Page 4 of Princess of Thieves

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 OFhome. 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.

Ifhe’s telling the truth.

My heart pounds.

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