Page 16 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

The bell over Jack's door chimes like nothing's changed, like I'm just another customer walking into a bougie boutique instead of a ragged, dirty literal fugitive with stolen documents in her car. The signature scent of leather and sandalwood hits me, and for a moment I'm back in simpler times.

Relatively speaking, anyway.

Soft jazz plays in the background as Zayn and I slip inside, mingling with the faint clink of hangers sliding on brushed metal racks as some well-heeled shoppers browse the racks. Jack’s got fall ensembles set out already: twin sets, plaid, corduroy. I catch Zayn look at a price tag and shudder.

“I’m going to do a sweep outside,” he mutters, and I nod just as Jack calls from somewhere unseen.

“Hello, welcome in! I’ll be right—oh!”

He emerges from behind a rack of cashmere, immaculate as always in fitted slacks and a dove-grey sweater, and actually gasps. “Maren!”

He rushes over and engulfs me in a hug too quickly for me to warn him away from my grimy body.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says, pulling away and brushing at his sweater. “I get an employee discount.” He winks. “My God, it’s good to see you.” He lowers his voice. “I thought you were...” He clears his throat, his smile warm but careful. "I was starting to think you'd found another stylist,” he finishes brightly, casting a conspicuous eye around the shop.

"Never." I manage a grin, trying to ignore how ridiculous I feel under the boutique's flattering lighting. "You're the only one who understands my complicated relationship with couture."

"Speaking of which..." He eyes my current ensemble, then my unwashed hair hastily pulled back, then circles under my eyes that would probably show through spackle. "Darling, what are we wearing?"

“MegaValu,” I say, and Jack presses a finger to my lips.

“We do not speak that word in here, young lady.” He sighs. “Thank God I’m here.”

“Thank God,” I agree.

“What are we...shopping for today, then?” he asks carefully. “Occasion-wise?”

“Well...” I gesture at myself. “I need to look... different. But not too different. Like someone who belongs at a farm auction. Without looking like, well, me."

"Ah." His eyes sharpen with interest. "A transformation, then. My specialty." He circles me slowly, professional assessment replacing friendly concern. "We want Lauren Bacall meets Southern sophisticate, I think. Strong but subtle."

"Exactly." I relax slightly. This is why I trust Jack – he always seems to understand what I need, even when I can't quite explain it.

The bell chimes again and Zayn slips in, cop-instincts making him check corners and exits before letting his guard down. "All clear outside. Though we should probably..." He trails off as Jack turns, and I swear the temperature in the boutique spikes about ten degrees.

"And who is this?" Jack's voice drops to a rasp. "A new one in your little harem?”

My face goes brilliantly hot. “Um, no, that’s...”

"Deputy Zayn Rashad," Zayn says, all business. "I'm, uh, providing security."

"Mm, I bet you are." Jack's smile could melt steel. "Well, Deputy, while I'm working my magic on our mutual friend here, perhaps we should find you something more..." His gaze trails over Zayn's uniform, badge, gun. "Suitable for undercover work."

"Oh, I'm not really..." Zayn clears his throat. "I mean, I'm just here to watch Maren's back."

"Honey, that khaki shirt is watching no one's back.” Jack bites his lip, then turns back to me. "Now, for you – classic pieces, nothing flashy. The goal is to blend with the Young Garden Club crowd without drawing attention."

He starts pulling items from racks with deft, precise movements: tailored black pants, a cream-colored silk blouse that feels like water against my skin, low-heeled boots in butter-soft leather.

"Try these first," he instructs, steering me toward the dressing room. "And spritz on some of the freesia body mist from that display, while you’re at it.”

I catch Zayn's eye in the mirror as Jack herds me along. He's watching Jack with a mixture of fascination and alarm, like someone who just realized they're in way over their head. I know the feeling.

The dressing room is a haven of soft lighting and plusher-than-necessary carpet. I slip into the first outfit, and Jack's voice carries through the door: "Now, Deputy. Are you aware of the transformative power a little tailoring can have?”

"No, really, I'm fine," Zayn protests. "The department gives us our uniforms."

"I know. That's exactly the problem."

I emerge in the black pants and cream blouse, and Jack circles me with a critical eye. "Better, but not quite..." He shakes his head. “Too business, not enough casual.” He disappears into the racks again, returning with an armful of options. "Try the camel sweater and those salmon pedal pushers. Very Ralph Lauren meets country auction."

Three outfits later, I'm starting to remember why I usually stick to jeans and tank tops. But I have to admit, Jack knows his stuff. Each piece feels like its own miniature shape shift – making me into a new Maren, someone classic enough to blend in, but stylish enough to take seriously.

