Chapter Seventeen
Maren
T he next morning, apparently, begins phase two.
We meet in the library this time, the map of ley lines neatly taped across the front of one of the bookshelves, folders of printouts and receipts spilling on every flat surface, and every available outlet stuck with a charger for a burner phone. I’m barely halfway through my second cup of coffee, but Will’s wired, pacing near the fireplace and rattling off options like he’s listing breakfast cereals.
“We’ve got a jewelry wholesaler doing cash-only deliveries on Thursdays,” he reads from his phone, “a dealer fencing vintage stuff through estate liquidators, and some trust fund brats are auctioning off their late uncle’s collection of stolen antiquities, but that’s technically through a museum, so—”
“Too much heat,” Rob mutters. He’s flipping through printouts, expression unreadable. “We hit the museum circuit too recently.”
Tuck cringes. “Besides, those things shouldn’t be sold. They should be repatriated.”
“Calm down, Indiana Jones,” Will says. “That one’s a few months off anyway.” He picks up a folder, reads off the top. “There’s also some niche little buying club the society wives have going—crooked French-Canadian furrier smuggling cheap stuff in for pennies on the dollar. Could be promising, if you want to end up on three separate international watchlists.”
“Yeah, interstate commerce, no thank you,” Tuck mutters, without looking up from his tablet, and shakes Will off when he offers him the papers.
LJ hunches over, elbows on knees. “Why even put that on there?”
“Fox pelts,” Will says simply, and hands me the folder when I gesture for it. “Figured that one might be less business, more personal. Strike someone’s fancy as a matter of principle.”
Rob shrugs. “Long as my skin’s still on my body, I’m good.”
I glance down at the fur lead. Unmarked van, no cameras, overpriced pelts from Quebec. But potentially messy.
“Well, I’m batting a thousand,” Will says sarcastically. “How are your leads, Fozzie?”
LJ looks daggers at Will, but clears his throat. “Construction. Lots of supplies. But we’ll need time to arrange transport to get it out quick, so that’ll be a while yet.”
“‘Specially with the roads gone to shit,” Rob adds. “I’m not getting caught ‘cause of a flat fuckin’ tire.”
“Um.” Tuck clears his throat, looks up. “The...Fox Hunt Club’s doing another fundraiser.”
The air in the room shifts.
Will picks up his espresso. “What’s the cause this time? Widows and orphans? Therapy dogs for emotionally stunted billionaires?”
Tuck shakes his head. “Veterans. Supposedly. Gulf and Iraq Wars.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Rob tense.
It’s barely a half-second. His eyes flick to the window, then back down like nothing happened.
I clock it. He knows I clocked it. Neither of us says a word.
“They’re building a memorial in town...or so they claim,” Tuck goes on. “For a cool quarter mil.”
“So everyone’s bringing a check.” LJ shakes his head. “No good for us. Too easy to trace.”
“Wire fraud? In this economy?” Will nods in agreement. “I’m with you. I’d much prefer physical goods to any kind of cash or cash equivalent.”
“Well, that’s the thing...” Tuck says, scrolling. “Actually, Nick?” He calls out into the hallway. “Can you come here?”
Nick practically jogs in, clutching a battered laptop that must be an old one of Tuck’s. He’s cleaned up a little, I notice—in different clothes than the virtual rags he came in with. Clean T-shirt, new jeans. Someone must have gone shopping for him.
I flick a glance at Rob, but he’s just staring out the window.
“What is he, your intern now?” Will cracks to Tuck, who shrugs.
“Basically. Not like you guys are ever much help.” He turns to the kid. “You turn anything up?”
Nick nods, cheeks flushed. “I found this,” he says, flipping the screen around to show Tuck a spreadsheet I can’t make out. “See—work, artist, appraised value.”
“An art auction,” Tuck says. “Maybe some people bring checks, sure, but...”
“Figures,” LJ mutters. “What’s the point of being rich if you can’t show it off on your walls?”
“Or use it for tax loopholes,” Tuck says, scrolling.
I shift in my seat. “How does that work, exactly? Is it just like...they buy expensive art pieces as a way to hide assets, or something?”
“Not quite,” Tuck says, looking up. “It’s more like—”
“I can tell her,” Nick says softly, gripping his laptop. He looks like he’s waiting for permission, to be called on by the teacher. Which Tuck does.
“Sure.”
Nick nods rapidly. “So, like, if you donate stuff to charity, you can deduct it from your taxable income, right?”
I nod. Me, personally? I’ve never had the money to spare. But I know what he means. “Sure.”
“Yeah. So. It’s supposed to be like, one in, one out. You donate ten dollars, your income goes down by ten dollars. But art and stuff works different. Because like, who’s to say what a statue is worth?”
