”

“And if I refuse?”

“There are hundreds of different ways to break you, Miss Carrigan.” The handcuffs clink and clank as his fingers wrap around my wrists, binding them together. He yanks me off the chair, so that my arse leaves the seat while he holds my weight in just one hand. It’s a move designed to intimidate, and I hate that it does. “I’m giving you one last chance to give me information without coercion,” he adds.

A soft, disbelieving laugh climbs my throat. “You don’t call this coercion? You have me bound.”

“Almost gentlemanly of me,” he husks, “when all the alternatives would leave permanent damage.”

Permanent damage.

As if the last twenty-four hours haven’t already left me scarred in more ways than are even evident right now.

Ten years. That’s how long I’ve spent doing everything in my power to separate myself from Edward Carrigan. But there’s no denying that if Father were here, he’d find a way to spin this conversation to his advantage. He would shield the truth, butter up the lies, and do what has to be done to come out of this alive. A future that’s becoming less likely with every second that I hang from Godwin’s hold.

Margaret was my sister when I had no family. She was my best friend when I trusted no one and nothing, least of all the man whose blood runs through my veins. Last night, I saved her life at the risk of my own, and, injured or not, her absence now speaks louder than words ever could.

I’m on my own.

Donning the mask that I once wore so often, I push a soft, tempting smile to my lips. Make a deal. Beat him at his own game. The smile doesn’t waver, not even when I feel the blistered skin along my jaw pull grotesquely tight. And so, with the confidence that I’ve faked for most of my life, I put Young Rowena on stage for her grand reentry into society:

“I’ll play, Godwin, but only on my terms.”

9

Damien

“Terms,” I echo, tasting the word on my tongue and finding it . . .

Intriguing.

With her dangling helplessly from my grasp, the last thing Rowena Carrigan ought to be trying on for size are negotiations. But here we are—me, standing with my legs spread shoulder width apart; her, fighting to maintain that prim composure of hers