Page 3 of Bucked By Love

“Now.”

The growl in his voice sends me scampering out of his office. I race down the hall, my feet slapping against the polished wood. I rush into my room and slam the door behind me. Big, billowing white curtains hang loosely around the window nook. My trophies and blue ribbons cover the wall. I flop on my bed and cover my face with my hands.

“Be better,” I say into the shell of my palm. “Be better.”

I reach up to my head. I rip my fingers into my scalp.

My nails bite into the top of my head. I imagine it’s the teeth of the coronation crown.

“Be Belleflower,” I whisper, willing it into existence.

3

CLAIRE

Daddy buys me a horse for my thirteenth birthday.

What he lacks in warmth he makes up for with expensive, pretty gifts.

She’s beautiful.

A gorgeous, cream-colored filly. When I run my hand over her soft neck, she shivers with delight and snorts, nudging her snout against my arm.

Excitement buzzes in my chest, but I know better than to let it show on my face.

Squealing is not lady-like.

“What do you think?” Dagney asks. He holds onto her reigns to let me introduce myself to my new friend.

I love her. I love her, I love her, I love her.

“She seems healthy,” I respond carefully. Everything is a test. Even now, I can feel Daddy watching me a couple paces away as he negotiates with the seller.

“What are you going to name her?” Dagney prods.

I glance towards my father. “Can I name her? Daddy?”

Those steel-gray eyes meet mine. “Go ahead.”

I press my lips in a thin line. I tickle my fingers along her rough hair. “Rose.”

Daddy cuts me a look. I feel it like a knife in my back.

“No,” I correct. “Calypso. The goddess who traps Odysseus.”

My gaze flickers to Daddy. He gives a small nod, which is his way of saying: good enough.

“Calypso.” Dagney smiles. “She’s a tempest.”

I slip my hand over the leather of her saddle. “I’d like to ride her home.”

I say it fully with my chest, so Dagney helps me up.

When Calypso starts moving, immediately, I feel us lock into sync. Her strong muscles push us forward and I squeeze my thighs around her solid back. Her legs move as though they’re my own, and soon, we’re pounding ground, the air whipping through my hair.

“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear and she lets out a small huff of approval.

I’d had my first taste of freedom, and I don’t ever want to lose it.

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