Chapter Two
“ W h-What do you mean?”
It takes me a while to articulate the question, God knows how long, and when I do, anger, frustration, and shock prickles over my skin like an electric sensation. I want to either burst out or jump away immediately. At the same time, my heart is pounding in my chest because he’s the predator and I’m the prey and he knows it.
He smiles, not a scheming smile, but one you could almost call genuine.
“Please don’t worry. I did this for your own good. You didn’t want to be under the thumb of John Lackland for the rest of your life, did you?”
“No,” I say out loud before I can stop myself from responding.
In fact, it was just a few short weeks ago that I ran away from my so-called Uncle John after finding out he was trying to steal from me—the funds my parents had left when they died. He claimed I was mentally unfit and had it all signed, sealed, and delivered over to him.
That night. That night I had gotten the Mustang out of the garage and been chased by...
A horrified realization crashes my train of thought.
“That was you?” I spit out. “Your car was outside the garage that night.” Now that I’m sitting in the backseat it’s stupidly obvious. My stomach sinks.
Guy smiles. “Guilty as charged,” he says, pressing his hand to his chest. “Unorthodox, I suppose. But I only ever had your best interests at heart.”
I must bristle, because he backs off a little.
“Look, I can understand why that’s maybe...hard to swallow at the moment. You’ve been through a lot, and I really only want to make you comfortable here. Give you a chance to catch your breath, get back on your feet, and live a life...well, more on your own terms. The life you always should have lived.”
I shake my head slowly, not believing a word. “So you kidnapped me?”
“Rescued you, more like.” Guy’s eyes flash with what might be amusement behind his glasses. “I knew when I saw you at the Fox Hunt Club that you hadn’t been up to anything good. And once I realized John was involved, got to talking with him...well, let’s just say he was willing to grant your freedom for a price.”
I hear my heartbeat flooding in my ears. “What do you mean?” I ask again.
“I mean he won’t hurt you, Maren. I mean I freed you from him. I paid him off,” he finishes a bit more bluntly. “The value of your college fund and more. Turns out his bloodlust has a price, and he’s perfectly happy to be rid of you—as long as he gets what he was after the whole time.”
I blink slowly, stunned. “So you’re saying—”
“I’m saying that now you are my responsibility,” Guy says. “I paid that debt to your foster father. I rescued you from being hauled in for driving a stolen vehicle—likely without a license.” He brushes off the government down me. “And now, I brought you somewhere safe, where I’m going to let you rest. So I think it’s in your best interest to at least be polite and come inside.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t really have a choice. But I want to pretend I do.
“After the day I’m sure you’ve had...”
My mind flashes back to Rob’s face—the grimace of pain when the crossbow bolt struck his shoulder, the desperation.
But no. I’m not going to think about that.
I don’t want to think about anything, to be honest.
“Come in for a glass of water,” Guy finishes. “Please, Maren. I know we didn’t get to meet each other under the best of circumstances, but I promise you I will not hurt you and will not make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not like them.”
As he gets out to open the car door, I realize I don’t know if he means “them” as Rob, Tuck, LJ, and Will, or them as in John and the Sheriff. But maybe it doesn’t matter.
INSIDE REMINDS ME OF home. Not Rob’s house in Sherwood Forest, where I’d spent the last few weeks actually feeling like maybe I could have a home there, but the home I grew up in—kind of stately, old-money Virginia, the kind that Mama and Daddy’s friends had.
It’s clean and organized, with just enough spareness to make it clear that this is a bachelor’s house. No fresh flowers or ruffled curtains to give it a feminine touch.
Guy walks behind me through the front hall, cutting off my only escape, and gestures me toward a side porch—glassed in, with a set of wicker furniture. He pulls out a chair for me.
“Rosa,” he says, and I jump. I didn’t even notice the woman in the corner, her eyes on the floor, wearing a powder-blue maid’s uniform.
“Some refreshments for our guest,” he says, his voice firm but polite. “Sweet tea, I think, with plenty of ice.”
She nods and slips away, quiet as a whisper.
“Please, have a seat,” he says.
My knees buckle before I can stop them, and my butt hits the wicker. It’s quiet here—not like the noise of Nottingham in the middle of town or the constant chirping and breeze through the branches of Sherwood Forest. It’s just lazy, Southern heat, like everything’s too worn out to protest.
What feels like 10 seconds later, Rosa reappears at our elbow with the glass pitcher and two tall tumblers. She moves to fill mine, but Guy waves her away and does it himself.
“That’ll be all for now, Rosa,” he says. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready for dinner.”
Dinner? I think. I definitely can’t stay here for dinner. I can’t stay here at all.
I try to get up from the chair but only make it halfway before Guy puts a firm hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down.
“Drink something,” he says. “I’m sure you need it,” he adds.
Again, my butt hits the wicker. I stare at the glass—mine, then his, then mine.
“For crying out loud,” Guy says, chuckling to himself. “You think I drugged it? Please, there’s no need to be suspicious. I’m not a swamp creature. I don’t know what you’re used to,” he continues, “but there’s no need to pull any tricks to enjoy some time with a beautiful woman.”
I scoff despite myself. It’s insane to me that he thinks he can flirt with me, that this stranger, who doesn’t know me, thinks this is a good way into my heart.
Except he did pay off Uncle John.
If he’s telling the truth.
My heart pounds.
“Turn around,” I say.
Guy lifts an eyebrow. “What?”
“Just turn your back for a second,” I say again.
Guy furrows his brow but lifts his palms into the air and does as I asked. When he isn’t looking, I swap the glasses—back and forth, back and forth—until I lose track of which one was mine and which was his.
“Okay,” I say, “you can turn back.”
He does. “Clever,” he says, smiling. “Somebody’s seen The Princess Bride .”
