Page 17 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

The Mustang purrs beneath me as I guide her down the winding road toward Mason's farm, my father's engine running as smooth as the silk blouse against my skin. I'm still buzzing from this morning's goodbye – Rob's fierce kiss, Will's hands in my hair, Tuck's soft words against my neck, the possessive growl in LJ's voice when he saw me in the outfit Jack chose.

“Looking dangerous, Princess.”

Focus, Maren.

But it's hard not to replay the memory, think about how perfectly they move together, how perfectly we all fit together...

The way Rob always knows exactly when to stop joking and get deadly serious.

The unexpected strength in Tuck's careful hands.

How Will stays sharp even when he’s being tender, wielding control like a wand.

LJ’s fierce demands and primal power, pushing the boundary just enough...

Heat crawls up my neck. This is not focusing, Maren.

I force my attention back to the task at hand, mentally reviewing the evidence we've gathered. Property records showing Guy's shell companies. Emails about "clearing out undesirable elements." Financial transfers that paint an ugly picture of exactly how he plans to "restore" Sherwood. All of it printed in Tuck's precise, tiny font to maximize each page.

The shade-dappled road stretches ahead, hills rolling with the late-summer gold of grass baked too long in the sun. Everything looks so normal – just another perfect fall day in Sherwood County. Like there aren't people being forced from their homes, like Guy isn't systematically destroying lives while calling it progress.

My hands tighten on the wheel. The sweater's soft cashmere catches against my calluses, a reminder of the role I'm playing. Just another nice young lady from the next county over, here to maybe buy a cow, see the sights, enjoy the day.

Nothing to see here, folks. Definitely not driving a car full of illegally obtained evidence of corruption and several thousand dollars’ worth of rare books about magical creatures.

A battered pickup rumbles past, the driver tipping his hat. I return the gesture automatically, a nod of the head that’s basically muscle memory...except I can’t remember the last time a strange man gave me the hello, little missy treatment.

Must be the clothes.

Said Guy reminds her of her grandfather—when men knew how to handle things properly.

The memory settles like a stone in my stomach. Jack's warning echoes: Don't assume everyone wants to be awakened.

But they have to know. Even if it means I have to play dress-up and do the soft sell when I’d rather...burn it all down, or something.

I exhale. I must be letting LJ get to me.

The Mustang's engine note changes as we climb the last hill toward Mason's Farm. I checked every inch of her this morning, then loaded up the trunk with everything—the printouts, the books, anything and everything that could point to Guy being a criminal, a thief, or—as a last resort—an absolute kook who believes in real life monsters.

I’ll try whatever sticks. That’s the point we’re at now.

I reach the top of the hill, and Mason's farm spreads out below like a picture postcard—all that’s missing is Virginia is for Lovers scrawled across the bottom. Cars already line the long drive, a mix of mud-splattered Tacomas and Rams and F-150s and shiny Japanese and German crossovers that probably never see dirt and wouldn’t know all-wheel-drive from four-wheel-drive. Somewhere in that crowd are the people I need to reach.

The memory of four very different kisses lingers as I turn onto the gravel drive. I park the Mustang between a pristine Range Rover and a truck that's more rust than paint. Fitting metaphor for Sherwood these days – the haves and have-nots, with nothing in between. The documents in my trunk feel like they're burning a hole through the metal.

I kill the engine and blow out a breath.

Time to find out if Jack's makeover is as good as he claims.

Better be , I think, smoothing the soft cashmere. Cost enough— not that Rob will ever see a bill.

The auction crowd mills around the barn, a mix of work boots on the men and designer wellies on the women.

"Did you hear about the Richardsons?" I catch the voice of a plump woman in a floral dress as I drift closer to a cluster of locals. She looks familiar—I’ve seen her at the diner in town. Always quick with the coffee. "Got three times what that old gas station was worth.”

"Same with the Webbers," adds a balding man in a Hatter’s TrueValue—Local Quality You Can Trust T-shirt. “Those two duplexes down by the creek? Three hundred thousand, I heard, and those things aren’t worth the copper pipes inside ‘em.”

My fingers clench. No. That's not what's happening here.

"Excuse me," I start, and realize with horror that I’ve adopted a Yankee accent—I sound like a girl Will could’ve gone to prep school with. Well, too late now. "I couldn't help overhearing about the property sales. Is this area taking off? I’m..." I realize I haven’t even come up with a cover story. “...a realtor,” I lie.

"Looking to invest in the area?" asks a plump woman in a floral dress I recognize from the diner downtown. She's worked there as long as I can remember, always quick with a smile and a coffee refill. I've adopted my most professional demeanor, channeling the polished real estate agents I've seen at Guy's functions.

"Yes, actually. I represent several investors from the Boston area.” Sure, why not? “We've been hearing fascinating things about Sherwood's... revitalization." I try not to gag as I say it.

