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I felt bad for the boy inside.
The other half of me wanted revenge for what he had tried to do. Were it not for that symbol of my brother’s protection—the skull in the woods—he would have gotten everything he wanted from me. Peter Fisher might have even killed me in his attack, because the best victim was a dead victim.
I couldn’t reconcile or forgive him for that.
I knew I was at an inflection point in my life—a moment that might spell out my future journey.
Only dark thoughts filled my head.
Inside, I prayed God would show me strength. I’d never put any effort or power behind prayer, but what could it hurt?
“Why am I doing this to you?” I repeated, folding my arms over my chest. “It wasn’t my decision, Squire Fisher. You did this to yourself.”
He scoffed. “That doesn’t even make any—”
“Besides,” I cut in, not caring to hear what he had to say, “I could ask you the same question. Why did you do this to me?”
I hoped he would understand my question deeper than face value. It’s why I had cut him off: Of course he hadn’t physically abducted himself. It was the consequence of his actions that led him here. Can’t he understand that?
Apparently . . . no.
“I did nothing to you,” he chided, baring his teeth.
“You tried.”
Little John’s eyes flicked over to me, doubt creasing the edges. The other Merry Men glanced over, unsure what I was saying.
I suppose I need to be out with it. Doing that seals Peter Fisher’s fate surer than anything else. I know that.
The darkness—my vengeful nature—won out.
I could have seen Peter Fisher released. Could have called it all a big mistake and made the Merry Men untie him and send him on his way.
Instead, I said, “Peter Fisher didn’t give me this bruise on my face. That was a lie. He did something much worse.”
“Robin . . .” John choked out, stepping toward me.
“He tried to rape me. He tried to steal my dignity and peace.”
A rasp of metal sounded behind me as Will Scarlet slid a dagger out. “Son of a fucking bitch.”
John’s arm shot wide, stopping the impulsive young man’s advance on Peter Fisher.
I fought back tears burning behind my eyes, summoning the wrath of all my years of pent-up hatred.
Something caught the corner of my eye, and when I looked over I saw Will was handing me the dagger by the handle.
I gulped. Slowly took the weapon and curled my fingers around the cold leather hilt. I stepped in front of Peter Fisher, closer, and his eyes reverted back to the scared child. The boy who didn’t want to die, and wished he could take back what he’d done. Maybe he even regretted other things in his life and was busy flashing through them—men like this were rarely a one-off. I doubted I was his first prey.
This time, he had simply fucked with the wrong girl.
I held the dagger-point to his neck, the soft flesh giving way and indenting where I lightly pressed. A bead of blood trickled down his throat.
A thrill clawed up my spine at the sight of the blood.
He whimpered. Stuttered. “You d-don’t have to do this, Maid Robin. I-I can redeem you. Yes, you’ve been made an outlaw by the authorities at Nottingham for how you’ve marred me, but I can retract my claim! I can say it was all lies I fabricated—and I will! Just let me g-go. You can have y-your . . . honor back.”
I heard a trickling sound as he pissed himself.