I open my mouth, but Nick answers for me.
“Well, I’ll tell you. An art appraiser. And those guys”—he gestures so hard the laptop nearly falls off his legs, color rising in his cheeks—“will just say a piece is worth however much you want, basically.”
“For their cut of it,” Tuck puts in. “Or as a...personal favor.”
“Yeah. Yeah. So you get to tell the government, oh, I donated this ten million dollar painting or whatever—”
“Probably not that much,” Tuck amends.
“—and get to claim that much. Even if you only paid like, a hundred bucks for it.” Nick blinks. “Wild shit, right?”
I try not to laugh. “It is...very wild shit,” I agree.
“A legal little pump and dump,” Will says. “But with Modiglianis instead of penny stocks.”
“Nice work,” Tuck whispers to Nick. Nick nods, and hands over the laptop.
“There’s gonna be a lot of stuff there,” he says. “Like, a few dozen pieces at least for the live auction, and—”
“We’ll hit it.” Rob spins around, suddenly animated—although serious. He stands. “I’ll get Jack to help with the cover. Show up, maybe the service entrance, and—”
“No,” Will says, waving his hands. “Rob, no . What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a job?” Rob says, incredulous. “The kind of shit we always do? Our bread and butter?”
Will blinks at him. “Are you insane? The Club, now? That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. You’re joking.” He looks at Tuck, LJ, me. “He’s joking, right?”
“Yeah, Rob, I dunno,” Tuck puts in. “I pulled all the stuff for a little practice due diligence, but—”
“Dumb idea,” LJ agrees, arms folded.
“Oh, okay.” Rob narrows his eyes. “My mistake. I thought I was talking to some of the most accomplished criminals on the Eastern fuckin’ Seaboard.”
“Yeah,” Will says, “and we’re talking to the most wanted man in Sherwood—”
“I’ve been the most wanted man in Sherwood,” Rob roars. “Practically my whole adult fuckin’ life! How is this any different?”
“Because there is a price on your head, ” Will says, slapping one hand against the other. “Don’t you get it? It’s not just idiots like Wheatley or psychos like Gisbourne drooling over locking you up and letting the law have its way with you anymore. It is desperate fucking people who will shoot you dead for a couple of bucks.” He sweeps an arm at Nick. “You said it yourself! And now you just want to take the risk because you feel like it? Walk directly into the lion’s den?”
“Yeah, I am, if that’s what it takes, ” Rob cries. “What’s the alternative?”
“There. Are. Plenty.” Will points at Tuck. “Listen to any of the options he’s pulled. Figure out a way to go steal all that drywall down by the lake development. Do anything , and I cannot stress enough, anything that will scare up some cash.”
“Scare up some cash?” Rob repeats, incredulous. Will squints at him.
“Yes?” He looks at all of us again. “Did I fucking stutter? Is that not what we do? ”
“Fucking idiots ,” Rob whispers. “All of you.”
“Excuse me?” Now even Tuck sounds annoyed.
“You heard me,” Rob fires back. “There are two sides to every equation, or did y’all happen to forget that? Stealing from and giving to. The former matters just as much as the latter.”
“And?” LJ says.
“And we’re not letting them get away with that shit!” Rob’s voice breaks a little on the last words.
“Rob. Robin,” Will says, spread his hands in the air. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make this to you. No. Not this one. Not now.”
“And I don’t know how much clearer I can make this, William Scarlet III , but some things ought to be respected,” Rob growls. “This might come as a surprise to you, but not everyone can afford to treat conflict like a damn spectator sport.”
Will stands, inches from Rob, silent, tense.
Then he breaks. Runs a hand through his silver hair. “This is absolute suicide,” he mutters, flopping onto the couch. “Even for you.”
There is genuine fire in Rob’s eyes. He balls up a hand, slams the table with his fist. “We’re doing it, and that’s fucking final .”
His footsteps sound like gunshots as he stalks away.
Silence.
Until...
Until I burst into tears.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say, even as a sob wracks through me, more surprised than anyone that I’m crying. “What the hell?” I swipe at my eyes, fruitlessly. “What the...”
“Maren,” Tuck says gently. “You’re shaking.” He throws an arm around my shoulder, and I collapse into him, shaking harder, sobbing harder, like a dam has broken and I’m drowning underneath myself.
“Take it easy,” Will murmurs. “Just—”
Crack.
A bolt of energy snaps out from me, so sudden and sharp that it startles me out of crying.
“Ow.” Tuck presses a hand to his chest. “That...jeez, Maren, that hurt.”
“Are you okay?” I sniff, suddenly worried.