“A Yankee, eh?” The balding man in a hardware store shirt gives me a suspicious eye.

“Yes.” Oh, Will, if you could see me now. “I’m...Alexandra," I lie smoothly, extending my hand. "Whitmore.”

He shakes it, dubiously. “Pete.” Just Pete, I guess.

"Well, Miss Alex, you've come at the perfect time!" The diner woman—Shirley, that’s her name—beams. "The whole area's transforming.”

“You don’t say?” I press mildly. “Lots of bids from buyers? So it’s...competitive?”

“Oh, well.” Shirley’s face falls just briefly. “Not quite. There’s been a—what’s it called, Pete?”

“Eminent domain,” he says.

“That’s it,” she says. “Which I know is usually a bad thing, but folks have been getting such generous offers from county government. More than they’d ever make privately.”

“Ah,” I say. “I see.” I tip my head, pretending to run some business calculations, purse my lips. “Hmm. Eminent domain, you say? So the area’s being condemned?”

“Nothing like that,” Pete says, sticking his chest out. “Just that the government’s finally come to its senses and realized it can’t squeeze no more property taxes out of folks who can’t rub two nickels together.”

“Peter!” Shirley chides, and gives him a look that says don’t scare the nice Northern lady off, now. To me, she just smiles. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Miss Alex, but it’s plenty safe around here, too. Don’t let those stories scare you off.”

“Or the sirens,” Pete chortles. “Or gunshots.”

“Pete, if you don’t—” Shirley’s smile falters. She folds her hands conciliatorily. “Granted, yes, there’s bit a bit of an...unsavory element round here, but that’s all about to change.”

I narrow my eyes, still playing suspicious, the perfect picture of skeptical professionalism. “You don’t say,” I drawl.

“We’ve got a new man coming up for district attorney,” Shirley boasts. “And he is not messing around, no sir. Already works in the office as an assistant, and he’s crackin’ skulls.”

“Jesus, Shirl, she’s gonna think we’re swamp people, you keep talking like that,” Pete mutters.

“Law and order is...important,” I hedge. “So he’s favored to win, then?”

“Favored?” Shirley laughs. “Hell, I don’t even know if there is another candidate. Wouldn’t matter if there was. Everyone I know’s voting for him.”

I tense a hand to maintain composure. “So crime’s that much of an issue around here?”

“Oh, no, no,” Shirley says, just as Pete says, “yep.” She gives him a smack on the shoulder.

“More like, what’s he call it?” She thinks. “Community revitalization.” She says the words like they’re a magic spell. “Mr. Gisbourne’s got a whole plan. Word is they’re even helping expedite some of the red tape on these property sales too. Just a real good guy, you know?” She giggles. “Oh, I didn’t even think of that—guy, Guy! Hah!”

I swallow roughly. "That’s an...interesting approach to community development.” I try not to stall out, but I’m struggling to think of a way in, of anything that could talk her down from her hero worship.

Instead, I decide to address Pete. “You seem like a straight shooter, sir. What do you make of these development plans?”

“Don’t mind ‘em,” Pete says simply. “’Specially if they’ll take our money pit off our hands.”

I grimace, but try not to show it. “My concern, of course, is that—in my experience—rapid property value increases can sometimes lead to displacement issues, and—"

"Not here," Pete interrupts sternly. "Everything's being handled proper-like.”

“You mean they’re providing relocation assistance,” I finish for him—knowing they’re doing no such thing.

“Proper-like,” Pete repeats.

"I see." God, I pity Shirley for being married to this stone wall of a man. "But these relocations—they're all voluntary? No pressure from tax reassessments, code violations, back taxes..."

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Shirley’s face, like maybe I’ve come on too strong. Pete doesn’t look too warmly at me either.

“Nothing like that,” he says slowly. “That I’ve heard tell of.”

"Mr. Gisbourne’s just helping clean things up,” Shirley bubbles. “Making Sherwood respectable again."

"Sounds like you're mighty concerned for someone looking to invest," Pete says, his flat tone now carrying just a hint of suspicion.

I force a smile. "Due diligence is everything in real estate. We want to make sure our investments benefit everyone involved."

But I can see it in their eyes—they don't want hard questions. They want the pretty picture Guy's painted: a clean, prosperous Sherwood, with a healthy bottom line for everyone.

Don't assume everyone wants to be awakened , Jack had warned. Looking at their hopeful faces, I'm starting to understand exactly what he meant.

“You know what, Miss Alex, you should stick around.” Shirley’s voice brightens with excitement. "He’s coming by later to make some kind of announcement. See for yourself what the man’s all about.”

“Coming by?” A ringing sound pierces through my ears—a dizziness I haven’t felt in weeks. “Here?”

“Yes ma’am. Wasn't supposed to be here at all, but apparently he rearranged his schedule so he wouldn’t miss the biggest social event of the season.” She titters. “Oh, you must think we’re some awful backwoods folks to be excited about a silly old farm auction.”

