Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,115

I whisper, my throat so dry that the command breaks on the single syllable. Weak. Fragile. Running my tongue over the roof of my mouth, I try again. “Stop. Please.”

Those fingers smooth into my hair, following the curvature of my skull. “I can’t,” a deep voice rumbles, staking me right in the heart with its ragged vulnerability, “I can’t.”

A big hand repositions me onto my back, and this time, when I blink, there’s enough light seeping into the cell from the hallway that Saxon’s hard features are unmistakable—as is the shiny, metal pistol aimed directly at my head.

Oh, God.

A startled cry threatens to surface, and immediately I slam my eyes shut. Burrow my arms down by my sides like I’ve already been stuck in a narrow coffin and lowered into the earth.

How many more seconds until he pulls the trigger?

How long will consciousness last before the darkness consumes me forever?

The king lived only minutes before he bled out. I’d aimed for his torso, the largest surface area on a human body. Vengeance may have guided my mission but practicality dictated where I aimed. And, in that moment, as I stood by the window and observed the crowd gathered below to witness his speech, I gave no passing thought to the king’s last moments.

How terrified he must have been.

Shot from what must have seemed like thin air. Assassinated before his only surviving child, after having already lost his first.

I have no doubt that this is better than what I deserve.

Karma served swiftly.

Unable to tear my lids open and stare down the barrel of the pistol, or the man wielding it, I move one hand, finding a part of his body. His calf, I think. Strong, muscled, even through the thin fabric of his trousers. I cling to him, seeking warmth to take away the ice in my blood.

“Just do it,” I tell him, my voice quivering. “Kill me and be done with it.”

Metal touches my forehead, a chilled kiss of imminent death.

This time, there’s no restraining the pitiful cry that wrenches itself from my soul. I choke on the sound, every ounce of strength vacating my body as reality sets in. In a matter of seconds, this will all be gone forever. Josie. Peter. Him, Saxon, the man who awoke something inside me and lit me on fire. I’ve never believed in the afterlife. I’ve never believed in much of anything, really, and now the alternative emptiness seems excruciatingly bleak.

The pistol skirts south, to the notch between my eyes, silently baiting me to open them.

I obey on instinct.

And then, so softly that I strain to pick up the individual words, he orders, “Reach for your knife.”

“What?”

“We’ll have two minutes to get you to the car. Maybe less.” His pale eyes dart up, fixating somewhere behind me, before returning swiftly. In them, I see nothing but grim determination. “They’re watching us now. Guy, Damien, the others. I know you’re tired, sweetheart, but I need you to run for me. I need you to give me everything you have because if you don’t—fuck, we don’t have time for this.”

Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart.

Pulse racing, my fingers tighten on his leg. Beneath, I feel the delineation of a leg holster, as well as the sharp edge of a blade. My blade. “Why aren’t I dead?”

“This isn’t the time—”

“Why?”

Unexpectedly, his weight falls forward, one hand planted beside my head, the other still gripping the pistol. He keeps it locked in place, cold metal to vulnerable human flesh. “Because,” he husks out next to my ear, his voice so untethered, so raw, that I feel pressure building behind my eyes, “I’ve been a prisoner my entire life. I was born with shackles on my wrists, and centuries-old oaths contracted on my soul, and I won’t have that for you. I can’t. I need you to breathe, Isla. For you, for me.” He swallows, roughly, and perhaps it’s a trick of the light, but his unholy eyes glitter with what looks like unshed tears. Opening his scarred mouth, he adds, “For us and what could have been.”

I choke on grief. “Saxon, then come with—”

He cuts me off with a calloused palm over my mouth. “No one leaves Holyrood, least of all a Priest. This is the way it has to be.” His thumb caresses my cheek before he seems to catch himself. “Grab the knife and slice my forearm. Turn left down the hall and don’t stop until you hit the woods. I’ll be right behind you.