The Sheriff saying Marian's name made his stomach turn, he had no right to be here. To lay eyes on her. To say her name. How dare he?
Much tightened his fingers around Marian's wrist, though he was careful not to squeeze so tight it hurt - it was a protective (and anxious as fuck) hand, not a painful one.
He tried to channel her, say something smart. Or at least smarter than throwing himself on the Sheriff in the middle of the kitchen (Much knew exactly where the sharpest knives were. He'd sharpened them all himself, last week. "What murder?" he asked, with a sneer. "Who died, Mal?"