Page 31 of Kings of Sherwood

She turns.

Shit. Her face.

That quiet, distant look she gets when something’s gnawing at her. And okay, yes, I brought cheese and wine and a tray that could’ve fed Henry VIIIandall of his wives, but suddenly that feels about three levels too festive.

“You okay?” I ask, gentler this time.

She shifts, gives me a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Yes. I’m fine.”

That, I can tell, is at least partially a lie.

I set the tray down and try not to hover. “You sure? You looked kind of...pouty.” I wince even as I say it.

Not helpful, Tuck.

But she doesn’t snap at me. Just exhales like she’s trying to unclench something inside. I take it as a sign to press forward with Operation Distract Maren from Existential Dread and/or Guilt Over Not Being on Patrol.

Unveil the cheese.

Okay, yes, I may have gone overboard. Three kinds of brie. A chèvre log rolled in cranberry. A smoked thousand-day gouda. Nuts, crackers, a tiny dish of olives, a crusty baguette, and a full bottle of Pinot I absolutely did not smuggle from Will’s private stash.

“I know this isn’t the same as going out there with them,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m apologizing for existing. “But they’re right. We can’tallbe out there—youcan’t, certainly, and then of the four of us, well...I mean, it makes sense that I’d be the one to stay back, even if—”

“It’s not you.” Her voice cuts in, firm.

“Thanks. I, um. I wasn’t worried.” Lie. I grab the bottle and the corkscrew. “But that...means a lot.”

“I love being with you,” she goes on, softer. “I love...you, Tuck.”

Oh.

I pause, mid-corkscrew.

I knew that. I did—didn’t I? Hadn’t she said that before? Did I just memory-hole the most important three words I’d ever been told?

My ears go hot. Like, scalding. I focus very intently on arranging the tiny cheese knives.

I genuinely can’t remember. But hearing her say it now—I love you, Tuck—God, it’s amazing. Unbelievable.

I really, truly, never dreamed I’d be so lucky.

“I love you too.” My hands go all clumsy on the bottleneck and I grin like an idiot. “Like, a lot.”

She smiles. “Okay, glad we cleared that up.” A little laugh. “No, it’s more that...” Her eyes drift toward the window again. “It’s hard to not have the rest of them here, I guess?”

“They’re big boys, Maren,” I say, sitting on a footstool and finally uncorking the wine, suddenly feeling quite manly. “We all are. I’d like to see the bounty hunters that could take down a fox, a bear, and a dragon.”

It’s supposed to be encouraging. Instead, she shivers. I catch the look in her eyes. Yeah. She’s thinking about the tranqs. The cuffs. The literal wanted poster that’s apparently covering half the county—or at least the seedier parts of it. I can’t really blame her for feeling a bit stressed.

So I pass her the glass of wine. Big enough to bathe in.

“Here,” I say. “Take the edge off.”

She takes it and downs a mouthful, and my eyebrows shoot up.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Long day.”

“No, no,” I say. “By all means. Cheers.” I clink her glass, take a sip of my own.

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