Now my lips twitch. It was one of my favorite movies as a kid, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Now will you drink something?” he says, before waiting for my response. He lifts the glass in front of him, takes a small sip, then drains half the drink. “Delicious. Rosa knows what she’s doing.”
He settles into the chair, relaxed but intent on me. I can’t deny that in other circumstances, he might have caught my eye—a gentleman of a customer coming into the garage for me to tune up whatever sports car of his needs working on, maybe to banter with me if I was feeling particularly playful that day.
But now...
I grip the glass of iced tea, bring it to my lips, and take the smallest sip. It is good, cold and sweet, and perfumed with just a hint of mint and lemon. I take another, bigger gulp once I realize how thirsty I am, and then another, before setting it back down.
“Better?” Guy asks.
I don’t answer, just cross my arms.
“Fair enough,” he says. “My name is Guy Charles Gisbourne. I’m 32 years old, a non-smoker, with no history of physical or mental illness. I’m a golfer and an amateur marksman, a UVA Law graduate with an undergraduate degree from Georgetown. I know how to dance, have a great relationship with my mother, and no angry exes or child support on my record. I’m gainfully employed, and I love to travel.”
He finishes and cocks his head at me. I blink, bewildered. What the hell am I supposed to make of all that?
“What I’m trying to say,” Guy continues, “is I may just be the safest and most stable person you’ve ever shared a room with. I’m well aware of that fact. I’m not going to press my luck, but I would hope that the fact that I did you a favor—freeing you from John’s grip—would mean something to you and that you’d appreciate the chance to start your life for real. No entanglements, no looking over your shoulder, no fear, and no lies.”
Lies. That last one makes me shiver, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine. That was what did me in. I fell for it—fell for dishonesty wrapped in a charming presentation, fell for something that wasn’t what it seemed. None of them were. They were shifters, shapeshifters—something that’s actually real —and here I was, shacking up with four of them. Now, removed from it all, it seems like a bad dream, like something I hallucinated. For all I know, maybe I did. They could have just as easily slipped me something.
“Look, you’ve been through a lot,” Guy says. “It’s been a long day. I don’t want to insist on anything for now. Maybe you’d prefer if I showed you to your room.”
“My room,” I say, stunned.
“Unless you have somewhere else to sleep,” he adds. “But I promise you, I won’t bother you. You’ll have your own key, and I won’t have a copy.”
I purse my lips. The phone digging into my back pocket is a constant itch. I’m itching to take it out, to look at where we are on a map. Do I even want them to find me?
Something Guy said sticks in my mind: freedom, a fresh start. I never really got one, did I? I didn’t even successfully run away from Sherwood like I wanted to. I just went from one scheming group of men to the next—a scheming group of men who are shapeshifters, admittedly, and who made me see stars with their fingers and mouths.
God. Heat twists deep inside me. No matter what happens, where I end up, or where my life takes me, the knowledge that I’ll never feel pleasure like that again hurts.
“Let me just check with Rosa to make sure she’s ready in the guest wing,” Guy says. He gets up, and for a moment, I sit still until I hear his footsteps disappear through the archway that must lead to the kitchen. I grab my phone from my pocket, swipe it up to unlock it, and look for any indication that someone is looking for me. But I don’t even know what it would be—some kind of notification from a tracking app? No. Undoubtedly, it’s buried deep within the phone, and I’ve only got two bars of service besides.
I tap back into the map app, and the loading circle chugs around and around as it struggles to place me—a wide blue dot in a sea of green, no roads or towns nearby, and circles, circles, circles. Just when I think it’s about to snap into place—
“All set.” Guy reappears, smiling.
I slip the phone back into my backpack as he returns from the kitchen. I don’t think he saw me. I was quick enough, thank God. My pulse hammers in my throat.
“You’ll have everything you need in there,” he goes on. “Fresh linens, bath supplies—help yourself to anything. I imagine you might want to get some rest, process things a bit. I perhaps came on a bit strong.” He looks at his hands sheepishly. “I should give you some space first.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” I mutter.
I wonder if I’ve been too sassy for him, but he just smiles. “You’re someone whose trust has to be earned. I can see that.” He nods back to the front hallway. “Up the stairs to the left, through the double doors. The entire wing is yours.”
What is this, Beauty and the Beast ? Still, I get to my feet.
“Thank you,” I say reflexively, even though I’m not really sure I have anything to thank him for. I take a step, then two, before Guy cuts in front of me, and I’m face-to-face with his broad chest. The cool scent of his cologne fills my nose.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks.
What does he want, a kiss goodbye? I try not to shudder. “I don’t think so.”
He takes a step back, just the barest amount of personal space between us, and holds out his hand. I stare at him.
“Your phone,” he says.
My heart sinks.
“I don’t want any misunderstandings, Maren,” he continues. “Until you really understand my intentions and what you’re doing here, I think it’s best if you don’t try to make any contact with anyone...undesirable.”
I shuffle my weight from foot to foot, feeling helpless. “I don’t have a phone,” I try weakly.
He smiles flirtatiously and gives his head a little shake. “Oh, Maren, I’m a prosecutor. I know when people lie. Now, give it.”
There’s no flexibility in his tone. Slowly, hesitantly, I pull the phone from my back pocket and hand it over, my mind spinning with plans of how I could sneak out, figure out where he’s left it, get it back, use it to signal for help, or plot a way home—or at the very least, Google how to get out of this situation.
The flat sound of plastic cracking interrupts my thoughts. He’s dropped the phone on the tile floor, smashing it. It’s broken. Dead. The light is gone.
“Don’t worry,” he says, smiling. “I’ll have Rosa tidy this up. Now why don’t you go get some sleep?”