“No, no, I’m fine.” He rotates his shoulder tentatively. “Just...kinda like you punched me, almost. Eesh.” He winces, but stops when he sees my face. “I’m fine, seriously.” He hesitates. “But I...am going to get an ice pack.”
LJ jolts to his feet, muttering about needing to punch something, and strides off, rolling his own shoulders. Nick, for however long he stuck around, seems to have run for the hills.
I blow out a long, shaky breath.
“Maybe you should lie down, greasemonkey,” Will suggests, holding out a hand. “Take it easy a second.”
I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”
We trail upstairs, to Will’s room, where it’s calm and quiet in all his minimalism, and I plop right onto the mattress. Will sits next to me, brushes back my hair, then leans back onto the pillows and pats the space next to him.
“C’mere.”
I have no means to resist. I feel spent. I roll over, rest my head on his shoulder, and we lie like that a while, Will’s fingers delicate in my hair, my breath cresting over the skin of his neck.
It’s nice. Easy.
“Wanna fool around?” Will says, after a minute.
“Are you serious?” I pull back, half-incredulous, half-amused. But Will is serious, it seems.
“What?” He spreads his hands defensively. Then smiles a little. “Excuse me for letting my mind go where it’s...going to go, when you’re in my bed.”
“You’re excused,” I retort. I suck in a breath, sit up in bed, rub my forehead. “I just...now? When everything’s all...like this?” I wave a hand in the air.
Will chuckles and chews his bottom lip.
“Maren, darling, I say this with the utmost respect for your judgment and autonomy, but if you decide that sex is reserved for times when things are not uncertain, dangerous, or volatile, you’re going to have a hell of a dry spell with the four of us.”
I tuck my legs under me, sit back on my heels, hands on my thighs. I guess he’s...not wrong.
He also smells really good.
But still.
Will gets up on his knees, too, facing me. He cups a hand under my chin.
“Want me to take your mind off things?”
“I...”
The truth is, I... want to want to.
But...
“I can’t even think straight,” I admit.
“See, that’s the beauty of it.” He grins. “You won’t have to think.”
I must look confused, because he lets go of my chin. The joking tone drops out of his voice. “You want to see my setup, Maren?”
“Setup,” I repeat.
“My little...bag of tricks,” Will says. “Or, not little, really. But we can start small. Obviously, nothing you don’t firmly consent to.”
A trickle of curiosity beads up inside me. “I see.”
Even as I say it, I question my own sanity. Is this nuts? I wonder. Who could be horny at a time like this?
Will Scarlet, for one I answer for myself. And...maybe me.
Maybe.
“I’m listening,” I say.
Will nods, sliding to the edge of the mattress before producing something supple, sheened, and black.
“Simple enough.” He gives it a tug, and I see it for what it is—a strap, of some sort, with a thicker black cuff on the end. “Very secure. Not abrasive.” He unrolls the cuff, takes my hand, brushes the material against the inner skin of my wrist. “See?”
It glides. Easy. Silky. I shiver a little.
“Smooth, but...firm.” He withdraws it, gives it a little tug. “Weight-tested. No fraying, scratching, or stretching out. Got one on each, ah, cardinal direction of the mattress. Four corners.”
“Just...tied there?” I peer around, looking for them, but seeing nothing visible.
“Anchored in,” Will replies. “Special hardware.”
I nod. It’s a little intimidating, how much he knows about all of this. And how little I do. Because I guess this is a thing people do—have done. Will has. With other people.
A wave of self-consciousness floods over me. “Sturdy is good,” I mutter. “And sanitized, I hope.”
“Machine-washable, yes,” Will says. “Why?”
“Well...” My face gets brilliantly hot. “You’ve used these. They’ve been...used.”
“These?” He shakes his head. “Specifically? Not at all. Brand new. Granted, I’ve owned similar makes and models, before, but...” He turns the cuff over in his hand, inspecting. “These were all recent purchases.”
“So you’ve done this before.”
“A few times. For kicks.” He shrugs. “Had do to something back in Boston to occupy my time between drinking myself to oblivion and seething at my parents.”
It’s hard, I admit, to picture Will with another woman—or man, I guess, as the case may be. He must read my mind, because he goes on. “But that’s a while ago now. Haven’t done any of that in a long time. Certainly not since getting here.”
“You haven’t?”
“Not yet,” Will affirms. “But I wanted to be ready.”
A nervous laugh escapes my throat. “What, in case you picked up some girl at the Crossbridge Inn and she wanted a...freaky forest mansion one-night stand?”
He cracks a smile. “No, silly. In case you were ready.”
Gears in my mind start to turn, a timeline trying to piece together.
