Page 55 of The Wicked Prince

The fourth he turned the knob. Well, he tried and couldn’t. It was locked. He spent that night sitting up against the door, his head in his hands.

He had no idea what he’d done wrong so he couldn’t even try to fix it.

That didn’t even include the issues he now had with the Merry Men, who could not leave well enough alone.

It seemed every other day the Sheriff was pulling him aside and telling him they’d caught one. John always gave the same order: wait until nightfall and have them thrown outside the city walls and make sure they couldn’t get in the same way again.

Somehow, they kept finding new ways.

And John was terrified one day the Sheriff wouldn’t catch them before they got to Robin.

And Robin was pulling away from him, so he wasn’t even around her as much to ensure they didn’t get close enough to take her away.

She was doing that all on her own.

One glorious afternoon where Robin was actually sitting in the study, working with him, he saw her rubbing at her temples. Her hair was pulled back tightly by a flurry of hairpins. He should pay her handmaids more for such a golden opportunity.

John was a desperate man whose pride had abandoned him when Robin did. So he shamelessly rose from his desk and crept toward her. She didn’t notice him until he took the seat beside her on the sofa. She looked up, and he heard her breath hitch in her chest as she stared at him.

His fingers brushed her temple, skimming back to her hair. “May I?”

Robin swallowed and turned her head to give him access to the back of her hair style. “If you must.”

John’s fingers were in her hair immediately. He moved slower and gentler than he ever had before, like she could vanish beneath his fingertips at any moment.

By the time half her hair was draped down her shoulder, she whispered, “Why do you do this?”

Because he was a coward.

“Because you’re my wife. I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Say what?”

“‘My wife.’ You say it—” Robin sighed. “You say it like you’re trying to say something else.”

John’s hands stilled, resting on her neck. “What do you think I’m trying to say?”

Robin turned around in her seat, bracing herself on the back of the sofa and the arm. He shifted closer, blocking her in. Her eyes darted up from his lips to his eyes. “Marian thinks you’re in love with me.”

Oh no.

“Who cares what Marian thinks?”

“She’s my cousin. I care.”

“What does it matter if your cousin thinks that? What does it matter if everyone thinks that? They’re supposed to. You’re my wife.”

“Like that! You’re saying it like—” Robin’s gaze darted down again. “Like you’re saying—”

He knew what she was about to say, and he couldn’t let her. Once those words were in the air, everything was going to collapse. So John did the first thing he could think to do.

He kissed her.

Robin made a muffled squeak as his lips crashed into hers, his hand sinking into the half of her hair he had pulled down. He shifted even closer, grabbing her waist and pulling her up against him. He was a man who’d spent days in the desert without water as a storm broke above him. After so long without it, he was going to drown himself in it.

Robin’s hand landed on his shoulder, and when it tightened into his shirt instead of pushing him away, he threw himself into the kiss deeper. He didn’t care that his desperation was pouring out of every inch of him as he kissed her again and again. He didn’t want it to end. He was terrified of what was going to happen when it ended, so he was going to keep going in the hope that maybe he could kiss her long enough to make her forget what she’d been about to say. To make her forget the words she was going to use to break him.

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