Page 22 of Far From Sherwood Forest (Far From #3)

“Is it that they don’t expect as much?” Taking a risk, I turn to face him. The true risk turns out to be how much of a distraction the sight of his naked body can possibly be. “Or that they don’t expect the same things as they did back in Nottingham?”

Henry stares at me, his brow furrowed so deep like he hadn’t even thought of it that way.

“Maybe that.” He tilts his head, and I swear I can see a glimmer in his eyes. “I fucking hated that spoiled ass prince.”

I can’t stop the short laugh that bubbles up. However, it fades quickly.

“Why did you serve him? Why did you…”

My voice dies before I can ask the question, and I look away. I told him I forgive him. Asking that feels like a contradiction.

“Why did I kill your father?”

I keep my eyes down and stay quiet, which ends up being enough confirmation for him.

“Because your father was a lord, and my orders were to kill any influential people who refused to pledge their allegiance to Prince John, whose loyalty remained with the king. But that’s not what you really want to ask.”

My gaze snaps to his.

“You want to know if I regret it.”

“Do you?” I ask as I hold my breath, my voice barely a whisper.

His eyes bounce between mine then dip down to my mouth, as though he’s memorizing my face. “If I said I didn’t, would you take back your forgiveness?”

I shake my head without hesitating. I forgave him more for myself than for him, so, no, I wouldn’t take it back. However, I’m not sure what else would change. Maybe I should feel guilty for being attracted to him and having sex with him after knowing what he did, but…I don’t.

The longer our gazes remain locked, the bigger the knot in my throat gets. I clear it and look away again.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to know.” I step beneath the stream to rinse off, needing to change the subject. “What do you think happened after we left? With the prince and King Richard?”

“All I know is that the prince had been planning something for the king’s return,” Henry says as he finishes washing his body. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes averted. “But I haven’t really thought about it. It’s not like it matters now.”

“It makes me sad to think that Prince John won.”

“Because you fought so hard to keep that from happening?”

I nod. “Because of what that would mean for all the people under his rule. Richard was a good king. Under John, the people would grow poorer. They’d starve and die for the sake of a greedy tyrant.”

“It’s not your problem anymore, Robin.”

Turning to him once more, I glare at him because even though he might have a point, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“That’s bullshit. It’s not that simple. I can’t think of it that way.

It may feel like a whole other life ago, but it was still my life.

I had a purpose. I think I would’ve regretted giving it up, but being forced to give it up doesn’t make me feel any better.

Just because I can’t do anything about it doesn’t mean it stopped being my problem. ”

“So it turns out you haven’t let everything go after all.”

Shit.

He’s right.

“It’s one of those things that still haunts me, I guess,” I admit. “That I was going to give up. That I was going to let the people down all on my own.” I pause before taking another risk. “That I let you down.”

Henry’s expression hardens. “Nobody let me down. Only pissed me off.”

“If you say so,” I mutter with a grin.

“Should I go back to being pissed off?”

When he takes a step forward in the small space, it brings him dangerously close. That along with the cold look in his eyes has me shooting my hand out, laying my palm flat against his chest in a weak attempt to stop his advance.

It’s not my strength that stops him. It’s my touch, his gaze darting down to where my palm rests over his heart.

“Please don’t,” I whisper.

He doesn’t look back up, his eyes closing instead.

His breathing slows but grows deeper so that I feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under my hand.

Quite possibly risking life and limb, I raise my other hand and place it over his right pec, slowly— so slowly—trailing my fingertips down through his chest hair.

The tension seems to bleed out of him, his shoulders slumping. It’s not just the tension from this moment. It’s like all the tension he’s carried since the first time I saw him months ago is leaking through the cracks that are forming in his walls.

For someone as closed off as Henry is, I’ve noticed he likes it when I touch him, when he actually lets me touch him.

My hands travel a little lower until they’re splayed across his stomach. I take a single, cautious step forward, wanting to be even closer. He allows it. For a second.

Then his hands come up and wrap around my wrists, not squeezing tight, just enough to keep me from moving further. His gaze slowly lifts to meet mine, and I can see him pulling away.

“Don’t.” It’s another pleading whisper.

Please don’t pull away.

Gently pushing my hands away from him, he says nothing as he releases me and turns to exit the shower, giving me another view of those scars slashed across his back. I wince, both at the reminder of his pain and at the rejection.

After he’s gone, I stay in the shower, standing beneath the hot spray, wishing things could be different between us.

Eventually shutting off the water, I step out to find a dry towel waiting for me on the hook.

I dry off and then wrap it around my waist before walking out into his bedroom.

It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon outside.

Henry is sitting on the edge of his bed in another pair of those tight, black boxer briefs.

He’s facing away from me, staring out of the window at the dark sky.

I peer around his room, wondering what I’m supposed to do since he said he put my clothes in the wash.

“Do you have any clothes I can borrow?” I ask even though I’m sure I’d drown in them.

He doesn’t answer.

“Henry?” I take a step forward, but he doesn’t budge. “I can see if Spencer minds giving me a ride.”

“It’s late,” he finally says, his voice gruff but soft. “You could just stay.”

Maybe I’m imagining things, but I swear I heard a question mark at the end of that sentence.

Does he want me to stay? Does he not want to be alone?

When it comes to Henry, it’s difficult to make assumptions.

“Um, okay.” I peer behind me through the open door into the living room, trying really hard not to grin like a damn idiot. “I could sleep on the couch, I guess.”

He lets out a short, breathy sound that’s almost a laugh and shakes his head. “We just had sex and then took a shower together. Get in the damn bed, Robin.”

Now I’m definitely grinning like an idiot.

Since he’s wearing underwear, I decide to leave the towel around my waist as I pull back the covers on the side of the bed closest to me and slip beneath them.

Once I’m settled in, he does the same. He keeps space between us, but I’m not going to complain.

Just sleeping in his bed with him is enough to try to wrap my head around.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him why he’s letting me stay.

But if it is because he doesn’t want to be alone, he’s not going to tell me that.

“Goodnight, Henry,” I whisper into the dark.

“Night.”

It’s a single syllable, but it has my heart doing somersaults in my chest.

I don’t know how long we lie there awake, but I know he doesn’t fall asleep right away because his breathing doesn’t change. His thoughts are loud, nearly deafening in the quiet darkness. I wish he could share them with me, but I’m not going to push it.

It’s like I’ve been chipping away at the mortar of his stone wall with nothing but my bare hands—slow, deliberate, one piece at a time. If I hit it too hard, the whole thing could collapse and bury us both.

I think I probably fall asleep first. When I wake up sometime in the early hours of the morning, it’s to the heavy weight of Henry’s arm draped over my waist, the length of his warm body pressed against my back.

I pretend to still be asleep.

I let him pretend it never happened, that he didn’t hold me just a little bit tighter before he rolled away.

He can pretend. He can forget if he wants.

But I won’t.

I can’t .