“So...wait. How long has this all been here?”
“Since about...” He thinks. “Three days after you arrived. Approximately.”
My throat goes dry. “Really?”
“You want the shipping manifests? I said approximately .” He squints. “I made the regrettable—or maybe not, ultimately—choice of giving you too much wine one night, and you said something about being a bad girl...well.” He shrugs. “Couldn’t get that out of my head. Had to beat off in the powder room just to think straight again.”
Oh my God. My ears burn, my neck burns, my...everything burns. I’m as embarrassed as I am...flattered.
“And then...yes, little shopping spree. What can I say? I’m rich, bored, and self-indulgent. But...one thing leads to another, you run away, get kidnapped, come back, we all run away, we murder a guy...” He trails off. “Never really had a chance to bring it up with you. And so here we are.”
“I...see,” I say. It’s a lot to take in. Not in a bad way, though.
Because the way Will’s looking at me makes me hungry for his touch. His...everything.
He sinks his teeth into his lower lip and leans in an inch or two. “So, Maren, if you’ll forgive me for being blunt,” he whispers. “I’ve got a raging erection and I need to have you tied to this bed five minutes ago.”
I swallow. Nod. “Okay.”
“Okay?” His voice is thick. “Or yes?”
“Yes.” I nod again, a few more times. “Definitely yes.”
Will rises sharply to his feet. “On your back, then.”
It’s not harsh, the way he speaks, but it is firm. No room for questioning. I do as he says, lying back across the cool expanse of mattress and duvet beneath me. He wastes no time, lifting my waist, my shoulders, swiftly but gently pulling my waistband down and skimming fingers up my ribs to lift the T-shirt up and away. Then his hands find one ankle, then the other, securing me. His lips brush up my stomach and chest as he crawls to my arms, kissing me firmly as he expertly finds the last two bindings: right, then left.
He pulls back, momentarily, sitting on his heels.
“Look at you.”
Surveys me. Smiles. Bends over me and speaks into the hollow of my neck.
“You darling, perfect thing.”
With one hand, he reaches down, strokes me, and the feeling of his touch is so sudden and fierce and sure that I jerk, gasp, go nowhere. There’s nowhere to go.
“ Mmm .” Will moves his mouth to mine, languid and easy as he takes me in a kiss, his fingers moving steadily all the while. I whimper—exposed, immobile—but he just catches my chin with his free hand and steers me back to him, to the warm taste of his mouth. “Don’t think, Maren. Please.”
My eyes fly shut. It’s too easy to obey, too easy to go soft and pliant under the surety of his grasp, and I realize I don’t want anything else right now, can’t even imagine anything else, only velvet Will Scarlet wrapping all of me up.
His fingers plunge deeper, and my legs kick, almost, as much as they can. I feel him smile against my mouth. “Easy. Easy.”
It is easy. Gloriously easy. I’m pouring out all over his hand, I’m sure, writhing like an idiot, and yet he stays with me, stays here.
“So good,” he says, his voice much raspier now, and as he stirs I notice just how hard he is, pressing against my bare leg through his trousers. “Maren, I—”
I can only nod. Only think enough to say one word: “Please.”
Will nods back, rocks to his knees, ripping at shirt buttons and the buckle of his belt, and then descends, clasping each of my locked hands in his.
“Mine.”
He pushes inside me, just barely, the thick tip of him already slick, and it’s so much already, so good and tight that I—
“Ah!”
I pant, shocked, and strain at my bonds as I come—hard, clenching, unexpected. Will stays on me, stays in me, holds my body down as the wave rolls through and over me, and just when it’s nearly ebbed and the prickles of goosebumps start down my skin, he thrusts into me, fully, and pumps, deep and strong, to join me.
“Mm.” Slowly, he extricates himself, gives his head a little shake. Blinks once or twice. “Well.” He stretches above me, unhooks one wrist cuff, then the other. “You feel all right? Any pain?”
I shake my head as he frees my ankles. “No, sir.”
His lips twist. “Now, now. None of that.” He gives my ass a little smack. “One thing at a time. Crawl before you walk—so to speak.” He slides to his side of the bed, where he appears to have stashed a pitcher and glasses in his nightstand.
“Just water,” he says, handing me one. “Not gin.”
“What a refreshing change,” I say, voice froggy. My body’s still humming all over—not trembling, exactly, but somewhere close.
“I like refreshing.” Will ducks to his en suite and returns with a towel that he presses against my stomach, down my thighs, warm and damp. “Are you feeling better?”
All I can manage is a nod.
“Good. Now get some rest.” He plants a kiss on my temple. “Big day tomorrow, I’d imagine.”