Page 21 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

I step into the conservatory, and the heat hits me first. Not the blazing, oppressive kind but the sticky warmth of too many people and too much perfection in one place. The air smells sickly sweet—forced-bloom flowers, all pastel petals and artificial beauty, their scent mingling with the acrid steam from the coffee service. It's like stepping into one of those overly curated Instagram posts, everything immaculate but just shy of feeling real.

Jack outdid himself. I feel like a trophy on display, wrapped in a dress that hugs in all the right places and shows just enough to stop anyone from looking away. Every eye turns as I make my way deeper into the room. I tell myself it’s the dress, the hair, the makeup. Nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with what I’ve done. Or where I’ve been.

Lies. Every step I take reminds me they know. Or at least, they think they do.

The wrought iron and glass of the conservatory stretch above me, a shimmering dome of control. Even the maze-like layout feels intentional—Guy’s little metaphor for Sherwood, no doubt. Perfectly designed. Impossible to escape. The polished tiles underfoot reflect the light from chandeliers above, refracting it into rainbows that dance across the floor. I feel trapped, but I keep moving.

And then I smell him. Bourbon, sharp and cloying, before I even see him. Sheriff Wheatley corners me like I’m a prize calf, his wide grin as crooked as his badge.

"Miss de Mornay," he drawls, his breath as warm and foul as the bourbon in his glass. "Looking like you’ve traded the grease for glitter. Nice to see a girl like you can clean up."

I force a smile, tight and thin. "Nice to see you managed to make it out of a uniform. I’d almost forgotten you own other clothes."

He barks a laugh, too loud for the elegant surroundings, and leans in, his bulk crowding me closer to the glass-paneled wall. "You know, I always wondered how much you knew about Rob Locksley. Guessing more than you let on, huh?"

My stomach tightens, but I don’t let it show. He wants a crack, a chink in the armor. Not tonight.

"I know enough," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But I’m guessing you’re about to tell me something I’ve already heard."

Wheatley’s eyes glint with something mean. "You sure? Like how your boy Rob was dealing back in the day. Not just selling, mind you. A real entrepreneur. Always wondered where he got the cash for that hideout of his. Now I’m thinking I’ve got my answer."

It stings. Damn it, it stings, even though I know. Even though I’ve already faced it. Rob told me himself, in words sharper and harder than Wheatley could ever hope to match. And yet, here’s this greasy man with his bourbon breath, trying to twist the knife.

"Is that right?" I murmur, tilting my head. "And here I thought you’d be too busy covering your tracks to worry about Rob’s past. Guess I was wrong."

His grin falters, just a fraction, before he recovers. "You’re playing a dangerous game, girl. You think those boys can protect you? They’ll leave you high and dry the second things get rough. Just like they’ve always done."

"Good thing I’m not relying on them, then." I step past him, my pulse thundering in my ears. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sheriff, I have more interesting people to talk to."

The smile I flash is brittle, but it’s enough. I don’t stop to see if he follows. I just walk, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the burn in my chest. Control. Just like Guy’s conservatory. Everything perfectly in place. Everything just so.

I’ll be damned if I let him see me break.

My heels click softly on the tile as I move deeper into the maze of glass and steel, trying not to let my own reflection catch my eye. My heart is a hammer, each beat echoing the frantic thought: Can I pull this off? The idea of looking Guy in the eye and saying, You were right, I was brainwashed by the shifters churns my stomach, but I have no choice. If I’m going to find a way to expose him, I have to play the part.

But before I spot him, another figure catches my attention—a voice, really, cutting through the din of polite laughter and clinking glasses. My body reacts before my brain fully processes: stiff shoulders, clenched fists.

John.

He’s surrounded by a cluster of well-dressed donors, holding court like a king in exile. His too-slick smile, the gleam in his eyes—they haven’t changed a bit.

"I’ve been working tirelessly," he’s saying, voice carrying over the hum of the crowd, "to clean up Sherwood. Property development is only the beginning. We’re creating opportunities, revitalizing the community."

The words are poison wrapped in honey. I know exactly what "revitalizing" means. Evictions. Families left out in the cold. My stomach twists, but I can’t look away. Then, as if sensing me, his gaze shifts.

Shock. Genuine, for once. His drink pauses halfway to his lips.

Then the calculation sets in.

"Maren!" He beams, a too-familiar mask of warmth sliding into place as he moves toward me. The donors part like a sea, giving him full reign. "My dear, we were all so worried about you." His voice drips with saccharine concern, the kind that makes my skin crawl.

I don’t answer. My throat feels tight, every muscle in my body trembling with the words I want to scream at him. The lies. The theft. The years he spent gaslighting me, keeping me under his thumb, stealing not just my inheritance but my future. I want to tell him everything. To rage. To spit. To finally have my say.

But I can’t. Not here. Not now. Not without blowing my cover.

"Nothing to say to your uncle?" His voice dips, and I catch the edge of a sneer creeping in. "I can understand. It’s been a difficult time for you. Running off with those criminals—well, we all make mistakes. But we can fix this. Together."

I can’t trust myself to speak. My nails dig into my palms, and my vision narrows, focusing only on his smug, vile face. I’m seconds away from losing it when—

A cool hand slides onto my elbow.

"Dear, don’t do something you’ll regret." An older woman, dressed impeccably, of course: emerald silk, her silver hair pinned just so. Her grip is firm but not harsh, a subtle command that I should listen.

And the voice is sharp and soft at once, cutting through my haze like a scalpel. I’ve heard that voice before.

“Cecily Gisbourne,” she says. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”