Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,66
cell, and he’s an anti-loyalist through and through.
“You’re welcome to him.”
Hugh’s mouth tightens at the corners. “And we have another one of yours—Benjamin Lotts. Locked him in the room with Barker just to see how that might play out.”
Benji, who took great joy in beating Saxon in the woods for choosing Isla Quinn over Holyrood. If Hugh hopes to break me, then he’ll have to try a little harder. There are only a few people in this world that I would sell my soul to save and Benjamin Lotts isn’t one of them.
I smile, slowly. “You can have him too.”
Hugh’s expression shutters like curtains that have been snapped closed. “I should put you in that room,” he snarls.
“I’ll have to pass.”
“Pass? Priest, you don’t have the luxury of passing. You’re our—”
“He’s not a proper prisoner,” the redhead grumbles from the sofa, eying my unbound hands speculatively. “This doesn’t follow any sort of protocol. In case anyone was wondering, of course.”
“Shut up, Samuel,” Hugh snaps before fixing me with a scowl. “Listen here, if I tell you that you need to stay with—”
“Rowena offered me the room beside hers. Can you blame her?” My smile grows wider, crueler. Vicious. “A man with a reputation like mine needs to be leashed.”
“Leashed?” A crease puckers the center of Hugh’s forehead seconds before the glint in his gaze turns ruthless. “You deserve to be put down! I should finish what Gregory started,” he bites off, storming toward me. “Do you hear me, Priest?”
Obviously knowing when he’s not wanted, Gregory says nothing.
I deliberately slip my hands into the front pockets of my trousers. Then move forward, so that I’m shoulder to shoulder with the man who clearly wants me dead. Because of what Isla did to Ian? Or because the thought of me sleeping in a room beside Rowena’s is a thorn in his ass? Probably both.
“You have two choices, Hugh,” I murmur, “and neither of them end with you killing me. Personally, I recommend that you simmer down.”
“You don’t get to waltz in here and make demands, Priest. You are bottom of the barrel.”
When he aggressively knocks my arm with his, I make a point to roll my shoulder. “Careful, now,” I utter softly, meeting his glittering stare. “I’m more than willing to leave the past behind us. You want Barker and Benji? Keep them, mate. They’re yours. No one is standing in your way.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Turmoil is a razor-edge that hardens his features. “Your blasted brother and that bitch killed Ian, and I’ll never get him—”
Hugh hasn’t even finished his sentence before his fist comes flying.
Dodging the blow, I spot Gregory break his human restraints to lunge for Rowena, his big body creating a barrier around her from the altercation. She claws at his arms, demanding that he let her go, before being spun away. Someone screams—the doctor, I think—and then a chair is soaring across the drawing room. Could be aimed at Hugh. Probably at me, though.
Fuck it.
Like it’s nothing but a feather caught in a cross breeze, I snatch the chair’s leg out of thin air and swing with all my might.
Crack!
The wooden back catches Hugh in the solar plexus. His features fracture, a pained grunt breaking from his mouth. Unable to stop the downward momentum, he falls on his ass with a heavy-hitting thud.
“Jesus.”
“He’s a bloody madman!”
In one swift move, I palm the doctor’s blade and plant a hard knee on Hugh’s collarbone before he has the chance to clamber to his feet. The tip of the knife meets his quivering throat, pricking the skin. All around the room, chaos stalls in a frozen time lapse, all eyes trained on me. The Mad Priest has arisen, those looks scream. We’re so fucked—the wanker by the window. I’d know that panicked expression anywhere.
Hugh’s eyes are latched on me too. Wide. Petrified. He tries to swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before belatedly remembering that he’s being held at knifepoint.
I allow my knee to sink deeper, keeping him restrained. “Are you done?”
Giving into temptation, he swallows. Shakes his head quickly then strains his chin away from the knife. It doesn’t do him much good. A bead of blood pebbles beneath the sharp tip. “I think—”
“Louder, for your mates.”
His gaze promises mutiny even as he gasps, “I-I’m done.”
He’s nowhere close, and we both know it.
I’ve pricked his pride, literally knocked him down to the ground in front of his comrades. Unfortunately for his wounded ego, Hugh Coney