Chapter Three
I ended up sleeping in my clothes.
Of course, as soon as I got to the private wing and was reasonably convinced that I was alone, I did a sweep—checking the vents in the walls, the lamps, the power sockets—anywhere a camera or microphone could be hidden. I tugged at all of them with my chipped fingernails, but I either found nothing, or just couldn’t get the faceplates off.
The whole room—suite, really—that I had been granted was decorated in perfect modern southern farmhouse charm, comfortable with muted tones of dusty pink and beautiful Chippendale-style furniture. Not too girly for a bachelor, but with enough gentle touches to work well as a guest room.
Again, it reminded me of how Mama liked her house back in the day.
But I couldn’t focus on that now.
Once I was sure—or as sure as I could be—that Guy couldn’t spy on me here, I flew to the windows.
The curtains were gauzy and heavy at the same time. I shoved them out of the way to tug on the sash. It was stuck fast. I looked around for a lock, a little brass knob to twiddle or twist, and still found nothing. I moved to the next window, and then the next. All the same—completely stuck.
No, not stuck— locked .
To my right was an en suite bathroom decorated in cool seaside blues and greens, with one porthole-shaped window. I doubted I’d even be able to squeeze out of it, but I rushed over and gave it a try anyway. Nothing.
“Fuck,” I whispered. I thought about trying to punch through one, maybe leveraging the heavy brass doorstop, but peering down below, I could tell it was at least a twenty-foot drop. I didn’t like the odds of getting away quickly enough after a fall like that.
But the final straw came when I stepped outside the bedroom door in one last-ditch attempt to see if I could simply stroll out. No sooner had I swung the door open than I came face to face with Rosa, who averted her dark brown eyes as soon as she saw me and gave a curtsy.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered in a low voice. “Mr. Guy has asked me to...watch over you.”
Something about the hesitancy in her last few words gave me pause.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.”
She still didn’t meet my gaze, but I saw her swallow and noticed a flush creeping across her bronze skin.
“He said I’m to watch over you ,” she repeated. “It is my responsibility to make sure you stay here and stay comfortable.”
Call it women’s intuition. Call it a general spidey sense. But from the way she inflected those words, I knew Rosa was my jailer, my guard. The dainty rocking chair that sat on the landing leading out into the main second-floor hallway wasn’t just for decoration; it was for her to monitor me, to make sure I didn’t go anywhere I wasn’t supposed to.
And as if that weren’t enough, I noticed, just before she tucked it out of sight, a bruise on her wrist—ugly and purple.
Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe it was something unrelated. But the pain I felt seeing that—the understanding, the knowing what it’s like to be punished when things go wrong, even if you can’t reasonably control them—well, I felt it all too deeply.
I wasn’t going to let that happen to her. I wasn’t going to take any stupid risks to hurt myself and try to escape, either. So I just nodded, mumbled, “Thank you,” and returned to the room.
I WAKE UP I DON’T KNOW how many hours later on top of the covers, curled in the fetal position. There’s daylight outside, gleaming through those locked windows.
I must have slept until the next day.
Seven a.m., according to the grandfather clock. I barely have time to sit up and blink before there’s a knock at my door. I stiffen, scrambling to seated on the bed, but quickly hear a soft female voice.
“Miss?” It has to be Rosa.
“Yes,” I croak, my throat sandpaper dry. “Come in.”
She obliges, and the door swings open to reveal the petite woman carrying a breakfast tray. I smell coffee—thank God—and my heart squeezes, thinking of Tuck and all his breakfast bounty back in the forest. That was all a lie, all for show, all for something more than just taking care of me, and that hurts.
Because I was starving in more ways than one, and I thought I’d finally found a healthy place to be, to fill myself back up. But no.
Rosa dips her head. “Good morning, Miss. Mr. Guy says he hopes you slept well.”
“Thanks,” I say automatically, then shake my head. I rake my fingers through my loose hair, rubbing some of the sleep out of my eyes. Rosa sets the tray on a low coffee table near the loveseat in this apartment. Besides coffee, there’s a bowl of what looks to be something whole-grain and hot, along with some sliced strawberries.
“Your breakfast,” she goes on.
“Thank you,” I say again. I can’t say it really looks that appetizing, even though it’s clearly gourmet. I’m not really a granola kind of girl—literally or figuratively—and I’d kill for a bacon, egg, and cheese right now. But my stomach is so empty that it’s hard to resist anything.
And I guess I’m probably stupid for accepting food, even from someone as nice as Rosa, because it ultimately comes from Guy. But I also think, Fuck it. What do I have to lose? I don’t really have anything to live for, so if I get poisoned and die...
It’s a grim line of reasoning, but it’s hard to argue with. Yet, at the same time, I get the feeling that he doesn’t actually want to kill me. It doesn’t really make sense. If anything, he wants to keep me alive, use me for...I don’t know what.
So I mutter “Fuck it,” scoot off the bed, and inhale the cereal. The coffee, though—that much is absolutely heavenly.
Rosa watches me carefully, but I’m too hungry to notice. When I’m done, she carefully stacks the dishes and steps to the side, hands folded.
