Chapter 20 #2
He leered. “But just because I need to keep you alive doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself. Let’s see if we can’t make your dear father hear his little girl one last time. A send-off present for him, if you will. Hold her, Baron!”
The sheriff walked to the armory and brought back a whip, the leather glinting in the sunlight.
At the sight of it, my stomach dropped and I forgot to breathe.
Cold sweat prickled at my hairline. My fingers found the cold chain attached to my collar, and I clutched it as if it would help me hold myself together.
I set my jaw and forced my shoulders to square, but my hands betrayed me and shook.
I would not give him the sound he wanted, I told myself, counting each shallow breath.
I wouldn’t let a single scream escape my lips, no matter what.
I wouldn’t give the sheriff the satisfaction and I wouldn’t subject my father to listening to that.
I thought I was prepared for it when the sheriff lifted the whip. What I wasn’t prepared for was a blur of movement as Baron stepped forward. The whip never struck my back. Instead, Baron’s hand clamped around the handle, yanking it from the sheriff’s grasp.
“This girl’s under my jurisdiction, Sheriff,” Baron said, his voice low and dangerous. “Her punishment is mine—and mine alone—to carry out. It’ll be my pleasure to handle this for you.”
The camp went still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The sheriff’s face darkened, his lips parting as though to protest, but then the muscles in his jaw worked. He took a step and winced.
“We’re done here,” Baron growled. He seized my upper arm in a tight grip and hauled me toward his tent, the whip dangling ominously from his other hand. My feet stumbled to keep up with his long strides, and the links of our chain rattled with each step.
I twisted to look back once. The sheriff was bent over, massaging his injured foot and glaring daggers after us.
A grim satisfaction flickered through me at the sight.
I hoped I’d crushed a tendon or two. But beneath that satisfaction, a chill gathered in my chest. Baron still held the whip.
Would this be like the last time, when I avoided my punishment, or had he finally had enough?
His entire demeanor shifted and softened the moment our campsite came into view. Without a word, he marched straight to the fire pit and hurled the whip into the flames. The leather hissed as it curled and blackened, and something inside me unknotted at the sight.
Releasing me, he stooped to pick up the cloak I had torn earlier in my frantic attempt to escape him, shook the dust from it, and tucked it under his arm.
“Go,” he murmured. “Get inside.”
I didn’t even think to disobey. My father’s capture had left me numb to the world, aside from that flickering satisfaction I felt when I thought of wounding the sheriff. I stepped into the tent first as he instructed, but he paused at the entrance, scanning the woods before ducking inside after me.
Gone was the sharp tone he’d used with the sheriff. Baron knelt beside me, lowering himself slowly and reaching out. His expression didn’t hold anger any longer, only concern.
“Let me see,” he said quietly. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they brushed my hair aside. The moment his touch grazed the skin at my neck, I sucked in a breath.
“He never should’ve put his hands on you.” His words, and the softness behind them, nearly undid me. I blinked hard. The image of my father being dragged away kept flashing through my mind and I couldn’t get rid of it. I was still a prisoner. My father was gone. None of that had changed.
“I’m so sorry, Laurel,” he whispered. “I truly thought you’d be freed.”
I snorted and the sound came harsher than I intended.
I didn’t want pity—least of all his. “And here I was thinking you were smarter than the average dunce around here. Shows how wrong I was.” The words came out like barbs, and I wanted them to sting.
I wanted to wound Baron the way everything else was wounding me.
I wanted to lash out at someone, anyone.
I was still imprisoned, and now my father and his closest friends were too, all because of me.
No. That wasn’t fair. I forced the thought to straighten itself.
It was because of the sheriff. I hated him with every fiber in my being.
I cursed him and anyone he ever called family or a friend.
But then the curses curved inward, turning on me just as sharply.
I cursed myself for making my father believe he had to trade himself for my freedom.
I cursed myself for not being strong enough, quick enough, clever enough to escape before it came to this.
I was weak. Useless. A liability.
I had failed, and that failure might have cost my father and the Merry Men their lives.
Undeterred, Baron wrung out a damp cloth and held it against my throat.
He put just enough pressure on it to staunch the bleeding, but not so much as to cause any trouble breathing.
He cupped the back of my head in his other hand and began dabbing at the blood that had already fallen, which was beginning to congeal on my neck and chest. After removing the bloody cloth strip I kept around the collar for warmth, he gently turned my head this way and that, then moved the metal collar up and down to make sure all the blood was cleaned off.
I let him. I didn’t want the sheriff to have any reminders of his victory.
I didn’t want to think about anything at all.
The cut wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous.
It would heal. I stared at the tent canopy overhead, my gaze unwavering, and refused to let a single tear fall despite them welling in my eyes.
“There,” Baron said as he finished. He carefully patted my neck dry, wrapped a clean strip of linen around it, and fastened my cloak back around my shoulders. “If it still hurts in a few days, I can—”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked bluntly, cutting him off.
“Doing what?”
“This!” I gestured to my neck where he had cleaned my wound.
“Why are you being nice to me? I know I’m your prisoner.
You don’t have to pretend like you actually care.
I know it’s all an act. You won, all right?
You have my father and all his men. That’s what you wanted all along, so there’s no need to keep up with this facade now. ”
“So sorry for treating you with respect,” Baron said sarcastically.
He huffed and turned away. I thought he was finished, but he muttered, “Change out of that tunic and we will rinse it out before the stain sets too badly.” With those surprising words, he stepped just outside the tent flap, granting me the most privacy he could.
When I was finished, we got the tunic rinsed and spread out to dry and then Baron retreated to his bedroll. He flopped down and angrily pulled his blankets over himself.
I turned away from him, kicking at the hated skirt I was now wearing, and furious at the world.