Page 39 of Far From Sherwood Forest

All morning, I’ve been debating with myself on whether or not I should go to Robin. On one hand, I told him I never wanted to see him again. On the other, I can’t shake the feeling that he should know something else happened. I doubt he has more answers than I do, but, as much as I hate him, I still hate being alone in this. In this lack of understanding every time two worlds collide.

I don’t fully make up my mind until the end of the work day and I’m already in my truck, driving out of the park.

When I get to the ranch Robin works at, I open the gate and drive through. I’m not entirely sure how to track him down, so I’m relieved when I spot Spencer coming out of what looks to be the bunkhouse.

Pulling up, I roll down my window when he stops at the bottom of the steps. “Is Robin around?”

“Yeah.”

That’s all he says. Justyeah.

“Mind telling me where?” I snap at him.

He grins. “Depends. You’re not here to kill him for stealing your truck the other day, are you?”

I tried, but my dick got hard instead.

“No.”

He narrows his eyes, not looking entirely convinced. Then he tips his head toward the side of the building. “He’s in the shed over there.”

I give him a nod and drive a little farther, gravel crunching under my tires, before parking and cutting the engine. When I get out and approach the shed, I hear hammering coming from inside, the distinct clinking of metal on metal. I open the door, not bothering with knocking.

Robin is holding a steel bar in one hand, the other end of it red and hot as he hammers it against the top of an anvil. He stops and looks up as my boots step on a creaky board.

“Henry!”

He nearly drops the hammer in his shock at seeing me. I can’t say I blame him considering the way I left things yesterday.

“Sorry. Um. Hold on.” He turns away to place the steel bar into the glowing coals inside the forge up against the back wall. As he lets it reheat, he looks back at me. “What are you doing here?”

His voice is rough, his throat clearly still raw from the throat fucking I gave him. If I didn’t have so much on my mind, I might feel more satisfaction.

“I wanted to show you something.”

“Okay,” he says, confusion etched in the lines of his face. “Would you mind just letting me finish this? It’ll only take a minute.”

“Sure.”

I walk around a worktable in the middle of the shed, trying to look anywhere but at him. It doesn’t happen. My gaze keeps going back to him as he works, the muscles in his back rippling beneath his gray shirt as he takes the bar out of the coals and starts hammering it again. It’s warm enough in here from the hearth that he doesn’t need a jacket, and I watch as a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. The muscles in his arms flex every time he brings the hammer down, more defined thanks to his tanned skin.

“What are you doing?” I ask, desperate for something to distract myself.

“Making arrowheads,” he answers in between strikes.

“You make your own?”

I won’t admit it to him, but I’m actually kind of impressed. Now that I know that’s what he’s doing, I can make out the socket of the arrow he’s forging.

He shrugs as he holds the bar up to inspect his work. “It helps clear my head.”

I wish I had something that did that for me. I could use it right about now because being here, having a somewhat civil conversation with him, is fucking me all up.

When he’s satisfied with the socket part of the arrow, he sets the hammer on top of the anvil and lays the steel bar on the brick wall of the hearth. He turns to face me, a kind of cautious bewilderment in his eyes.

“What did you want to show me?”

I hesitate briefly before shrugging out of the right side of my jacket, my gaze remaining on Robin as his lips part. I swear his breath hitches. Taking a step toward him until there’s only a couple of feet between us, I roll up the right sleeve of my park shirt. It takes him a moment to break the connection of our eyes before he finally drops his to my arm.