"Thank you," I say quietly as he adjusts the collar of a particularly promising linen blazer. "Not just for this, but for...before. Letting Rob know where I was when Guy had me."

Jack's hands still for a moment.

“I wish I could have done more,” he says. “I just—”

“You did plenty,” I rush in. “I’m safe now, aren’t I?” I give him the nickel-tour version of my escape from Guy’s as Jack tucks a few pins into the ends of the sleeves, marking where they need taking up.

“God in heaven, the second I saw what that man was trying to dress you in..." Jack shudders delicately. "All those precious little sundresses and pearl sets. Like he was styling his own personal Stepford Wife. I mean, I knew you’d look stunning, obviously, but still.” He moves to the accessories wall, selecting a delicate gold chain. "He wanted you done up like some country club debutante. Which, no offense to debutantes, but..." He gestures expressively at my general existence. "You're clearly more Bette Davis than Grace Kelly.”

“Thanks,” I say, only vaguely aware of who those women are.

“A woman needs to dress for who she is , not who some man wants her to be,” Jack says, and I smile.

“Amen to that.” I catch his eye in the mirror. "Still. You took a risk. If Guy had found out—"

"Please." He drapes a silk scarf around my neck with expert precision, then pulls it away, shaking his head. "That man may think he owns this town, but he doesn't own me. And watching him try to turn you into his perfect political prop was..." His nose wrinkles. "More than just a crime of fashion, if you ask me.”

A laugh bubbles up, surprising me. It feels good, normal, like maybe everything isn't life-or-death all the time.

"Now," Jack says, producing yet another outfit, "try this with the boots. And remember – shoulders back, chin up. Channel your inner...” He spins a hand in the air, thinking. “Whoever that busty redhead girl is from the Kevin Costner cowboy show.” His smile turns wicked. "After all, you're not on the run. You're just a nice young lady from the next county over, here to maybe buy a cow."

The bell chimes as two women in tennis whites drift in, shopping bags swinging from their wrists. They barely glance our way, too absorbed in whispered conversation.

Something about them makes me pause. Jack notices.

“Oh, them.” He brushes the air. “Gossipy old biddies. Don’t pay them any mind.”

“Mm.” I adjust the blazer's sleeve, thinking. “Jack?”

“Yes, darling?”

"What are people saying? About me?" At his raised eyebrow, I clarify, in slightly lowered tones. "The poor missing fiancée of Guy Gisbourne."

His hands still on the scarf he's refolding. "Oh, Maren." He glances at the tennis ladies, then draws me deeper into the racks, voice dropping. "It's...well, quite the soap opera, from what I’ve overheard."

My heart plunges. "That bad?"

"Depends who you ask." Scarf folded, he pretends to adjust a display while talking. "The Fox Hunt Club set is convinced you're the victim of those 'awful criminals' who've been 'terrorizing' Sherwood." His eye roll could win awards. "Poor, delicate thing, stolen from your brave ADA fiancé."

My stomach turns at the word fiancé.

"Guy's been..." Jack's perfectly groomed eyebrows arch, "...leveraging your situation quite effectively." He pretends to adjust a display while talking. "'Despite my personal tragedy, I remain committed to cleaning up our beloved Sherwood.' That kind of thing.” His impression of Guy's accent is unnervingly accurate.

"You're kidding."

"Oh, Maren, I wish I were. The blue-hairs and Botox gals are falling all over themselves to support him. Mrs. Rockingham-Chase wrote a check for his campaign right here the other Sunday– and you know how tight she is with her dead husband's money." He leans closer, voice dropping. "Nothing opens pocketbooks like a handsome man with a broken heart."

I think of Mrs. Patterson at the big box store, seventy years old and standing for eight-hour shifts, greeting customers with that same warm smile she used to give me in AP English. While Guy uses me to charm checks out of rich widows, real people are suffering.

Zayn shifts uncomfortably behind us, giving a tiny, uncomfortable cough.

Jack brightens. “Yes?”

"He’s like that at the office, too,” Zayn admits in an undertone. "He's got this whole schtick: brings coffee, asks for updates on the search, shows them pictures of you from his phone. Always the same one, you at some charity thing in that blue dress..."

"The Roland Mouret?" Jack interrupts, appalled. "That man has no sense. That dress was totally wrong for your coloring."

Not the point, but I’m grateful someone has my best interests at heart. "What else, Zayn?"

Zayn's voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the tension in his jaw. "Always manages to work in how you were 'confused' and 'vulnerable'. It’s gross." His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Half the force is convinced you're Stockholm syndromed. The other half thinks Rob has you drugged or magically enthralled or something."

The words hit like a physical blow.

"We're going to stop him." My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “Once they hear what he’s doing to people—taking their homes away—”

"Maren." Jack's voice is gentle in a way that makes my spine stiffen.

