would, just hours ago, and I-I—
Isla Quinn killed the king.
The same woman who murdered Ian. The same woman who Saxon Priest loves.
We have a suspect in custody, Damien said. Not, we’ve let the suspect go free. Or we’ll make sure to never put the suspect and the queen under the same goddamned roof. He planned to keep Isla Quinn’s past a secret, to never reveal the truth of her, and the lie—
When the hell have I lied to you? he’d demanded of me.
The bloody nerve of the bastard.
The wall gives way on my left and I tumble into the abyss. The old servant’s stairwell. It leads to only one place but it’s too late to turn back now. With air trapped in my lungs, I take the narrow steps two at a time, tripping over my feet, cursing my lack of sight with every bump of my head on the sloped ceiling.
Damien bellows my name from the top of the stairwell.
There’s no stopping now.
I run and I flounder, my shoulder bashing into the wood-paneled walls as the stairwell winds me in, winds me out, and cool stone abrades the soles of my feet when I hit firm ground. The pure silence of the undercroft reaches into my chest, and twists. There’s nothing but the exacerbated sound of my breathing and the scrape of my bare feet shuffling over the floor.
Memory paints brushstrokes over where only darkness thrives: the solemn candles flickering on either side of the arched door to my left and the wooden sideboard pushed against the stone wall to my right. A sideboard weighted with framed photographs of different sizes; Mum and her parents and their parents, all standing in front of the Victorian mansion.
Mum died in the fire and I inherited Holly Village.
Blood inheritance.
With my heart lodged in my throat, I wrap a hand around the iron handle and wrench the door open to duck inside the private chapel.
The scent of melted beeswax still perfumes the air, cloying and sweet. Stone floors contrast dark-stained pews congregated on either side of a narrow aisle. Matching wooden rafters run parallel across the ceiling, giving the impression that the room is small and suffocating. Pointed Gothic windows along the far-right wall overlook the garden. And, before me, past the six rows of pews, an altar.
I head there now.
The air crackles with tension and a draft from a cracked-open window sweeps around my ankles. Goose bumps flare. The skin on the back of my neck tingles. Hearing movement behind me, I twist around and edge backward on silent feet.
And then, so low, so gutturally visceral, his voice: “You ran.”
Because you’re unpredictable. Because you’re harboring the woman who killed King John and see no problems with that. Because you terrify me in more ways than I could ever imagine, and this time, there’ll no be resurrection when you leave me ruined.
Like he’s an animal that I have no hope of outrunning, my hands come up slowly, palms out. Another step back. “I did.”
“You ran,” he growls thickly, “like a coward.”
Instead of answering, I continue to inch backward until my arse bumps into the altar. I’ve hit a dead end. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to flee. It’s becoming a ridiculously familiar turn of events for the two of us.
I grasp the altar with both hands. “You weren’t going to tell me about Isla Quinn.”
“You didn’t need to know.”
A startled laugh bursts from my lips. “I didn’t need to know? Really, that’s the angle you want to take with this?” That maddeningly arrogant stride storms down the aisle, shoes clipping against stone, bringing him closer and closer until the aroma of beeswax is eclipsed by the scent of him. Cloves. Spice. A virile masculinity that curls my fingers around the altar’s edge, gripping the marble even harder as I hang on for dear life. “I had orders to kill you, your brothers. I took an oath—”
“An oath is nothing but a vow and vows are broken every day.”
Disappointment hardens my jaw. “Spoken just like a man.”
“Not even close.”
“Then what?”
“He chose her.”
“And that’s enough?” I shake my head, bewildered. “Saxon choosing the woman who assassinated the king is enough for you to break your oath? Enough for you to disregard what every single Godwin before you has done to protect the Crown?”
“It’s enough,” Damien edges out, “for me to do what’s right for my brother. Saying that Saxon was living was only a matter of technicality. He was dead—in his heart, in his goddamned soul.