Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,53
trigger.
I hear the lever catch with a dull click, feel the sob of relief that rises like grace in my throat. Finally, finally. My eyes slam shut. Only—
“Boom,” comes his gruff whisper.
Slowly, as if waking from a dream, muted awareness prickles over my blistered skin. Metal clatters onto the rug at our feet before skidding onto the hardwood floor. The gun, I think, being discarded like yesterday’s rubbish.
Empty. The gun was empty.
Oh, my God.
Panic wells and I twist my body, heedless of strained ribs and jagged cuts. I need that head start. He can catch me wherever he wants, in Australia, in Egypt, for all I care, but not here, not now.
Except that there’s no escape.
Damien towers over me, his legs pressing into mine, his free hand finding the empty spot beside my head. The wardrobe shudders, the paper Hugh taped to the mirror crinkling, as if they, too, know that the man before me is a force to be reckoned with.
Strong fingers grasp my chin then tilt my head back.
“I’m going to say this only once,” he growls, his thumb sweeping over the tiny indent beneath my lower lip, “and I want you to hear me loud and clear. Nod that you understand.”
I obey, every part of my body strung tight with adrenaline.
“Good girl.” He lowers his head and presses his cheek to mine. As one, we breathe. The shadow of him beside me, the blistering heat of his skin on mine—it powers through my limbs like firelight. “Own the darkness or it’ll own you. Revel in it. Consume it and bend it to your will. But never, ever let it drown you.”
19
Damien
The length of her body jerks against mine.
Not from pain—not the physical kind, at least.
“Why are you telling me this?” Her breath is hot against my ear, unsteady. “Why even bother when we’re not . . .” She swallows, hard. “One of my men tried to kill you tonight and you just had your chance to even the score—why not take it?”
Because it’d be like putting a gun to my own head.
The darkness always bleeds devastation. It pollutes every thought and sabotages every moment of clarity until clawing your way out feels like an insurmountable task. Killing Rowena lost appeal the moment she egged me on, her violet eyes glittering with a desperation I’ve only ever seen once before. She craved the abyss, wanted the fate she saw for herself, and it’s unfortunate for her that I won’t ever be that man.
I couldn’t kill her, can’t kill her.
Fucking hell.
Forcing my hands off her warm skin, I turn on my heel. Prowl deeper into the room, noting the drawn curtains over the windows and the perfectly made-up sleigh bed. Beside it, on the nightstand, is a well-worn copy of England’s Grandest Homes: Architecture & Design.
Aware that Rowena is still waiting for an answer, I tell her, “I said that I wouldn’t make it easy for you.”
Smart as she is, she doesn’t miss a beat: “Torture is pulling the trigger when the gun isn’t loaded. It’s knowing that you have a piece of me that I can’t ever get back.”
When she inhales sharply, I cut a quick glance over my shoulder just in time to see her sink to the ground like her legs can’t support her weight for another second. Exhaustion presses purple thumbprints under her eyes. “Damien, just tell me why you didn’t kill me. Please.”
My fingers find a dogeared page. Cracking open the book, I glance down to see the Palace staring back at me from the depths of a black-and-white photograph. There’s no sign of the drawbridge we installed a few years ago or the moat that was re-dug in the early 1930s. The next page reveals a blueprint of Ightham Mote’s original foundation, back when the property was built with King Henry VIII in mind. Rowena knew where to look, knew where to find us and flush us out like bees from a hive.
I should grab the revolver and finish off what I started.
Instead I hear myself confess, “Because I’ve stood in your shoes too many times to count. I’ve worn the soles down to the threads and kept on walking.”
“And does it . . .” She clears her throat. “Does the darkness ever fade?”
“No.”
Her fingers dig into the outside of her bent knee. “I wish it would. I wish—”
“You harness it,” I tell her, “then weaponize it until it’s an asset, not a curse.”