Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,98

the edge of no return, that my veins are black with sludge and sin and secrets. We’ve done worse for Holyrood, for the Crown, but never for our own personal gain. Tonight was about vengeance. Tonight was contained rage finally spilling free and an irrational need to make someone else suffer as I have. It was spotting an opportunity and taking it, to hell with the consequences.

And the consequences were dire: I’ve never felt hollower than I did climbing the steps to Holly Village’s loft only to find Saxon and Rowena already there. Her expression . . . the revulsion that I first spied—

I slip shaky fingers into my trouser pockets, though it’s too late to hide what I’ve done. The Mad Priest took action, and all bore witness to his misdeeds. My misdeeds. “I needed to know who was tailing me. Whether it was Carrigan or—”

“It could be anyone and you—” He goes to grab me by the kit but yanks back at the last second after another glance at Rowena’s window. Breathing heavily, he drops his hand onto the car’s bonnet. “You are not the man who bloodies someone for the hell of it. You are not the man who loses his temper. You’re good, better than me, better than Guy. Boy genius with a heart of gold, remember?”

The old nickname feels like an actual knife to the heart.

While growing up, my brothers kept me swaddled in a protective bubble that they never dared to pop. When Guy finally put me to work, he kept me cloistered away from danger. Up on the rooftops where I scouted anti-loyalists or sandwiched between Robert Guthram and Jayme Paul for safekeeping.

But what Guy and Saxon never realized was that the bubble existed only to them.

Boy genius I may have been but I’ve never had a heart of gold. More times than not, I never had a heart at all.

“You have the wrong man, brother,” I utter softly, “because I’m not him.”

“I don’t,” is Saxon’s gruff response, “and you are. There are things in this world I won’t claim to understand but you—bloody fucking hell, you aren’t one of them. You base every decision on reason and you don’t act on emotion. You’re stability, the only person in Holyrood without a goddamn screw loose. That’s who you are.”

It’s possibly the most Saxon has said to me in years.

It’s also nothing but his perception.

Reason keeps me grounded when I’m wound so tight that it’s only a matter of time before I implode and take out everything around me in the aftermath. It wasn’t until Guy sat me down before a computer that I tasted tranquility. The numbers provided intrigue, the coding provided structure—the combination of both was a balm to the chaos, a glimpse of bliss like I’d never known. I took to it the only way a lad bent on saving himself can. Obsessively. My very first addiction.

Sometimes I wonder if Guy wasn’t saving us all by locking me inside the Palace.

“Damien,” Saxon growls, “are you listening to me? I said that . . .”

His raspy voice fades to a hum as my bloodied fingers grasp Mum’s necklace from my bloodied vest. I pull it free, the silver links clinking together when I hold it tight. Silently, I reach for Saxon’s hand. There’s no turning back from this confession, and some long-buried part of my soul screams to stop, that it’s not too late to end this here and now.

This is not how you want him to remember you.

No.

But, fucking hell, it’ll feel good to be seen.

I see you, Damien. I see all of you.

Rowena saw me all right.

Never mind that it was because of her that I put down my wire coil when the man begged me to spare his life. Shame had invaded me then. She would know, wouldn’t she? She’d recognize the pungent, unmistakable scent of blood off my skin. And I’d feared her disappointment. Dreaded the heat in her touch disappearing when I reached for her next. It wasn’t a risk that I was willing to take, I decided.

I found mercy too late.

Because when her violet eyes finally held mine, she saw every part of me.

Bloodied. Depraved. Shattered.

Ignoring the inexplicable heaviness in my chest, I apply pressure to the inside of Saxon’s wrist. His hand flexes open, and I drop the chain into his waiting palm.

“The clasp,” I tell him, voice low.

Saxon’s fingers work over the necklace in the dim moonlight, his body angling toward the head lamps