Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,7
Edward Carrigan, then at least I have personal experience on my side.
I’m no pawn to be moved at a whim across a chessboard.
Godwin will learn that soon enough.
“I’ll be fine, Dr. Matthews.” Ignoring the irrational desire to seek him out, I keep my gaze trained forward. Do I face a window? Medical equipment? Godwin alone? From the way his hands bracket mine, and the alluring scent of cloves that I catch on every inhale, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m face to face with Godwin, for better or worse. “No need to worry.”
“Your burns—”
“Have been dressed. Right?”
The surgeon’s disgruntled “yes” reveals nothing about their severity. Not bad enough to need a skin graft, yet bad enough to make me wish that I could strip out of my skin. So much for silver linings.
“I’ll be back at half past to discuss your next steps,” Matthews mutters gruffly. “Godwin, use the sedative if she—”
“Out.”
Godwin utters the word with such authority that the surgeon doesn’t argue. His harried stride echoes like a death knell as he flees the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Immediately the fingers resting beside my own disappear.
Godwin brushes past me, and I twist my head to follow the sound of his footsteps. One, two, three. He moves so far to the right that rotating my body to such an angle has agony rupturing down my spine. And my ribs . . . bloody hell.
Swallowing a whimper, I barely stop myself from pressing a hand to my diaphragm. “I want to see the queen.”
“The queen isn’t taking visitors.”
My heart plummets with a burst of dread. “Dr. Matthews said that she came out of surgery.”
“Let me rephrase—she won’t be seeing you.”
The clear-as-day hostility in his voice straightens my spine. “Why in the world wouldn’t she see me?”
His answering silence reveals more than a thousand words ever could. Judgment. Disdain. Suspicion. Each second that passes where he leaves me to draw my own conclusions feels like a lash snapping against bare skin, striking deeper and deeper until I’m raw and floundering. Dr. Matthews may have tended to my injuries, but it’s obvious that further kindness won’t be coming my way. Not from this man—this Godwin.
At the hard clip of his stride, I draw my fingers into a fist. “You told the doctor not to sedate me.”
“I need you lucid.”
“Why.”
“Interrogations don’t work when the guilty party is too drugged up to participate.”
Shock has my mouth falling open. “Guilty? There’s no way . . . You think that I’m the one who shot Margaret?”
“It’s up for debate.”
“It’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?”
That velvet voice comes from behind me now, raising the tiny hairs on my nape. I can’t see him, but I imagine him—large and ruthless, with broad, heartless features that speak to a lifetime of brute resilience. Dark hair. Cold, dark eyes. Clarke’s polar opposite in every single way.
While the good die young, beasts live on forever.
As if he’s dived straight into my head to pluck out every one of my thoughts, the beast at my back demands, “How did Clarke die?”
The bold question strikes true, and the visual that follows is nothing less than a nightmare. Clarke’s unseeing hazel eyes, the droplets of blood that carved their way down the slope of his nose. The weapon that I took to use as my own, now lost to the flames and to the chaos and to the all-out destruction.
“He was . . .” I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. “He was—”
“He was what?”
“Shot,” I manage. “He was shot.”
“Where?”
Increasingly familiar hands fall upon my shoulders, angling me forward. I can’t bear to think about what lies beneath the bandages so tightly wound around me, so I dig my fingers into the table to keep from tipping forward. “The forehead. But I wasn’t the one who killed him, so your interrogation is completely unwarranted. The queen will tell you exactly what happened. All I know is that I—”
“You weren’t on the list.”
My lips part. “What list?”
The razor comes again, and though I’m prepared for its sharp edges, a broken moan still escapes. My grip on the table grows desperate, and I link my ankles together to keep them from swinging like a child’s.
“What list?” I repeat thickly. Do not flinch, do not show weakness. I bite down so furiously on my bottom lip that blood beads on my tongue. “If there’s some list I should know about, then tell me.”
“Of people allowed access to the queen.” Another pluck of glass from my