Page 91 of Kings of Sherwood

Sex. Money. Power.

Getting rich off a pretty little dead girl kinda wraps all three into one.

My skin itches under the binding.

“Sign,” John says, thrusts the pen at me again.

“I’m tied up,” I say flatly. “Remember?”

John swivels from me to Wheatley, glaring, and Wheatley bumbles forward, flicking out a blade and slicing away the bonds—just my wrists, not the ones fixing me to the chair by my waist. I flex my arms, the raw skin on my wrist stinging.

Take the pen.

I sign, slowly. My full name in a shaky hand: Maren de Mornay.

Too quickly, I’m done. I try to think, try to move—your hands are free, do something, Maren—and then I do.

Hand to my face, smear the streaming blood off my upper lip, wipe my wet fingers across the bright white front page of the stack.

Clean and proper my ass. Good luck making that look official in court.

John’s mouth opens. The sheriff blinks.

That’s all I need.

I lurch up, awkward, stumbling, the chair still tied to my back like a turtle shell, and spin, hard. The back leg catches knees, the sheriff, sends him sprawling sideways into John.

His knife clatters down.

Mine.

I drop to a crawl hard enough to fracture a kneecap and scramble,scramble, close my fingers around it so hard the keen edge slices into the pad of my thumb. No time—I fold to the left and shove it downward, blade pushing rope, giving way, loosening enough that I can jump to my feet and run.

Run.

I catapult to the door, slam it into bodies as I fling it open, trip up the concrete stairs that it reveals and out into the light, the air. I surface—the forest. Still. Swivel around—it’s a cabin. Small porch, red trim—a rental. Leisure cabin—the Fox Hunt Club’s. Woods and ravine in front of me. Sheriff’s cruiser, John’s hideous fucking Jaguar, and unmarked van parked a stone’s throw away.

Away. I just have to get away.

I leap out of the stairwell, blood pulsing out of my nose and hand and arm as I whip myself into a run. Leaves slide under me—boots too loose. I kick them off, somehow, keep running, pounding my feet into rocks and pine needles.

I don’t care.

“Fucking...get her, you fat piece of shit!” A voice bellows behind me. John. “Now!”

Pop.I barely recognize the gunshot. But then more come:pop. pop.

I duck, but nothing hits—three misses. Confusion—yelling. But heavy footsteps pounding after me.

I don’t look back. Barrel straight into the brush.

I raise my arms to shield my face and it’s almost worse, thorns and thin branches finding the open wounds, tearing and jabbing enough to make me cry out. But I push through, I have to—

Something hard crashes into me.

A tackle from behind, slamming us both forward, over the edge of the ravine. We fall, two untethered seconds of sheer weightless adrenaline, then slam the forest floor, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I’m trapped. Crushed. I thrash, scrape, snap my teeth like an animal, wild with panic.

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