Page 95 of Kings of Sherwood

“Freeze,” he roars. “Do not. Fucking. Move.”

He sees me first. Sees I’m breathing, and relents—only a split second, really, swiveling his aim to John.

“You good?” he calls to me, eyes locked on his target. “She good?”

I nod, too tired for speech. Just nod.

“Yeah,” Rob says. “We all are.”

Zane holsters his weapon and strides the remaining two steps, whipping cuffs from his belt and locking John’s wrists with quick, practiced motions. “John Lackland, you’re under arrest for conspiracy, kidnapping, and...and a whole bunch of other shit I can’t even think of right now.” He jerks John up by the cuffs. “Get in the fucking car.”

John doesn’t argue. He just moans softly as Zayn walks him over and slams the door shut, the flashing lights pulsing against the trees.

My body goes limp, suddenly, exhaustion knocking me over like a rogue wave, but I only stumble two steps back before I hit him—Rob. He just grips my upper arm, holds me upright. Behind us, I can feel the rest of them—Tuck, LJ, Will—close enough to touch, silent and steady.

I close my eyes and let myself believe it, really believe it, for the first time in what feels like forever. In what maybeisthe first time, ever.

It’s over.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maren: One Week Later

“Ladies and gentleman, we are just getting started! Two-fifty going once. Two-fifty going twice. Do I hear three hundred?”

The auctioneer’s voice rings through the PA system as two white-jacketed, white-gloved Fox Club employees lift a gold-framed oil painting—abstract, midcentury—and the crowd murmurs interest and flutters their bid numbers. The chandelier lights are low, the music is soft and bluesy, and somewhere, strategically out of sight, four men are moving a museum’s worth of fine art through an unattended, alarm-disabled fire door.

In the back of the ballroom, I sip my champagne and watch.

“So what do we do?” Zayn whispers in my ear. “I feel like I’m at my damn senior prom in this thing.”

The tuxedo really suits him, I have to say—a deep crimson with black lapels—but he does look decidedly uncomfortable...though not as uncomfortable as Nick, who’s a few feet away from us, fiddling with the cuffs of what I know to be an Armani silk jacket.

“Same,” Nick mumbles.

“What was that, like, two weeks ago for you?” I crack, and cast a pointed look at the lowball glass in his hand. “That’d better be apple juice.”

“Hey,” Nick says. “I’m nineteen, not four. And Will said I could,” he adds, reddening. “Said I had to drink like James Bond to feel like James Bond.”

“And do you?” I ask.

“I dunno.” Nick hunches his shoulders a little, but his eyes brighten. “I mean, the whole heist thing—”

“Tzzp!” I make azip-itmotion with my fingers. “What did I say is rule number one?”

“Oh. Right.” He shuffles his feet—Santoni oxfords, hand-detailed, also courtesy of Jack. “Um. I guess...I guess I feel good?”

Zayn studies him a moment. “You look good, too.”

Nick’s ears go red.

“Do I hear six hundred? Six hundred, ladies and gentleman, for this striking work of expert composition—”

“What we do,” I answer Zayn, as bids pop up and the price goes from respectable to ostentatious, “is blend in.”

“Blend in?” Zayn gives me a look.

“First rule of shapeshifting,” I tell him. “Act like you belong, and you belong.”

---