Page 33 of Cross Me

“And?” Clark asked breathlessly.

“Our investigation has been inconclusive,” I admitted, though I hated to do so. It felt like I’d shown them my hand. “I expect we’ll file formal charges any day.”

He could rot in an unmarked prison cell for all I cared, but I didn’t need Parliament calling sessions and demanding a trial. Charges would keep them happy—for now.

“The press is going to have a field day with this,” the Prime Minister commented as the others filed out of the room.

“The press have a field day when I snog my wife,” I reminded him. “Everything is news to them.”

“This will be different. It’s an international scandal.” He studied me for a moment before clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing, your Majesty.”

That made two of us.

I promised myself I would never return here. Not until I had the evidence to lock this evil bastard up for good. I wasn’t sure why I was here now. The meeting with Parliament hadn’t shaken my resolve. More than ever, I suspected others had known about Jacobson’s plans. They might not have acted with him, but if they’d turned a blind eye, they were culpable—and they needed to be held accountable. Perhaps they didn’t deserve to be locked away like he did and left to rot for the rest of their lives, but their silence had betrayed my family—they had turned away when they should have stepped forward. That couldn’t be overlooked.

I didn’t bother to have him taken into an interrogation room. I didn’t need a guard watching over us or Norris standing in the next room to observe what he said. I considered calling Smith Price, who had even more of an interest in this than I did. But he and I rarely saw eye to eye. I was still surprised he hadn’t put a bullet in Jacobson’s head before I could arrest him. In the end, I’d gone alone. This was between Oliver Jacobson and me. He had come after my family. He’d allowed a lunatic to touch the woman I loved. He’d set events in motion that had ended in death. This was between me and him.

Jacobson looked up from the bare cot on which he lay. It was the only thing in his cell apart from a toilet and sink. The holding cell was clean, dry, and warm, but that was all it offered. There were no sheets. No pillow. No books. No window. I’d deemed him a suicide risk and refused him anything other than meals and shelter, but Oliver Jacobson would no more take his life than I would. It was another means of punishing him—denying him the smallest shred of humanity. He was a rat, the kind of man who enjoyed squalor and misery. He probably loved it here. Sometimes, late at night, I thought of what might actually break him. I wanted to know. I wanted to know what he loved. I wanted to take it from him. That was why I hadn’t come back here. I didn’t trust myself to find those answers, not when such a thin thread of sanity seemed to separate me from him. God help both of us if that thread ever snapped.

His head turned, but he didn’t rise to greet me. “You took longer than I expected.”

“You expected me to come back?” My hands wrapped around the bars dividing us. I’d purposely forgotten to get a key. The cell was the only thing keeping him safe from me.

“You always knew you would come back. I always knew you would. You’re desperate for answers, Alexander, and I know you haven’t found any.” A delighted smile lit up his face. He was insane. He was demented.

He was right.

I wasn’t about to let him know that, however.

“You must be uncomfortable here—”

“Is that the best you can do?” He stopped me. “Remind me of how miserable I am, so that I’ll beg you for forgiveness? You must be getting desperate.”

I was almost glad he hadn’t heard me out. I didn’t want to give this man anything, even a window.

“We’ll skip the pleasantries then,” I said coolly. “I want names.”

“Parliament is finally leaning on you?” he guessed. “Took them long enough to miss me. I confess I’m hurt that my colleagues weren’t more affected by my absence.”

“None of them give a shit about you. They don’t care if you rot here forever.” My hands were beginning to throb and I realized I was throttling the bars and wishing they were his neck. I released them and massaged my ring finger where the band had dug into my skin. It was a painful reminder of why I was here.

He rolled to the side and pushed himself up on his cot. “Someone has to take the fall. You already knew that, though, didn’t you?”

“No one is going to fight for you,” I said. “You’re stuck here. They are out there. That doesn’t make you angry?”

“All great causes demand sacrifice.”

My blood ran cold. I wanted to believe he was delusional. Everything we knew about him, about his plans, ended with him. I believed others had known, aiding him or turning a blind eye, but something in the way he spoke led me to believe he was telling the truth. But if Jacobson had merely taken the fall…

He turned his politician’s smile on me. “You’re a man of duty. I see it in your eyes. You hate this world. You hate being King. Admit it and I’ll tell you what you really want to know.”

I paused. Was it as simple as that? All I had to do was tell the truth and he would finally give in? It was a trick. But one that couldn’t benefit him in any way. He would never leave this cell—unless it was to go to his grave. “Why do you care how I feel about my birthright?”

“Consider it a matter of curiosity. I’ve always wondered how you live with yourself. Your father—there was a man who didn’t care about anyone—but you’ve surprised me,” he admitted. “You love your family. He didn’t. I know the secrets he kept. The lives he ruined and the ones he tried to destroy. I know why he sent you to war.”

I said nothing. So long as Jacobson talked, I would listen. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Your dirty little secret isn’t as secret as you thought,” he said with a laugh. He looked around the cell, smirking. “You probably feel pretty comfortable down here in the dungeon, don’t you? All we need is a whip. Then again, you’ve got that pretty, innocent wife for that.”