“Mr. Guy would like to make sure you have some clothes,” she says. “He’s asked me to get your sizing.”
From the pocket on her maid’s uniform, she produces a measuring tape.
“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”
I stand up and let her loop the measuring tape around my body with deft, gentle movements. It occurs to me that if I had a nickel for every time a mysterious rich guy offered to buy me a new wardrobe, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t very much, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice.
Rosa tightens the tape, just barely, muttering a few numbers in Spanish, and then nods, releasing me from her little lasso of truth.
“Thank you, Miss. Mr. Guy says you may join him downstairs whenever you like.”
I don’t think I’d ever like to, but I can’t just stay in this room. I’ll go crazy, and I need to know if he’s serious—if Uncle John isn’t looking for me anymore, if there’s any chance that I’m really free? Well, I want to know.
Ten minutes later, I’ve scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth, and done my best with my hair, despite not having a brush. The house is breezy and quiet, almost too perfect to think that someone actually lives there. And despite it being a sunny day, it all feels dark—wood panels everywhere, narrow windows, heavy drapes. Classic style, I know, but it’s not my favorite.
I’m turning down the main staircase and toward the kitchen when a voice makes me jump.
“There she is.”
I spin around. It’s Guy, and he is not dressed.
He’s not naked, I realize quickly—he has a towel around his waist, and his hair is wet, like he’s just gotten out of the shower. He’s standing at the kitchen island, drinking a glass of some green juice that I’m sure tastes absolutely foul.
“I...I...” I stammer.
Guy finishes his sip from the glass and nods, one palm up in apology. “I’m sorry, Maren. I didn’t mean to startle you, and I didn’t mean to be so—” He glances down at himself and chuckles. “I suppose I’m still very much in bachelor mode. Just finished my workout and, well, you know...”
“Sure,” I stammer. I don’t know, though. I’ve never been one for working out. Most of my life, I’ve been doing physical labor all day, and the last thing I want to do at the end of the day is jump on a treadmill or try to pretzel myself into a yoga pose. But I have to admit, whatever Guy’s been doing, well, it works. He’s in great shape—not super muscly, but lean and surprisingly tan, with a dark thatch of hair spreading over his pecs and down his abs.
“I trust Rosa brought you something to eat,” he goes on. “I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up, but I didn’t want you to be hungry.”
“Yes,” I say. “She did. I told her thanks.” It’s a little jab that he may or may not notice. I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful to his housemaid for her work, but I’m not about to thank him .
“Good,” he says. “Doing my best to get in shape for the Fourth of July 15k, you know. Always a wonderful Nottingham tradition.”
I purse my lips.
“One of my favorite things about the small town,” he says. “I’m sure you appreciated it growing up.”
I don’t answer. I guess I did—seeing all the red brick buildings in town decked out with their red, white, and blue bunting, holding Mama and Daddy’s hands as they bought me cotton candy and strawberry lemonade, and letting me stay up late to watch the fireworks. But I’m not eight years old anymore. Ever since going to live with Uncle John, I’ve always just thought of the Fourth of July as another day to cater to his whims.
“That reminds me,” Guy goes on, “you’ll need something especially to wear for that, won’t you?” He scribbles down a note on a piece of scrap paper with a fountain pen.
“What do you want with me?” I blurt out. It’s all too calm, too reserved, and the fact that he’s barely dressed is not making things any clearer or more comfortable. “Am I going to get to leave? Or what?”
Guy puts down the pen. “Maren,” he says. “Maren de Mornay.”
The way he says my full name doesn’t sit well with me. It’s too intimate, too familiar.
“Yeah?” I say “And?”
“I knew your father,” Guy says. “Well, I didn’t know him well . I was a young up-and-comer, fresh out of law school. And he was —well, still is—a legend.” He pauses. “I wish I could presume to say he was my mentor, but we were never that close. I admired the hell out of him. He was the kind of person who was actually using the law for good, and I was this greenhorn lawyer so eager to get out there and fight the bad guys. That’s how I ended up in the DA’s office.” He smiles ruefully. “Turns out not a lot of people actually care about that as much as they do lining their own pockets. But your father”—he drums his fingers on the counter thoughtfully—“was the exception.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I don’t like it. I swallow, but it doesn’t disappear.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you, Maren.” Guy looks at me, eyebrows lifted, an expression of pity on his admittedly handsome face. “There was a whole life you were supposed to live—a whole culture, tradition, and family legacy you were supposed to embody. It was ripped away from you. When I found out, when I pieced together who you were and how you got to where you ended up...” He exhales. “Well, I don’t know. I couldn’t bear the thought of you under the thumb of someone like John Lackland. Someone who had the goddamn sheriff’s department on a string.”
He works his jaw.
“You’re not tight with the sheriff?” I ask derisively. “Isn’t he supposed to be helping you take down the bad guys ?”
Guy snorts. “Supposed to be, yes. But does he?”
“It depends on who you define as bad,” I mutter.
“Exactly.”
I look up at Guy’s face as he continues.
“When I came back to Sherwood and realized that Richard de Mornay’s daughter was here, getting her hands dirty in an auto shop with no money to his name...I couldn’t stand it. I owed that man my career, my purpose in life, and now his daughter was being treated like some good-for-nothing greasemonkey.”
