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Yet the deeper part of me, the compassionate side, knew something like that would scar him. He might not show it now, because the wound was so fresh and painful, but that wound would fester and crack and become infected if he didn’t tackle this thing head-on.
I had no right to tell him how to feel, how to grieve, or how to process. I didn’t even know things like that . . . happened . . . to men like him. It was so stunning and confusing, I had no point of reference for how to combat it.
I studied his face. Every new nick and tiny scar. His beard, which had become grayer over the months he’d been gone. More gray than dark these days. And, finally, his brilliant dark eyes, which spoke to everything I was thinking and more.
“Do you . . .” I trailed off, closed my mouth, and tried again. “Do you want to talk about it, John?” My voice was meek, barely a whisper. My hand went to his shoulder to rub between his tense muscles, loosening them.
His face flickered with concern, brow twitching as he watched me and listened to my words. “No.”
I bowed my head, nodding glumly. It was an understandable—
He tipped my head again with his forefinger and thumb, and padded softly over my chin with his callused finger. The abrupt maneuver brought out a soft gasp from my lips. “Do you remember what I told you one of our first days together, when you said you didn’t want my pity?”
I tilted my head, thinking back. It seemed so long ago now, yet I recalled every conversation with Little John. It was only a matter of finding it.
When it came to me, I nodded in the cup of his palm. “You told me that you didn’t pity me, and that you’d never insult me by showering me with it.”
His lips curled a fraction. “I’m begging you to offer me the same grace now.”
I gulped over the lump in my throat, which had only gotten larger and more obstructive as the minutes passed.
“Eventually, little hope,” he said with a disarming smile, “we can discuss it. I can’t think about the tortures I went through right now. Not with you so close to me. I can only think of you—the one thing that saved my mind from collapse during my months-long stay as the Sheriff’s prisoner. The single shining light in the incessant darkness.”
I nodded deeper, understanding.
“What George did to me . . .” He looked away, his face darkening with shame.
“John, it’s okay. You just said let’s not talk—”
“It was an attempt to shift the power dynamic, my love. A maneuver that meant nothing, yet tainted my mind to think it meant everything. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. George wanted to prove he was the better man, the bigger man, because his insecurities, fears, and doubts run so deep. He needed to kick down the ladder, show I was nothing but a criminal and a ruffian. He was trying to make a point . . . and the worst part is . . . I was starting to think he was right.”
I gasped, yet it came out so ugly it sounded more like a hiss. Reeling, I dug my heels in and all but leapt against John’s oak-thick chest. My arms squeezed as much as they could, trying to return warm life back into his limbs.
“He was so, so wrong,” I murmured with a sticky, tear-wrought voice, and then my words came out in a flurry. “Don’t you see? He couldn’t have been more wrong, John. You mean so much to so many people. That was the part of you he was trying to destroy. He was trying to break your spirit and your body, because he knows deep down he is hated and you are loved. Don’t let him do it. Don’t let him break you.
“A man like Sheriff George can’t reconcile the fact his wealth and power haven’t earned him love and respect. So he’s trying to steal yours. And a man like that can’t answer with anything other than violence and ugliness. Believe me—I know better than most what that’s like, because I dealt with those kinds of men for many years. Before I met you lot.”
He hummed in my ear. It sounded like approval and understanding at my fast-spoken monologue. Though the words came out in a half-baked tumble, I felt proud to at least squeeze them out without cracking. The past Robin wouldn’t have been able to.
I guess we were talking about what he went through, after all, because he simply couldn’t stay away. For once, there was something bigger in the room than Little John’s hulking frame. It was threatening to suck all the air out of both of us.
We needed to fight this thing head-on, as I’d initially thought, and roll with the twists and punches when they came to us later down the road. Because they inevitably would.
He said, “When did you become such a sage mind, lass? Did your recklessness take a hit on the head while I was gone?”
I snorted, another ugly sound when it mixed with my sniffles. “I’m still the same hardheaded bitch you learned to love. But . . . some things might have changed while you were gone.”
“Like?” He glanced down at me.
I stared up with a wistful smile. “Well, for one, I became leader of the Merry Men for a time.”
His face slowly brightened with color, utter shock flattening his features.
I wrinkled my nose and playfully slapped his brawny bicep. “What? Don’t act so surprised, ass!”
His laugh caused his belly to rumble against me, and made me laugh, too. “I’m not surprised, little hope. Not one bit. If anyone could get those hopeless fucking men in line, it’s a feisty woman with a heart of gold. It’s genius.”
My lips slanted deviously. “Are you mad you didn’t think of it first?”
