Chapter Nineteen
"Food," Will announces, already moving toward our dwindling supplies. "Is what we need. Though I use the term loosely."
My stomach lurches at the thought of more gas station snacks, but I know I need the energy. I accept a package of stale crackers begrudgingly and eat it.
"We need real food," LJ says suddenly, like he can read my mind. "Not this processed shit. We need—"
"What we need ," Rob cuts in, "is to hit back. Hard. Before Guy can—"
"Before he can what?" LJ rounds on him, good eye blazing. "Kill one of us? Blind someone else?" He gestures sharply at me. "She almost died today, Rob. Almost died because you're so focused on revenge you can't see straight."
"You think I don't know that?" Rob's voice drops to that dangerous register that usually means someone's about to bleed. "You think I don't—"
"No, I don't think you do." LJ's massive frame seems to fill the small room. "Because if you did, we wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be running on empty, living in a shack, watching her drain herself trying to heal—"
"If you have a better plan," Rob starts, but Will's laugh cuts through the tension like a blade.
"A plan?" Will's Boston accent gets sharper when he's angry, old money clipping his consonants. "Oh, that would require actually sharing information, wouldn't it? Having all the pieces instead of whatever scraps our fearless leader deems necessary?"
Rob goes very still. "Don't start, Scarlet."
"Why not? Seems like the perfect time, really." Will's smile is all dragon-sharp edges. "I mean, we've only lost everything – our home, our resources, those fascinating books about our heritage that you knew about for years but never thought to mention..."
"I was protecting you—"
"From what?" Will's voice cracks like a whip. "Knowledge? Understanding? The chance to actually prepare for what we're facing?"
"You don't know what you're talking about—"
"Exactly!" Will's careful polish shatters completely. "That's exactly the point! None of us know what we're really dealing with because you won't tell us!"
My head throbs in time with their rising voices. Tuck catches my wince and tries to intervene: "Maybe we should—"
"Stay out of it," LJ snaps, then immediately looks guilty when Tuck flinches.
"No, he's right." Will's laugh is bitter. "We should all just stay out of it. Let Rob make all the decisions. Let him decide what we get to know about ourselves, about our enemies—"
"We can't..." I start, then have to clear my throat when my voice comes out rough. "We can't afford to turn on each other. Not now."
"Princess—" LJ starts, but I press on.
"No, listen. Guy's already won if we start suspecting everyone who tries to help. That's his whole game – making us doubt each other, doubt ourselves." I gesture at my borrowed fancy clothes, now streaked with soot and failure. "He's got half the town thinking he's their savior while he systematically destroys everything they care about. Are we really going to let him do the same to us?"
"It's not that simple," Rob says quietly, but I catch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Actually, it is." I straighten despite my protesting ribs. "Either we trust each other, or we don't. Either we're in this together, or we're not." My voice steadies. "So which is it going to be?"
"Stop." My voice comes out stronger than I expect, cutting through the rising tension. Four shapeshifters and one very nervous deputy freeze mid-argument. "Fighting each other is exactly what Guy wants."
"Pretty lady," Rob starts, but I hold up a hand.
"No. Listen." I force myself fully upright, ignoring the protest from my ribs. "We're missing the bigger picture here. All of it – the fake crimes, the staged attacks, the strategic property damage..." The pieces click together in my mind. "It's not just about scaring people. It's about bleeding them dry."
Tuck's eyes sharpen behind his glasses. "The property taxes."
"Exactly." The pattern emerges clearer now. "Create enough incidents, enough 'dangerous areas,' and property values plummet. But people still have to pay taxes on the original assessments."
"Which they can't afford," Will murmurs, aristocratic features tight with understanding. "Not with their businesses suffering from all this manufactured crime."
"So they fall behind." My voice turns bitter. "And who shows up to help? To offer payment plans, loan restructuring, understanding? "
"Guy." Rob's voice carries that dangerous edge. "Playing savior with one hand while he creates the crisis with the other."
"And anyone who doesn't play along?" I gesture at the soot still clinging to my borrowed cashmere. "Well, accidents happen, don't they? Especially in such a dangerous town."
The silence that follows feels heavy with implications. I watch understanding dawn on their faces – even LJ's anger shifts from Zayn to our real enemy.
"He's creating the perfect storm," Tuck says quietly. "Economic pressure, public fear, strategic violence... all driving people right into his arms."
"While he positions himself as Sherwood's only hope." The words taste like ashes in my mouth. "The strong leader who'll restore order, rebuild the community—"
"On his terms," Will finishes. "With his people in control of everything that matters."
I meet each of their eyes in turn – Rob's calculated fury, Will's sharp intelligence, Tuck's quiet concern, LJ's simmering rage. Even Zayn, standing apart but still somehow part of this strange family we've built.
"So." I square my shoulders, feeling the weight of their attention like a physical thing. "What are we going to do about it?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with responsibility. But for the first time since the explosion, I feel something else too – purpose, clear and burning. Because Guy might have destroyed our evidence, but he can't erase the truth.
We just have to figure out how to make Sherwood see it.
"We need to hit him where it hurts," LJ growls, pacing the small space like his bear form wants to break free. "Something big, something public—"
"Because that worked so well at the auction?" Will's voice drips aristocratic disdain. "Perhaps we could get blown up in front of an even larger audience this time."
"Better than hiding in this shack while he destroys everything we—"
"No one's hiding," Rob cuts in. "But we need to be smart about this. Strategic."
I watch them argue, these men I love, each carrying their own wounds from this fight. LJ's milky eye, Will's haunted memories of family rejection, Tuck's quiet fear of not being enough, Rob's guilt over every hurt he couldn't prevent. Even Zayn, standing apart but still somehow part of this, bearing the weight of divided loyalties.
The gala invitation Guy sent to his supporters sits on our makeshift table, cream cardstock somehow surviving the chaos of our recent days. An Evening of Celebration , it promises in elegant script. Join us as we toast the future of Sherwood.
My fingers trace the embossed letters as the others debate strategy. The future of Sherwood. Guy's vision of it, anyway – a carefully manicured facade hiding rot underneath. Just like his mansion, just like his perfect political smile.
Just like the party itself will be.
The thought catches, crystalizes. Every supporter who matters will be there, dressed in their finest, ready to believe whatever pretty lies Guy feeds them. The press too, eager for sound bites about his plans to "restore" our home.
The perfect stage. The perfect audience.
The perfect moment to shatter his carefully constructed illusion.
"I know what we need to do," I say quietly, but something in my voice makes them all turn to look at me.
"Maren..." Rob starts, probably reading my expression.
"I'm going to that gala."