Hearing Will’s nickname for me makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and, surprisingly, makes my eyes prickle with tears.
I’d likely never hear him say it again, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be the same.
It couldn’t be the same.
“Do you mind if I get dressed for this conversation?” he asks suddenly. “I feel a little exposed.”
Something about his bashfulness takes me by surprise, and I find myself smiling. “Sure, of course.”
“Thank you.” He dips his head. “Give me five minutes. I’ll see you in the sitting room. And I promise—the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” He smiles, holding his fingers up in a scout’s salute. “On my honor as a man of the law.”
THERE’S A WEIRD DEJA -vu feeling to the room I find myself in.
So much of this place is like Rob’s house, but...not. It’s still a giant Southern mansion, still furnished with all the lavish trimmings a young man with plenty of family money could want, and yet there’s just something...different.
But I can’t put my finger on what.
I stare around me as I wait on the settee, arms pinned between my knees. On the mantelpiece are framed photographs: Guy in a graduation cap and gown, Guy in a suit holding a wine glass with a bunch of other men in suits, Guy at a podium speaking, Guy with a refined-looking older woman who must be his mother, and a few faded photographs of someone with his features but older—his father, presumably.
“Right,” comes a voice, startling me. “So, where were we?”
Guy strides in, wearing a gray polo and khaki trousers, looking for all the world like a Brooks Brothers model about to step onto his yacht. I push myself back into the couch, instinctively putting distance between the two of us.
“My father,” I say.
“Ah, yes. Maren, look, I know who you were living with, and I guess I don’t blame you for lashing out the way you did, for rebelling.”
“You don’t blame me?” I ask. His tone is kind, but something about the words feels off. “What’s there to blame me for?” Sure, it wasn’t a great decision, ultimately, but he doesn’t need to know why. He doesn’t need to know all the details.
A thought slashes through my consciousness. Does he know? Know they’re shifters? It occurs to me in a sudden torrent of questions, and I don’t even know how secret that part of their world is. Obviously, they all found each other. But who else knows? Have I been on the outside for so long, completely unaware that there was a secret society? And beyond their powers—what does Guy know about them? What does he know that I don’t?
What didn’t they tell me?
“I guess I could have made a better choice,” I say, “but I didn’t know where to go. Didn’t know why I was being chased.”
“I know,” Guy says softly, “and for that, I apologize. I was shooting from the hip. I figured it would be easier to get you alone and talk to you than to try and go through John, seeing as he wasn’t always the most reasonable person in my experience.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter.
“Maybe we both tend to be slaves to impulse,” Guy jokes.
“I guess I just thought—” My voice breaks off. I stare at the Oriental rug, at my hands, at the coffee table, and then up into his eyes, just for a moment. “I guess I really bought into what they were promising me.”
Guy smiles, not a condescending smile, but maybe a pitying one. “Maren, you’re an intelligent young lady, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but the wrong kind of men with a beautiful girl like you—they’ll tell you what you want to hear to get what they want, if you follow my meaning.”
My cheeks get hot. I wonder if Guy knows about what I did with them, what they did to me, what they made me feel. It’s almost horrifying. Not that I regret it. Not that I don’t—fuck.
Deep down, I still crave it, still wish I could go back and have things somehow fixed.
But I know that’s never going to happen.
And now I have an opportunity not to be naive again. I have an opportunity to know the full truth, or at least get another side of the story from someone who isn’t aligned with them, and from what I can tell, not aligned with the sheriff either. So I decide to probe as gently as I can.
“They didn’t tell me the whole truth,” I say. “It turns out there was a lot I didn’t know about who they really were.”
Guy interlaces his fingers and puts his elbows on his knees. “I’m sure—”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, playing innocent in the hopes that he’ll spill some more information. “You must know more about them than I do.”
“Oh, me?” Guy smiles. “Well, I’d be a pretty terrible assistant district attorney if I didn’t have tabs on the most notorious outlaws in Sherwood.” He sucks his teeth. “They aren’t good men. Robin Locksley—well, he has strong convictions, I’ll give him that. And I can’t deny that, at least from what I gather, he understands a lot of what’s wrong with Sherwood. But the way he thinks he can go about getting justice, it’s...selfish. Destructive. Abusive. It has consequences. And people’s lives are on the line—but never his, of course.”
“I—”
But I don’t even get to finish my thought—whatever it was going to be—before Guy gets up.
“I hate to run, but, well, duty calls.” He smiles. “I’ll be back this evening. Enjoy anything you want in the house, Maren.”
And in three brisk steps, he’s gone, leaving nothing in the room but me and all of his family photos.
I’m studying them when it hits me: that’s what’s different here. Besides the more traditional decor, and the presence of hired help, anyway— that’s why this house feels so different from Rob’s.
He and the others had nothing like that. No sentimentality, no snapshots, not even a fridge magnet with any kind of personality.
But here...this isn’t just a house, full of rich-boy toys and fancy furniture.
It’s a home. A place someone’s trying to build a life.
For whatever reason, that thought makes me shiver.