“What?”

He fusses with my collar, not quite meeting my eyes. "Sweetheart, I’d do anything for you, or Rob—you know that. And your righteous anger is very Joan of Arc meets Erin Brockovich, but..."

"But what ?"

He sighs, hands dropping. "This is Sherwood County. People aren't as up for a revolution as you think."

I follow him into the shoe section, where he pretends to be very interested in arranging boots by height. "Jack. Come on. What aren't you telling me?"

"Just what I hear." He adjusts a riding boot with excessive care. "Which is a lot, by the way. Amazing what people will say while trying on Louboutins."

"And?"

"And..." He glances around, then speaks quietly. "People like what Guy's promising. Restoring law and order. Lower taxes. Property values going up.”

"You mean where he's evicting half the neighborhood?" I cry, forgetting to keep my voice down.

"Which looks like 'cleaning up crime-ridden areas' to the people who matter." His voice turns bitter. "Bunny Whitmore was in here yesterday, going on about how safe downtown feels now. How clean ."

"Because he's driving out anyone who can't afford his version of clean!"

" I know that." Jack straightens a row of heels with military precision. "And you know that. But people see what they want to see. And right now? They see a strong, handsome DA candidate promising to restore Sherwood to its 'former glory.'" The air quotes are audible. "Do you know what Gloria Ashworth told me at her last fitting? That Guy reminds her of her grandfather – 'when men knew how to handle things properly.'"

I make a gagging sound. "Gross.”

“I don’t disagree. But...well, look. Half these people are still hung up over the War of Northern Aggression. You think they’re on the side of the common man?”

"But once they see what he's really doing—"

"They'll see what they want to see." He softens slightly at my expression. "Look, I'm not saying don't try. God knows this place needs shaking up. Just..." He adjusts my blazer with careful hands. "Don't assume everyone wants to be awakened."

"They'll care," I insist. "Once they know the truth—"

"Okay, okay." He holds up his hands in surrender, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Whatever you say, Emmaline Pankhurst. Now try these boots – if you're going to start a revolution, you should at least have decent footwear."

As I stuff my feet into the shoes, Jack tilts his head thoughtfully. "You know, you're quite persuasive when you get going. Ever consider going into law yourself?"

I start to laugh, but then catch my reflection. The tailored blazer shapes my shoulders into something authoritative. The silk blouse softens without weakening. Even my usual mess of hair looks purposeful, like I meant for it to have that windswept quality. I look... professional. Polished. Like someone who could stand in a courtroom and make people listen.

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. The life my father wanted for me, before everything went sideways. Law school, maybe. Fighting the system from the inside instead of running from it. Would I be standing in Guy's office right now, if things had been different? Working as his junior partner, believing in his version of justice?

The thought sends a chill down my spine.

"No," I say finally. "I think I'm better suited for... alternative forms of justice."

"Hmm." Jack circles me with a critical eye. "Try this." He hands me a cream cashmere sweater and dark slacks that probably cost more than my first car. "Very Lauren Bacall Goes to Court."

The moment I slip them on, I know we've found it. The outfit walks the perfect line – expensive enough to blend with the auction crowd, but understated enough not to draw attention. Classic pieces that whisper old money rather than shouting it.

"Oh." Jack's hands flutter like excited birds. "Oh yes . Look at you – the tailoring, the lines..." He adjusts the sweater's cowl neck with reverent fingers. "Fit for a queen."

I study my reflection, trying to see myself through stranger's eyes. Would anyone connect this polished woman with the lost fiancée? With the "confused" and "vulnerable" girl he describes in press conferences?

But will they listen? a small voice whispers. Even looking the part, even with proof in hand – will it matter to people who've already chosen what to believe?

"Perfect," I say, squaring my shoulders. "This is the one."

Jack beams, but I catch something careful in his eyes as he rings up the sale. Like he's watching someone walk into a fight he's not sure they can win.

Guess I'll have to prove him wrong too.

#

Zayn keeps us carefully at the speed limit on the way back, and the sheriff's cruiser eats up asphalt in silence. My new clothes still carry that fresh-pressed smell, all crisp fabric and possibility. But Jack's words keep echoing, drowning out even the engine's steady hum.

"Awful quiet over there." Zayn's voice has a careful lightness to it. "Still worried about the boots with the slacks?"

"Jack's right about them and you know it." But the attempt at banter falls flat. I stare out the window, watching Sherwood scroll past. "Do you think he's right about the rest of it too?"

"About Guy?"

"About people falling for it. This whole white-knight thing.”

Zayn's quiet for a moment, just the tick of the turn signal as we pass the Nottingham town limits. "People like that, in that store?” He snorts. “Yeah, I believe it.”

