Page 7 of My Wild Horse King

“I’m not keen on marrying—not for a while yet. I’m far too young.”

“I feel the same way,” I rush to say.

“Perfect.” He beams at me. “What father would force his daughter to marry an old man when the future czar of Russia is courting her?” He shrugs.

“And then what?” I ask. “I’m fine to wait as long as you’d like.” I’m younger than he is. Even waiting ten years would be fine, if that’s what he wanted.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to pretend for more than a season,” he says. “Or however long it takes for that old man to find someone new.” He winks. “So once he’s otherwise engaged, we’ll announce that we’re nothing more than friends, and we’ll both have been spared some family grief.”

My heart sinks. “Oh. Right.” I nod woodenly. Pretend. I force myself to do it now, too. It’s good practice, apparently. “Perfect.”

But from that moment forward, I make myself a different promise. It may be pretend to Alexei—a favor to an old family friend who shares a similar magical secret. But I plan to win him over this season, and by the end, he won’t want to call our courtship off.

Not ever.

3

KRISTIANA

Perspective’s a funny thing.

While I was growing up, a lot of my friends spent their free time shopping and watching television. I, meanwhile, was busy mucking stalls, cleaning tack, sweeping aisles and tack rooms and porches and the area behind the various cross ties. The bathrooms had to be cleaned twice a week, the trucks and trailers were always dirty, and there was always a horse that needed some kind of special care. Usually, there were several.

The work when you own a stable is never ending.

I didn’t think of myself as a pampered princess. I mean, sure, we had a really nice farm, and we also personally owned a lot of horses, but we worked really hard for what we had. Maintaining it, paying taxes, all of it was a chore, and sometimes it was an axe hanging over our heads. But when I met Adriana and Mirdza, when their mother came to work for our mom, well. Compared to them, we were living in complete luxury.

I try really hard not to look at other people and judge them. I really, truly do. It’s hard to know quite what someone’s history is, and without knowing about the ins and outs of their life, it’s unfair to make assumptions. But I know that Katerina was raised during the early 1900s, and I know her family was wealthy—Aleksandr has told me a little about his life then, and it was different than the world today, but notthatdifferent.

After hiding in her room for days, the pampered princess finally emerges, and the first thing she does is demand that we buy her a ticket to come with us to America.

“The thing is,” I say, “I think the seats on the plane are sold out.”

It’s a lie.

I have no idea whether there are tickets left, and even if a last-minute ticket costs a fortune, it won’t put a dent in Aleksandr’s money. I know this to be true.

But I don’t trust her.

She escaped from Leonid’s a little too easily, and she’s done nothing to connect with any of us. I wouldn’t put it past them to have worked out a plan that she should come with us, inveigle herself with our group, and then report back.

“There must be other flights,” Katerina says. “Can I call to place one? I have a phone.”

She’s clearly already watched too much television. Why can’t she be more like Aleksandr was at the beginning, before he became addicted to the internet?

“I need to ask Aleks what he thinks,” I say. “Who knows? Maybe he can convince someone at the airline to sell us their spare ticket.”

Her eyes light up, making her already stunning face even more beautiful. I suppress the female urge to dislike someone just because she’s prettier than me. It’s unkind, and I’ve always hated it. I try never to give in to those baser impulses, but some people make it particularly hard. “That would be amazing. I’ll just duck back in here and pack.” She nods slightly. “Just in case.”

Her acting all cute and grateful makes me feel horrible for doubting her. What woman in her right mind could possibly be on Leonid’s side?

I decide to do just what I said I would. Aleksandr knows her. I’ll tell him she wants to come and let him decide whether she’s trustworthy. But when I track down where he’s gone, it’s the stable. What on earth he’s doing there, I have no idea. The man doesn’t even like to ride. He loves whenIride him,but he almost never gets on a horse himself. He insists they’re too unreliable, which I find hilarious.

I’m trolling around the barn, distracted by three or four different horses who need my attention, when I finally see him way past the stable walls. He’s coming in from a run, which makes way more sense. Most of the staff isn’t surewhythe black stallion’s allowed to roam free, but they all know it’s true by now. The exterior perimeter fence is somewhat helpful in assuaging their concerns, but not entirely. Only a handful of them know his secret, and so far, they’ve all done a good job of keeping it.

I think it helps that we’re in Russia. People here seem to do way better with things beingweird.

I can’t help myself. I stare transfixed, even now, every time I see him out running. His coat glistens. His mane ripples beautifully like waves on the ocean. And his tail streams almost straight back as his hooves fly over the soft sod, throwing chunks of grass and dirt in all directions.

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