ease with the conversation, like we’re discussing the weather or football and not the death of our enemy. Oh, the lies we keep. Running my tongue over the back of my teeth, I force my hand from my neck to hang listlessly at my side. “Gregory nabbed him when he was getting me out of the flat this morning.”
“The Holyrood agent? No. No, I’m talking about—Samuel, be a good man and”—a heavy thud hits the floor—"there. See? We’ve brought you someone you can interrogate, if you want. Find out where the queen might be now.”
Except that I see nothing, a fact that makes itself abundantly clear when Hugh mutters something under his breath, prompting a groan from the “someone” on the floor. “Give her your name,” he commands tightly.
The statement is punctuated with the smack of a hand on flesh.
And then a masculine voice bites off, “Where the bloody hell am I?” and I swear to God, I whimper right then and there.
Of all the people in the world, they’ve brought me the one I could have gone without seeing for the rest of my life.
Alfie fucking Barker.
17
Rowena
It takes three hours to rehash every moment from arrival at the Palace to departure, including pausing everything to grieve the death of one of our own: Micah Jenkins, a thirty-two-year-old from Exeter who lost his mum to a riot two years ago.
After making my way downstairs, alone, I light a candle for Micah in the mansion’s private chapel, not because he struck me as particularly religious, or because I am, but simply because it feels . . . right.
The pew is hard under my arse, the wax from the candle tacky on my fingers. Guilt pecks at my heart, like a vulture scavenging for scraps from the already ravaged, and I bend my head, elbows landing hard on my knees, and whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
For dragging him into this war, when he was only ever an onlooker. For sending him to the Palace tonight, even though he eagerly volunteered. For believing—for even one, measly second—that we might come out of tonight unscathed.
I was foolish to underestimate the Priests.
And yet, in the somber silence of the chapel, I find myself sliding off the bench and moving back toward the altar, a path I’ve tread hundreds of times over the years. My elbow knocks against something as I fumble for a new candle, then set about finding the matches. Fingers spread wide, my palm skids across the marble. Stay patient. Stay calm. Victory sings in my veins as I close my hand over the cardboard carton. The head hisses to life when I strike it against the matchbox.
Heat from the tiny flame warms my fingers.
It takes me three tries to align the lit match with the wick of the votive candle and, even though I really, really shouldn’t, I find myself imagining blue eyes the color of the teal sea in Cornwall. Soft lips under my fingertips juxtaposed by the arrogance of rugged features. A voice like velvet and a touch like steel.
Had he realized that I didn’t ask to see his face for anyone’s benefit but my own?
He had me at his disposal for days, my hope a beating thing that he could either save or crush within his fist; my life his for the taking, if and when he wanted to take it. And all I wanted was to understand how a man can make me hate the very ground he walks on while still sparking heat between my legs. Heat that I’ve never felt for anyone—not a man, not a woman, not a single person, ever.
I wanted Damien Priest to break for me.
The hot wax drips onto my thumb, and the heat enflames, and finally I lean forward, patting around for the wrought-iron candle rack. There you are. Looping a finger around its heavy base, I pull it toward me and place Damien’s candle next to the one that I lit for Micah. Since there aren’t appropriate words for a man like Damien, I bow my head and offer a parting farewell that I know he’d appreciate:
“May the keys to Hell always be within your reach.”
Then, with agonizing slowness, I make my way through the chapel toward the old servant’s staircase. My palms drift over the curved stairwell, my feet climbing, one step after another, until I come to the landing. Turning right, I head down the corridor, counting the doors as I pass with a tap of my fingers, so