Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,134

all the facts.”

“And I’m telling them to you!” Bloody hell, I need to calm down. Four days. That’s how long the fever ravaged my body. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up being sedated for another four to go along with it. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I muster the strength to try again. Cool. Callous. Cruel. Be Saxon at his chilliest. “Officer Crawford, I understand there are certain . . . procedures that I’m not privy to understanding. But I was shot, and it was by Jack, and he did confess to killing Father Bootham. Saxon should not be in that jail cell for a crime that he didn’t commit.”

Straightening, Crawford only palms the curve of his helmet before swinging it down by his side. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Surprise lands like a boulder in my gut. “You don’t believe me.”

The look he levels on me is nothing but pity. “I think you’ve had a bad spell, Miss Quinn, but we have our murderer and I would venture to say that it’s in your best interest if you just focus on”—his eyes flick to the IV station beside me—“getting back to form.”

When he turns away, I bash my fist on the mattress. “He didn’t do it!” I shout at his back. “He didn’t bloody do it.”

Crawford peers back at me, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “Good day, Miss Quinn.”

And then he’s gone, and I’m left back at square one.

“This is not a good idea,” Peter says, slamming the car door shut behind him. “You’ve only just been released and you’re tempting fate all over again!”

I’m sprawled in the backseat, my head propped up by the window. Eight days of being stuck in that hospital bed. I won’t admit it to a single soul, but I almost feel like I could have spent a lifetime there.

Despite the fact that I’ve been flushed clean of infections and sewn up to tip-top perfection, everything hurts. I survived what King John did not: a bullet to the chest. Mine creased my right lung, then exited between my shoulder blades.

You’re lucky that your lung didn’t collapse, Dr. Longstrom told me.

“Just drive,” I tell Peter, folding my one hand over the edge of the seat for balance. “The sooner we get there, the better.”

“For you to die,” he counters irritably. Turning to Josie, he waves a frantic hand in the air. “Tell her that she’s utterly mad.”

Josie peeks into the backseat, her hand looped around the headrest. “Are you mad?” she asks pleasantly.

I humor her with a smile. “Just a tad desperate, Jos. You know.”

“I know.” Straightening back around, she motions for Peter to get a move on. “She’s desperate, is all.”

“I heard her,” he grunts, turning the car on.

As we leave London, I try not to let my thoughts turn morbid. Peter isn’t all wrong. This may very well be the worst decision of my life. In a week’s time, I’ve been shot, almost lost a lung, and can still barely draw even breaths without wanting to die a little on the inside.

But this—Saxon—is more important than anything else.

He’s my first, too. The first man to look at me and see who I am, deep inside. The first man I ever truly loved. Love, present. I fumble with my coat, sticking my hand into my pocket to grab the mobile he gave me. Coated with blood just days ago, it’s good as new again. I tap my way to the messages and pull up his.

Breathe for me, sweetheart.

I’m breathing, all right. I’m willing to breathe right into the face of the one man who wants me dead, if it’ll mean seeing Saxon walk free.

As the sun sets, we finally pull down the narrow, tree-lined path that I fled not two weeks ago.

“Are you sure about this?” Peter asks me from the front seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel as though his life depends on it. “They might shoot you on sight.”

I drop my legs to the floor mat, ignoring the pinch in my chest. “I’m sure.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to,” I murmur, my hand already reaching for the door handle, “but I would do the same for you. Both of you.”

The car idles to a stop and I push the door open, resting my weight heavily upon its sturdy frame. There’s no fear lingering in my veins, just cool acceptance. I’ve returned to the lion’s den, knowing that doing so might end with a pistol delivering me my