Page 5 of The Wicked Prince

Robin hadn’t been able to save Marian from her own bad decisions, naivety, and traitorous heart. Now Robin was going to be responsible for the deaths of the men who had taken her in, had practically raised her, had joined her when her conscience could not bear watching Prince John bleed the country dry.

Robin spent the night tossing and turning on the floor of her cell, each time curling her legs up and wrapping a hand around her left. Prince John had won.

But they weren’t executed the next day. Or the next. Or at all.

Every day, they were given food and water. Not a pittance, but not a lot. It became obvious after the first two meals Robin’s portions were a little bigger. A little better quality. Fresh fruit. A tiny, fluffy pastry the likes of which Robin hadn’t had since she was a child, before she’d ever met her men. It had made her blood run cold. She had to take a slow, measured breath and convince herself it wasn’t some secret message.

As they ate, her men’s eyes were on her, but they never pointed it out. She didn’t either. Acknowledging the difference in their meals meant questions, which meant telling them about the proposal, and that meant their overreaction.

Still, Robin didn’t like the implication.

That maybe there was something serious to Prince John’s offer.

The guards didn’t even so much as rattle the bars of any of their cells despite the Merry Men jeering at them and banging on the bars. In other circumstances, Robin would have joined in. She had on the way to Lathe. It had gotten her bow snapped in half right in front of her and jeering from the Sheriff about how it would be her neck next.

Now she sat in silence, feeling the ghost of Prince John’s hand on her jaw and his voice echoing in her ears. His soft, mocking words sank into her skull and rattled around at night.

She was exhausted.

She didn’t know what that snake was up to, but she wasn’t falling for it.

Whatever it was.

After a week in the dungeons and more than three dozen unrealistic escape ideas from them all—one of which for some reason involved Alan dressing as a lady-in-waiting because apparently Robin couldn’t pass as one and everyone knew her face—like they wouldn’t somehow figure Alan wasn’t a woman when they saw his beard—the guards came in at the usual meal time, but they were short one portion. Robin’s portion. But they still approached her cell.

Her three men immediately shot to their feet, creating a deafening clamor as they yelled at them to leave Robin alone.

Robin simply held her head high as the men grabbed her and hauled her out of her cell. She did call out behind her, “Don’t worry, boys! I’m going to be just fine!”

She hoped they believed it more than she did.

The halls of the castle blurred by her as she was dragged through them, her heart pounding faster with every step. She couldn’t help the sigh of relief she let out as the guards took her past the hallway that led to the throne room. She breathed even easier when they took her up a staircase and not out into the courtyard where they’d roll out the gallows.

But then she realized one of the places they could be taking her, and her blood ran cold.

She’d heard every story about Prince John there was. She’d made it a point to know her enemy. Every story, every rumor, every whisper, she knew. While this particular wickedness wasn’t one of them, for every terrible thing that was public, there had to be ten more he kept secret.

And since she’d made it clear she wouldn’t marry him willingly…

Robin started struggling.

When one of the guards flung a door open and shoved Robin through it, she stumbled, but her head snapped up. She was in a study. Thank the stars. Before she could get her bearings, a chair was in front of her and she was being forced into it. She struggled, but the guards managed to shackle her ankles to the legs and her wrists to the arms. She tried to bite one of them in the shoulder, but they were finished and heading for the door. Her head was twisted, facing the door as she glared at them as they left. If he’d just been alittlebit closer, she would have had him.

“What are you, a rabid dog?”

Chapter3

Robin jumped in her seat at the voice revealing she wasn’t alone in the study. Her head immediately whipped around to face him.

The study was huge, with several sizable windows and a bench stretched beneath them. Prince John was sitting on said bench with his legs on it, one knee up and his arm draped over it. He was watching her with something like amusement and something else like disgust in his eyes.

Robin’s lips curled into a smirk as she spotted his bandaged hand. She pushed against her restraints, shifting the chair infinitesimally so she could glare at him better. She opened her mouth, but didn’t get a word out as Prince John jerked back and pointed at her. “Ah! You stay right there! I’ve got stitches in one hand already—my drawing hand, by the way—I’m not letting you get the other one!”

Well, at least she didn’t have to worry about him trying anything. She might be restrained, but he was still cowering on the other side of the room from her.

Good. Although now she felt a little silly for fearing something more nefarious in the first place. She was Robin Hood. There couldn’t be any fear, only strength.

Wait, why had he said drawing hand instead of writing hand?

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