Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,60

matters. I refuse to drown in self-pity—you told me yourself that it isn’t a good look—but can you honestly ask me whether I’d start a fire, only to do this to myself?”

“I’m not talking about Buckingham Palace.”

“We didn’t set the Palace on fire.”

“The pub, Rowena,” he grinds out. “I’m talking about The Bell & Hand.”

The Bell & Hand caught on fire?

Shock floods my system and, not for the first time, I wish that I could see his expression. See him. Anything beyond registering every nuance of his voice before matching it against my limited knowledge of him.

With his hands clasping the base of my skull, as he does now, is he staring at the pinkened burns that stretch across my forehead and cheeks? Burns that, Sara informed me this morning, will turn shiny before healing further? Or does he hold my gaze, knowing that there’s not a chance in hell that I can decipher the look in his blue eyes?

I don’t realize that I’ve moved, not at first.

Not until I feel the corded muscle of his forearms when I raise my hands past them. Not until his breath catches audibly and my fingers feather over the bones of his face. The blunt-tipped fingers on my neck curl inward, biting into my flesh like he’s about to embark on a battle that he’ll never win.

“You’re tense,” I murmur, lightly tracing the throbbing muscle just below his hairline. The thick strands tease the back of my knuckles. Black, I imagine, like his brother Saxon’s, who I watched more than once from a tea shop across from The Bell & Hand. I never found any photos of Damien online, though not for a lack of trying. He’s a ghost, I always thought. My hand shifts now, wanting to discover every facet of him, and a lock of soft hair hooks over my forefinger, begging to be tugged.

Don’t do it, Rowan.

Snatching my fingers away from temptation, I slip them down over the slope of his nose instead, feeling its crooked bridge and flared nostrils.

He’s holding on by a thread, his emotions barely leashed.

“And angry,” I add, shaking my head to dispel the fog creeping in, “so, so angry.” I allow my hand to flatten over his defined jawline, feeling the bristles against my palm. “There’s a lot I can own up to, Damien, believe me, but not this. Is the pub salvageable?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it.

In the last year, I’ve spent a good number of my afternoons spying on The Bell & Hand while never stepping foot within its notorious walls. The prime minister’s daughter visiting an infamous anti-loyalist pub? Not in this lifetime. But from a little bay window overlooking Commercial Street, I’d watched Ian and the rest step over its threshold, the pub’s glossy black door luminous in the afternoon sunlight as it swung shut behind them. It was a hub of activity, rarely ever quiet, and—

Fire.

First Buckingham Palace, now The Bell & Hand. All in a matter of days.

Both times Damien has questioned my possible involvement, and I understand why he might think so. On the king’s orders, I’ve pursued him and his brothers relentlessly for months. For the most part, we skated by unnoticed—hiring Jack out from under their noses, sitting at their tables and drinking their ale. If it weren’t for Isla Quinn appearing at The Octagon—and Ian’s reckless need to make a move, without waiting for my consent—it’s possible that the Priests would still be unaware of our existence.

And we could have all been fighting this war together.

It’s a bloody Shakespearean tragedy.

Which begs the question: had the king really thought that Damien would hurt Margaret? Or was it all a ploy to test the Priests’ loyalty to the Crown? Because if it’s the latter, then that means every death that’s followed my afternoon at St. James’s Palace has all been for nothing. And it won’t be love that’s carnage, as the king told Damien, but what’s left of my soul.

To say nothing of the ashy remains of The Bell & Hand and Buckingham Palace. The chance of both fires being a mere coincidence . . .

A shiver chases an icy path down my spine. “You’re being hunted, and not by me.”

Beneath my palm, Damien’s jaw goes impossibly rigid. “I know.”

“No one would have expected you or your brothers to be at Buckingham Palace on the night of the fire—not unless they know who you really are.” When Damien’s hands fall from my neck, I fight the