Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,50

that I won’t accidentally miss my own.

One.

Two.

Three.

When I reach the fourth, I turn the knob and step inside my bedroom. It’s habit that has me reaching out to flick on the light, and a desperate need to strip out of my own skin that has me peeling off my shirt and tossing it to the ground.

No guilt.

No remorse.

I said yes to this life, said yes to the king. Given the opportunity, I’d say yes all over again—which doesn’t explain why I stop in front of the wardrobe, situated in the corner of the room, and stare blankly at the glass mirror. Fifteen years ago, I gave my virginity to a man twice my age. A man who posed a threat to the up-and-coming Edward Carrigan, who’d already set his cap on becoming Prime Minister.

Just kiss him, Father told me, his desk a massive crater that separated us on every fundamental level. See what he might tell you.

Alexander Harlton told me to undress.

And then he spilled his secrets into the slope of my neck while he came.

I sold a small piece of my soul that night. Sold even more of it over the next five years, whenever Father pointed his chin in the direction of his next political conquest, until I was nothing more than a mosaic of shattered fragments, held together by glue and grit and not much else.

Ten years ago, I vowed to never feel that way again.

Tonight, I do.

Self-destruction tastes bitter on my tongue, and I feel its skeletal arms wind around my waist like a long-lost lover, one I’d hoped to never see again. Only this time, I didn’t sell my body to get the job done but what’s left of my conscience.

Two men dead, and all because I said yes.

I touch the mirror and feel thick paper under my fingertips instead. A humorless smile flits across my face. “You’re a right bastard, Hugh,” I mutter under my breath. Because only Ian’s younger brother would ever think that he’s being helpful by taping a mirror into obscurity for the woman with cortical blindness.

The paper crinkles as I pull the wardrobe open. Dropping my fingers to the drawstring of my joggers, I freeze when I catch the squeak of the mattress’ coil springs behind me.

Not again.

With a resigned sigh, my head falls forward. Once was funny. Twice, annoying. A year later, I’d give just about anything to nail him in the bollocks.

“Don’t be such a wanker, Hugh.” I snag a fresh shirt from one of the hangers, not caring which one it is, or if it even matches, and yank it down over my head. Scars or not, sports bra or not, my body is not up for public consumption. Not anymore. “For once in your life, will you just act your bloody—”

A lock turns over with an audible snick.

My mouth turns drier than sandpaper.

Definitely not Hugh.

Slowly, I angle my head toward the bedroom door, listening for the sinister sound of footsteps padding over the rug or the soft, raspy breath of an intruder taking cover in the shadows.

There’s nothing.

No one.

I know you’re there.

Lifting onto my toes, I reach into the wardrobe and skate a hand over the top shelf, patting around, searching, and—

No.

My pulse skips, ears ring. No, no, no.

Whipping around, I shove backward and curse when the wardrobe echoes with a hollow thud. “Who’s there?” My eyes search the room fruitlessly. When the only response is more silence, I retreat again, wishing the wardrobe could swallow me whole. “Tell me who you are. Do you hear me? Tell me who you—”

The hammer of a pistol cocks back.

Icy terror grips my lungs.

I’m going to die by the same revolver that I keep stowed away, and if that isn’t irony at its finest, I don’t know what is. The gun was a gift to myself the minute I walked away from Father for good. No more men breathing down my neck. No more hands grabbing where they oughtn’t be touching. I’d shoot them first.

There’s no chance of shooting anyone now.

No chance of screaming for help, either. The walls are thick oak, all the bedrooms between mine and Hugh’s empty. The rooms of the dead—they never made it back from The Octagon—which means that no aid is coming.

Do not beg. Do not cry.

“Who sent you?” My nails scrape the wardrobe. “Was it my father?”

My imagination paints shadows across the room, revealing a lithe form angling toward me with a predatory, unhurried stride. A man dressed in all black, his