Page 26 of The Wicked Prince

“I can frame some of them for you if you’d like.”

Robin’s head snapped up at his voice, and he realized he probably shouldn’t have said it. Too late.

“Explain. Now.” Robin’s voice was dark and guttural, the way it had been when they’d first met and she’d been disguising it.

“It seems pretty straightforward to me. I’m an artist. I draw. The noblewoman turned outlaw turned princess makes for an interesting subject.”

Robin gestured to the papers around her. “Thisis far more than just an interesting subject.”

He supposed it did look rather… obsessive. He’d thought it a good idea at the time to separate out his work for organizational reasons. He had plenty of landscapes… they just weren’t stored in his room. Of course, when he’d done it, he hadn’t expected Robin to break into it and find them.

Robin grabbed the stack of spares for the wanted posters and shook them at him. “You drew every single wanted poster!”

“So?”

She gaped at him. “Why?”

John crossed his arms, unable to look her in the eyes. He stared at the stack of rejects and muttered, “No one else got them right.”

It was his dedication to excellence and his determination not to let an inferior artist be the reason he didn’t catch Robin. His life depended on it.

John was under no delusion he would last more than five seconds on the frontlines.

“I don’t…” Robin whispered, dropping the sketches like they were burning her as she stumbled to her feet, tripping on her dress. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you, I draw—”

Her gaze landed on him again. “You. I don’t understand you.”

John didn’t really know what to say to that.

Robin kicked one of the sketchbooks, sending it across the room.

He’d designated that one for the wedding plans, including getting what would be needed for her room and wardrobe.

“Well?” she snapped. “You love the sound of your own voice, but now you’re silent?”

“Would you rather have had furniture that didn’t match and dresses that didn’t fit?”

John blinked and then his head slammed into the floor as something dug into his stomach and knocked the wind out of him. He reached out for something—anything—and his fingers closed around something metal, and he quickly pulled it up, just in time for it to clang against more metal.

He had a curtain rod in his hands, bracing it in front of his neck, and it was the only thing keeping Robin’s dagger away from his skin. Robin’s knee dug into his stomach farther and he tightened his grip on the curtain rod, his heart pounding as he sputtered and wheezed.

“You listen to me, and you listen well,” Robin snarled, pushing back against the curtain rod with one hand while poising her dagger over his heart. “Whatever sick little game this is to you? I’m not playing it anymore. I’m done.”

John couldn’t even get enough breath to ask what in all the stars’ light she was talking about.

“Your obsession with possessing me ends now. You can trap me in this marriage, and you can send my family to the ends of the continent, but that’s all you’re going to get. I’m done being your prisoner and a pawn for your amusement. Your manipulations aren’t going to work on me. You’re not going to isolate me. You’re not going to keep me in this castle like some little doll to position and dress and play with while our people suffer and starve.” Robin reached forward with her other hand, grabbing his jaw and saying, “I decided to stand up to you when I was thirteen with nothing more than a cheap hunting bow and some mismatched arrows. I vowed to put a stop to your injustices and that vow will be first in my heart above any words you might have coerced out of me. Play whatever games you want. But you’renotgoing to break me.”

Robin let go and shoved the curtain rod back into him before she climbed off him and ripped it out of his weak grip.

John coughed and rolled onto his side, reaching for his stomach as she stormed toward the door connecting their rooms. Even if he had any words to say, he couldn’t get them out past his desperate choking.

Robin took no care as she stormed through the drawings spread across the floor, several of them ripping beneath her shoes. Then the door slammed shut, and he heard the lock click. He rolled onto his front, his arm buckling for a moment before he managed to get himself onto his knees.

He ran a hand through his hair as he caught his breath and the ache in his head deepened.

He wasn’t really sure how long he sat there before he slowly moved to pick up the drawings and sketchbooks she had left scattered and ripped in her wake. Once he’d gotten through what was still whole, or at least only a little crumpled, he reached for the ripped drawings.

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