“I’m sure she does,” Pete says, no hit of sarcasm.

But I barely hear him. The ground tilts beneath my feet. No. No no no. This was supposed to be safe—Guy had that town hall half an hour away, Zayn had said...

"What time?" I manage to ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

“Oh, I suspect any minute,” she says. “They’re readying the stage—see?”

My heart slams against my ribs as I look to where a few stagehands are setting up a PA system and a podium, with the perfect back drop of red, white, and blue bunting, and the truth settles over me like char and ash from a house fire.

Because I’m realizing maybe the most effective weapon isn't fear or force or money or even magic.

Maybe it’s a fairy tale. Maybe it's giving people exactly what they want to believe, and just leading them right off the cliff’s edge.

And right now, what they want to believe is headed straight toward us.

My heart squeezes as I realize.

The Mustang.

A ride that distinctive, different plates won't help much if someone spots it and knows what they’re looking for.

If Guy sees that car...

For one horrible moment, my thoughts skitter to Zayn. But he confirmed Guy's schedule, swore he'd be tied up at Second Methodist.

Still. Could he have...?

Stop it. The doubt feels like betrayal. Zayn risked everything to help us rescue Rob. He fed us intel, got me the clean plates for the Mustang, brought us donuts, for Christ’s sake. He wouldn't...

Would he?

GO , every instinct screams. The cashmere suddenly feels like a costume, like I’m a child playing dress-up—which is all I am, anyway.

What the fuck was I thinking, coming here alone? Coming here at all? Strutting in with my stupid disguise and righteous anger, thinking I could just show them the truth?

My throat tightens as I make my exit, trying not to look like I'm running.

God, I wish they were here. Rob would know exactly what to say, how to spin this. Will would have that perfect biting remark comment to make me laugh. Tuck would already be forming new plans. LJ would just stand there, solid as bedrock, supporting me.

But they're not here. It's just me, in my borrowed elegance and borrowed courage, feeling smaller with every step toward the exit.

I force myself not to run to the Mustang, but every squelch of these ridiculous boots in the soft farm ground feels like it’s announcing my presence.

A small sniffle stops me.

There's a little girl crouched a ways away by a display of antique farm equipment, maybe seven or eight, nursing her hand and trying very hard to look like she's not crying. Grease marks streak her overalls, and her palm is an angry red—burnt on something.

But it's her expression that catches me: that stubborn set to her jaw, the way she's blinking back tears like showing pain is somehow shameful.

I take another squelching step. Then another.

She sniffles again, louder. She’s really in pain.

Goddammit.

I turn around and stride over for her, fancy boots be damned.

“Hey there,” I say, and her head jerks up, instantly suspicious. “Hurt yourself?”

“It’s nothing.” She tucks her hand into her chest.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” I smile. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” she tries again, then wilts. “I was trying to work on the radiator”—she looks over at the tractor—“and Stevie said it was cool enough, and, and...” She sniffles. “He said girls are too dumb to fix engines. But he tricked me.”

My heart squeezes. How many times had I worn that exact same look, that same set to my jaw when one of the boys at the garage told me to look for blinker fluid or asked me if I could polish his knob for him?

“That’s not fair,” I say. “I bet you’re a great mechanic. You know, I...” I snap my mouth shut before I reveal too much. “I have a lady mechanic. Back home in Boston.”

She stops sniffling. “You do?”

“Sure do. Here.” I hold out my hands to hers. “Can I take a look? I’m a nurse,” I lie again.

She studies me suspiciously, then extends her hand. I lean closer, making a show of examining the burn, all the while checking that no one's watching.

The healing power rises easily now, warm and familiar in my chest. Just a whisper of it, barely enough to notice, and the angry red skin smooths back to healthy pink.

The girl's eyes go wide. "How did you...?"

"Sometimes engines aren't the only things that need a gentle touch to work right." I wink, straightening up. "Looks like you're good as new. And you know what? I bet you’ll never burn yourself on a radiator again.” I wink at her. “That’s because girls learn from experience.”

The suspicion is still somewhere in her eyes, but she's smiling now. "Daddy says I have good instincts."

"Your daddy’s right." I brush off my knees, and then reality hits—I really have to go. “Take care now.”

I walk as briskly as I can to my parking place, heart thrumming with...not victory, exactly. But hope.

Maybe that's where you start. With one person.

The thought settles something in me as I finally reach the Mustang, fumbling for my key. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do now, what I’ll tell the guys, but...that’s a problem for when I’m out of here.

I turn the key in the ignition, but the engine won’t turn over.

My heart sinks. “Come on,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Not now.”

I give it another twist, this one firmer, but nothing—just a whine and a whimper.

“Goddammit.” I inhale, exhale, and try a third time, this time giving it a little gas.

There’s a catch of something, a click. A hiss I can’t quite place.

Then the world explodes.