Page 94 of Kings of Sherwood

LJ stills.

Slowly, the great head turns. He looks at me—fur bristling, sides heaving—and then backs off with a snort, leaving John sprawled in the muck.

It’s ugly.

He’s barely conscious, his usually ruddy face a pale sour-milk color where it’s not bright with fresh blood or torn flesh. His clothes are tattered, his lips bubbling with something halfway between spit and a whimper.

I stare down at him from Rob’s arms, and all I feel is disgust.

The heat under my skin rises again. Raw and electric.

Could I kill him?

Could I channel this differently, somehow, pump pain and destruction into his body?

The thought frightens me, too much to dwell on. Instead, I yell, through the burning in my chest.

“You still think you run this place?” I cry, voice ringing against the trees. “Do you? Because youdon’t.You never have. It’s always been him. And people like him.”

John wheezes, tries to lift his head, but he can’t even hold eye contact, and suddenly I’m not frightened anymore. I rip myself out of Rob’s arms, step closer.

“You know how I know?” I say. “Because they’re the ones who are gonna choose whether you live or youdie.”

Something catches my elbow—Rob. Half-smiling, even now.

“All right, pretty lady,” he says, softly. “Except one thing.” He tips his head toward John. “On that last part, I listen to you.”

I glance back down.

John’s a wreck. Quivering, filthy, pale from blood loss, barely breathing.

He’d kill me if things were reversed. Almostdidkill me. And spent years—years—doing everything he could to bleed me dry.

Hedeservesto die.

But now that I’m here, and he’s there...

I won’t do it.

“I’ll give you your life,” I say shortly. “But you’ll give me mine.”

He nods frantically. “Yes. Yes, anything. Whatever you want, just—just don’t let me die out here—”

“Quiet.” I crouch beside him, press my hand to his chest. “And don’t fucking move.”

I push out just a flicker of the power humming under my skin, enough to fix damage and nothing more.

He gasps, color returning in pulse-point waves.

That’s it. Done. I stand.

“I never want to see you again.”

Around us, Sherwood Forest crackles. Smoke curls from the wreck of the sheriff’s car, the tang of scorched metal wafting.

Then—screaming. No, sirens. Distant at first, then louder, closer. Lights flashing red and blue across the trees as a broad vehicle barrels down the road. My heart seizes, seeing the SHERIFF blazed across the white side panels, but the driver’s door opens before the thing even fully stops and I relax.

Zayn, in full dress, jumps to the ground. Gun drawn.

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