Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,125

a light, airy rhythm.

Time to get to it, then.

The first server I try waves me off with a dismissive, “Busy, sorry. Can’t help.” The second doesn’t even stop as she balances a tray heavy with croissants and coffee.

It’s not until I’m at my wit’s end, boldly stepping in front of a middle-aged woman with vibrant red hair and clear green eyes that I get anywhere. Tucking the tray beneath her armpit, she throws an impatient look at a new group entering the pub. “Look,” she starts, flustered, “if you really need it, the office has all the Priests’ numbers listed on a whiteboard behind the desk.”

She’s gone before I can even thank her.

Not that it matters; I’m already hightailing it down the hallway.

The longer I stay, the greater the chance that someone might alert Guy or the other brother, Damien, that I’ve stormed enemy territory. It was a risk coming here, but compared to scaling the sixteenth-century walls of the Palace—and that bloody drawbridge, of all things—The Bell & Hand seemed like a safer bet.

The soles of my shoes step to the same staccato as the anxious ringing in my ears. Hand to the brass knob, I push the office door open and—

My eyes go wide at the figure standing behind the desk, one hand rifling through a drawer. I know that bushy gray beard. Those brown eyes stinging with animosity. The craggy features that declared war before we’d even been formally introduced.

As if he doesn’t care that he’s been caught, Jack offers an indulgent smile. “Well, well, look who’s come to join the party.”

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

“The same could be said for you.”

“What were you doing?” I ask, leaving the door ajar as I step inside the office.

His smile turns brittle, all trace of indulgence gone. He looks old—older, even, than the last time I saw him. Beard straggly and unkempt. A red mark extending from the underside of his chin to halfway down his neck. With a quirk of his gray brows, he plants his arse on the corner of the desk, as if he owns it. Beside him, the drawer remains open as he treats me to a once-over.

“Body like a twig, personality like a rock,” he drawls, fiddling with the corner of the desk. “Priest’s lost his damn mind over ye, and for nothin’.”

Coming from anyone else, the insult might land a solid jab to my self-esteem, but Jack is the last person whose opinion I care about. Chauvinistic bastard. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

“Trust me, I ain’t jealous.” Sneering, his crowded front teeth make an appearance. “Not of you.”

“Of course not.”

At my dismissive shrug, he pushes away from the desk with the backs of his thighs. “That right there?” He jabs a bandaged finger in my direction. “That’s why I don’t like ye. High and mighty, thinkin’ you’re better than e’eryone else. You ain’t the queen, love. You ain’t even the dirt beneath her shoes.”

“I wouldn’t dare to think I am.” The second his features turn rapier sharp, I know that I should have ditched the sarcasm. Shite. Clearing my throat, I send a sideways glance to the drawer he’s yet to close. “You really shouldn’t be here.” A small pause then, with a step to the left, closer to that desk, I add gently, “You were let go.”

“Because of you.”

He spits out the words with such force that actual spittle flies from his mouth. Instinct begs me to turn around and escape out the door, but pride, fickle emotion that it is, cements me in place. “Blaming me won’t do you any good. I don’t even work here, so whatever problem you think you have with me, I suggest that you shelve it.”

“Shelve it, eh?”

“Or don’t,” I say, palms lifting to the ceiling. “We aren’t mates. I honestly don’t care what you think of me, but if you think I won’t tell Saxon that you’ve been here, going through his office, then you have another—”

“Bints like you, thinkin’ you can come in and change things”—the tips of his boots graze my shoes, intimidation charging the air with high-voltage friction—“but I’ve been workin’ this place for years now. There ain’t one thing about this pub I don’t know.”

“Then maybe you ought to take what you’ve learned and apply it someplace new.”

“I had plans here. Big plans.”

When his hand presumptuously touches my shoulder, I duck away on light feet. Meet his stare, head-on. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

“Or what?” Jack watches my backward trajectory with