Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,105

him in the gut. “Better him than—”

“Who? Your precious Isla?” Guy taunts, stepping forward until he’s so close that I could almost headbutt him. Almost. Just another few centimeters. Come closer, dear brother. “The big, bad Saxon Godwin has lost his mind over pussy. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Out of sight, Hamish makes a gurgling sound, as though he’s choked on his drink. “I don’t think provoking the beast is the best course of action.”

“He wants to provoke the beast,” I growl, never taking my eyes off Guy’s bruised face. The imprint of my fist from the other day has yet to fade, and I find a sick sense of satisfaction in that. “Because he thinks everyone should have to listen to his preaching.”

“And here I was remembering our conversation,” he drawls, “when you told me that, as the head of Holyrood, it’s necessary that I give my opinion. So, here it is.” He shoves his face close to mine, wrath dancing in his blue irises. “You cast the blame everywhere but on yourself. That scar you touch when no one is looking? You earned that. Pa knew how much John hated when he brought us along, but you wouldn’t quit. Every bloody day you begged.” His voice pitches higher, like a child’s, when he says, “Take me with you, Pa. I want to go with you. And he told you, every time, that the two of you could get in trouble if he did.”

Stiffening, I jerk my head back. “I’m not the reason he’s dead.”

“No, but you’re the only reason why you’re deformed.”

“Jesus, Guy,” breathes Damien.

But my older brother will not be deterred. His words flays me alive. And the rage I feel, it twists and contorts, metamorphizing into something so much worse—pure, undiluted hatred—when he opens his mouth for another round: “The world doesn’t see you the way that you do. Ugly. Emotionless. You’ve done that to yourself.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? You think you’re mad at me and I can take it. I’ve dealt with shit you will never understand, felt worse pain than you could ever imagine. Broken bones don’t even crest the surface.” He taps his face, over the bleeding wound that I hand-delivered personally. “But you’re no martyr. You locked her up. You looked her in the eye and betrayed her trust. Fact is, you’re the reason why she’ll hate you, and you can’t fucking deal with it.”

Anger tears through me, potent and visceral. It ignites my blood. Steels every one of my muscles until it feels as though I’m a living, breathing anomaly—human derived from granite. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have something to say if I let her walk free.”

Coolly, his gaze flicks over me. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t choose the queen over her.”

Prove it to your son that the Crown must always come first.

Pain registers in my chest.

A crippling, unwieldy sensation that drives my lungs inward.

As if sensing that I’m coming undone, Damien releases me and I stumble away from him, away from Guy, away from what’s left of my family. It’s been the three of us for so long that to tear at the fibers of our relationship feels like slicing the limbs from my body.

I chose Holyrood.

I chose the queen.

I chose us Godwins.

I’m barely aware of grabbing the first object I see—a chair, dating back three centuries—and hurling it across the room. It crashes against the wall, splintering upon impact. I see nothing but red. The red of my father’s eyes when he begged me to look at him. The red of the king’s ring, just before he slid the knife behind my ear and scoured my flesh. The red of my own blood, now, as shadowed recognition hits that I’ve shattered glass.

Crystallized shards cling like teardrops to my butchered skin.

“Jesus, someone get me the kit. I’ll clean him up.” Damien.

“And here we’ve always thought you were the unstable one, Damien.” Paul.

“Everyone, out.” Guy.

My voice booms over the din: “No.”

“If I don’t sew you up, we’ll be standing over your dead carcass by midnight.”

Ignoring the blood dripping from my palms onto the prized Persian rug, I look at Damien. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Absolutely, fucking mental,” grunts Hamish, shaking his head. “It must run in the family. Not a sane one in the whole lot of ye.”

Nostrils flaring, I ignore him too. “No one pays Isla a visit but me.”

The lot of them all exchange wary glances, but it’s Guy who speaks up. “You