Robin Loxley came back to Sherwood on a Thursday—the same Thursday that I knelt on a polished concrete floor and kissed the hand-stitched toebox of Rafe de Lacy’s shoe.
I suppose it wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d known she was back. It had been five years, after all, and she’d been the one to leave Sherwood in the first place. And I was many, many things—young, submissive, obsessive—but the one thing I’d never been, not even as a smitten teenage girl, was foolish. And I had no interest in chasing heartbreak with humiliation.
No thief is good enough to steal the same heart twice.
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