I hate to admit it, but I believe it too.

I slide down in my seat a little as we pass Jimmy's Auto Parts. The familiar red and white sign that's been there my whole life now sports a newer addition: GISBOURNE FOR DA in pristine white letters. Jimmy, who used to waive invoice after invoice for me when Uncle John wouldn’t pay the fucking bills at the shop.

"But what about everyone else? They're not stupid ." The words come out sharper than I mean them to. "They have to see what's really happening, right?"

Zayn sucks his teeth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

“Nothing,” Zayn says quickly. “Just...maybe they see what they want to see, and...” He exhales. “You know where I grew up around here, right?”

I half-shake my head. “Vaguely?” I answer, embarrassed. “Not really. In my defense, we only met a few weeks ago.”

Zayn chuckles. “Feels longer. Anyway, it’s...let’s just say not the right side of the tracks. And the people I know...” He trails off.

“What?” I say. “The people you know what?”

He takes a long breath, flexes his brown fingers on the steering wheel. "Look, my family and friends aren’t exactly Fox Hunt Club people, you know? Unless we’re working as waitstaff.”

I nod, wincing. “And?”

“And they love him.”

"What?" The word comes out strangled. "But those are exactly the people he's—"

"Yeah, I know. But..." Zayn shakes his head. "He shows up at Marcus's barbershop every other Friday. Tips more than the cut costs. Remembers everyone's kids' names. Talks about how once we get crime under control, they’ll be bringing manufacturing back, doing job programs, cleaning up the neighborhoods."

"He's lying."

"Course he is. But he's the first person in a suit who's even bothered to lie to them in years." Zayn's voice is heavy with something that sounds like experience. "Most politicians don't even pretend to care about the houses down there. But Guy? My man pays damn good lip service. He’ll go to church and clap in the pew, then kiss the grandmamas on the cheek and tell them God bless. "

The sourness in my stomach spreads. "While he's trying to push them out.”

"While he's trying to push them out,” Zayn agrees. “But he looks them in the eye while he does it. The American Dream, Gisbourne-style."

I think about Jimmy's sign again, about all the small compromises that add up to complicity.

The cruiser slows as we approach the treeline, gravel crunching under the tires. My shopping bags rustle in the backseat, and I think about how the women who'd usually buy them would probably cross the street to avoid Zayn's neighborhood.

The radio crackles. "Unit 47, what's your 20?"

Zayn grabs the handset. "47 here. Following up that reported bear sighting near Miller's Creek. Nothing so far." He winks at me. "Probably just someone's dog. Area's clear, moving to sector 4."

"Copy that, 47."

He clicks off, but doesn't restart the car. "Hey. Don't let it get to you too much."

"Kind of hard not to,” I mutter.

"Look, if anyone can pull this off..." He turns to face me fully. "I've known Rob a long time. I saw him get clean, saw him get out. Saw him become twice the man I first met, and he was a stand-up guy when I first met him. But I’ve never seen him like he is with you. You're good for him—probably for all of them,” he adds, although with less conviction in his voice.

I try to laugh it off. "What, you mean the part where I can literally heal their wounds?"

"Not what I mean and you know it." His smile is gentle but firm. "You remind them what they're fighting for. Why it matters. And if you can talk that hard-headed son of a bitch into something, I don’t doubt you can convince the rest of Sherwood, too.”

The words hit something raw in my chest. "But what if I can’t?”

"Then convince whoever will listen to you." He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a manila envelope. "Speaking of which—if you want to be convincing...” He fans out the contents: registration, insurance cards, a set of license plates.

“They’re clean,” he says. “For your car.”

My throat tightens. "Zayn..."

“Don’t thank me yet,” he cautions, not quite meeting my eyes. "A ride that distinctive, different plates won't help much if someone spots it and knows what they’re looking for. But I suspect you’re gonna drive it no matter what, so I might as well do my best to help it go incognito.”

“Guilty,” I admit, taking the envelope. “Thanks, Zayn.”

Zayn nods. “So at least running them won't bring up any flags." His eyes drift to the shopping bags. "Those boys are gonna love what they see."

"We'll see." But I can't help smiling.

“Maren, quit trying to be cute and take the compliment. They’re lucky and you know it.” His voice goes quiet. "The four of them. Finding someone like you."

I scoff. "Someone who brings chaos and property damage wherever she goes?"

"Someone who makes them better—and not just healing. Someone who brings out the best." He says it simply, like it's just fact.

"Well." I gather my bags, oddly touched. "Here's hoping you find someone like that too." Then I grin. "You should stop by the shop again. I hear they're getting in men’s cashmere for fall next week..."

“Yeah, yeah.” He laughs. “Get out of my car.”