Page 10 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

The moon hangs fat and yellow, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn to where Guy’s mansion sits, all pristine white columns and perfect symmetry.

“So this is it,” Tuck murmurs. “Casa Gisbourne.”

I’d laugh if I weren’t so nervous. Two stories of elegant brick, painted a white so pure it almost hurts to look at, even at night. The black shutters stand at attention like soldiers guarding the windows, while the cupola perches on top like a crown. Everything about it screams old money from the precise trimming of the boxwoods flanking the entrance to the gleaming fanlight windows. The curved front steps leading to that imposing doorway might as well be the entrance to a courthouse or bank, not someone's home.

My fingers itch to mess up that perfect facade, to give in to LJ’s idea and just burn the place down.

But we're not here for vandalism. We're here for evidence.

A few lights are on—not many—and the air around is silent: no distant music or TV noise, no engine growls.

We slink closer, sizing up our entrance options. The main gate off the road was easy enough to get past—no fence on either side, we strolled right in—but now there’s the small matter of the house gate itself, a wrought-iron thing with stone walls extending on either side, maybe ten feet high.

“Seriously, this is what passes for taste these days?" Tuck whispers beside me. "It's like someone watched Gone with the Wind and thought ‘give me one of everything, but worse.’”

He’s nervous, I can tell—cracking jokes to try and lighten the mood, so I laugh through my own skyrocketing anxiety. “I know, right? Like, look at this place compared to the rest of Sherwood." I clench a fist, nerves ebbing into anger.

Because that’s what we need to do, isn’t it? Just look at him, show everyone what he’s made of. The contrast between this antebellum monstrosity and the sagging porches and patched roofs in town makes my blood boil. Mrs. Patterson couldn’t even dream of a place like this.

"To be fair," Tuck says carefully, "we also lived in a mansion while trying to help people."

"That's different." I kick at a shrub. Tuck gives me a look that says is it?

“We don’t have the house anymore anyway,” I point out, and wonder what Rob and LJ are seeing as they investigate. I think of everything we left behind, think of Will’s scowl in the shack, his sarcasm, his deep worry that without all those things, that stuff, we wouldn’t make it.

I wouldn’t stay.

“So what’s our move?”

Tuck studies the perimeter with that familiar analytical focus, muttering half to himself. "We could scale the wall here, or try and pry open the gate...” His fingers drum against his thigh as his gaze drifts up to the top of the wrought iron, where a camera lens blinks—pointed away from us, but still. “Damn,” he mutters. “Okay. Well, if it’s just CCTV, I can trace the line once we’re inside and find the console unit, and then if it’s just recorded locally, it’d be easy enough to—”

Crack. The rock hits the security camera with a satisfying smash of pieces and sparks.

Tuck blinks, then huffs out a soft laugh. “Or...we could do that. Um, nice aim.”

“Thanks,” I say, already moving forward. “Middle-school softball finally pays off.”

But I catch the slightest slump of his shoulders, like maybe I stole his thunder.

Tuck starts toward the gate, but I catch his sleeve. "Wait." My eyes track along the property line, where the camera was pointed, memory prickling. During my time as Guy's "guest," I spent a lot of time walking these grounds, because I needed something to do, and his library wasn’t exactly full of beach reads. Obviously, I’d checked out the garage, which wasn’t much to write home about, but if I remember correctly...

There . Half-hidden behind a cluster of hydrangeas. The fence isn't quite flush with the ground, creating a gap just big enough for someone to squeeze through if they're desperate enough.

I lead Tuck closer and push the hydrangeas aside. “Ta-da.”

"Good catch," he whispers.

We shimmy under the gap, dirt dragging along my belly and thorns catching at my jacket, and emerge squeezed next to the garage. Tuck dusts himself off, and together we slip toward the driveway, toward the house.

That’s when I see it – sleek lines gleaming in the moonlight, chrome winking like a cruel joke.

My Mustang.

I freeze, heart stuttering in my chest. She's exactly as I left her, down to the tiny dent in the rear quarter panel from that time I clipped the side of the garage entrance when doing a three-point turn. But what the fuck is she doing here?

"Maren?" Tuck's urgency melts into concern when he sees my face. His hand finds my shoulder. "Is that...?"

"My car." My voice comes out rough. The implications hit like a sucker punch. Guy seized it as evidence, or he straight-up stole it, but either way, it’s creepy as fuck, and corrupt as hell. “What is he, a serial killer? He needs a trophy of me?”

"We'll get it back," Tuck promises. "But right now we need to—”

"?Quién está ahí?"

We both whirl around. A woman stands in the shadows of the garage, holding a basket of laundry. Even in the dim light, I recognize her: Rosa, Guy’s maid, her kind face now tight with alarm.

Fuck fuck fuck. My mind races. If she raises the alarm...

But then recognition flickers in her eyes. "?Senorita Maren?"

Before I can respond, Tuck steps forward. “Buenos noches, senora," he says softly in perfect Spanish—because of course. "Necesitamos su ayuda. Por favor."

Rosa's eyes dart between us, then to the house, then back.

“él es mi...” I struggle to remember high-school Spanish, which was mostly our teacher putting on Plaza Sesamo on an ancient TV cart and stepping out for a smoke. “...amigo. Tuck. Está bien.”

I cringe, hearing myself. What am I doing? She speaks English. “Rosa, it’s me,” I say, redundantly. “This is Tuck. He’s...a friend.”

She nods, looking from me to the giant, tousle-headed hunk of a nerd to my side, and I hold my breath, watching the internal war play across her face. Finally, she sets down her basket.

“Mister Guy," she says, switching to English, “he is angry you left.” She meets my eyes. “Very very angry.”

I nod, throat tight, remembering the bruises I saw on her when I first got here.

“He say...you supposed to marry him?”

“No!” I cry, before I can restrain myself. “I mean...no, no. That was a lie. He’s...we’re...”

Tuck looks at me, not moving, like he’s waiting for my cue.

“Can you...just explain what we’re trying to do? That we’re not on his side?” I whisper. Tuck nods. In a torrent of Spanish, he addresses Rosa, complete with gestures and nods and answers to a few of her questions. She looks suspicious, then intrigued, then...relieved, it seems. Maybe even excited.

“He is not a good man,” she says, in English, once Tuck is finished. Looks at me. “I am glad you come back. But only to do this.” She smiles at Tuck, and he mutters something else I don’t understand but that makes Rosa laugh.

She picks up her basket again, gesturing for us to follow. "Come—the kitchen. No cameras."

As we slip after her into the shadows, I catch Tuck's eye. See? I want to say.

But there's no time for that conversation either. We have secrets to steal. And somewhere out in the darkness, our silver-haired looking is keeping watching, waiting to signal when our time runs out.