Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,34
unnaturally wide. Predatory. The look of a madman. “Feel free to stay. But that”—I nod toward his seat—“is about to be mine.”
Then, as if he weighs nothing at all, I haul Guy off the chair and take his place. Spread my long legs wide, locking them on either side of Rowena’s bare feet, and drop my elbows onto the compact table. The antique wood trembles beneath her clasped hands while dark satisfaction threads like silk through my body.
“Hello, Rowena.”
A muscle works in her jaw, but to her credit, she doesn’t turn and run. “Damien,” she greets, her tongue rolling over the syllables of my name like she’d prefer nothing more than to see me dead and buried. “Always a pleasure.”
“How much did it pain you to say that?”
“On a scale of one to ten? Only a five, maybe even a four.” Had she any hair, I’m sure she’d flip the strands over her shoulder. As it is, she props her chin on an upturned palm and parts her lips in a cool, dismissive smile. “You’d actually have to mean something to me to rank any higher.”
Rowena Carrigan is a liar, possibly even a fraud, but the armor she wears is weathered with dents and holes. For better or worse, I’m already in her head. Driving her mad. Pushing her closer and closer to the edge of no return. And maybe I’m as bad as all of England believes because instead of smoothing the waters, I lean forward and trace the back of her hand, directly over a delicate blue-green vein, just to shatter her ramshackle emotional shield.
A tiny gasp slips past her lips.
“Only a four?” I drawl, my gaze trained on her flushed cheeks when she tugs away, severing contact. “Rowena, I’m so far under your skin—”
“Like a nasty infection that won’t go away.”
“—that I can practically smell the brimstone off you.”
“Figures you’d recognize the scent, since you’re probably a repeat offender.” Eyes narrowing in my direction, her chin angles upward. “Does Satan still bother rolling out the red carpet for you or is it just limited to special occasions nowadays?”
I bare my teeth in a merciless grin. “I’ve my own key to the kingdom.”
“Funny,” she quips with mocking sweetness, “but I’m sensing an onslaught of predictability coming on.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, we’ve definitely already been here before. You’re the big, bad wolf on the hunt and I’m the innocent—”
“Not that innocent,” I mutter darkly, remembering her ass pressed against my cock.
“—prisoner intent on escape. Insert appropriate screaming from me and some unintelligible growling from you. And while we’re at it”—she throws me an arch glance—“ditch the handcuffs this time. Turns out I’m already over your high-handed, arrogant—”
“Who’s Ian Coney?”
The abruptly asked question renders her mute, just as I knew it would.
In an obvious attempt to buy herself time, she runs a finger over the back of her ear, like she didn’t hear the question. “I’m sorry . . . who?”
Oh, Rowena. Who’s predictable now?
Reclining backward, I angle my legs so that she’s good and stuck—my little captive audience. And, because I’m willing to wait all day if it means dragging the truth out of her, I draw a small, idle circle on the stolen paper from the Jewel Tower.
She lasts all of fifteen seconds.
“I think maybe . . .” Her fingers curl into fists that she sinks beneath the table. “I’ve heard the name.”
“I’m sure you have,” I murmur silkily, my finger still circling, round and round, my gaze still fixed on her face. On that full mouth of hers that whispers untruths like my very own Apate.
A goddess of lies who sits on her throne of deception.
I’ll enjoy breaking her.
Delicately, Rowena clears her throat. “Coney was a professor at Queen Mary, wasn’t he? At least, that’s what I saw on the news.” Her spine visibly straightens. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
That’s what I plan to find out.
I want to tuck my fingers into the collar of her shirt and drag her across the table, until her eyes are wide and her tongue is loose and all the truths come tumbling out into the open. But that would be . . . high-handed of me.
Arrogant.
Sweet, fucking temptation.
With effort, I stay sprawled on the wooden chair, my only movement the whispered staccato of my knuckles drumming against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Rowena flinches.
And I strike: “He was strangled.”
“I heard.” Her black lashes sweep downward, shielding those violet eyes from view. “It seems a gruesome way to die.”