Stutely looked the Prince dead in the eye, burning hatred in his expression. Slowly, deliberately, he rested his boot over the shattered remnants of the horse statue and ground it down.
There was no way, he thought. No fucking way the Sheriff had worn her down by being nice to her.
(Not even after the demon and the torture? Not even after he'd put on the hero act and carried her out of Beelzebub's clutches?)
If the Prince thought Marian was cosy with the Sheriff, if he thought she was — fuck — it was because she was putting it on. Cos it was what she had to do to survive. Or cos she thought she had to do it for them; she'd put herself through anything for them, she'd built a dungeon in her home for them.
(Ten weeks, though. Ten weeks, and most of 'em alone with the Sheriff, or worse than the Sheriff. Will knew what that kind of isolation could do to a person's head, how it could twist things around; it wasn't the same, but—)