Page 98 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

I look down at the ring, which sparkles like blue fire.

“It exactly matches your eyes,” he says. “But if you hate it. . .”

“I love it,” I say. “Almost as much as I love you.”

Gabe groans. “It’s a good thing I’m getting a car out of this, because I’m already maxed out on my limit of corny crap for the day.”

“Speaking of our new cars,” Whitney says. “When do you think you’ll be heading back to Salt Lake City to fly home?”

“What?” I roll my eyes. “Already trying to get rid of me?”

“A few days at least,” Leonid says. “I don’t want to rush her.”

“If you could give me a ride back when you go, that would be great.” Whitney points at a beat-up old yellow truck parked around the side of the house. “And it’s good timing. My old truck kind of died, and I have a competition in Salt Lake at the end of the week.”

“Siblings,” I say. “Perennial mooches.”

As we walk inside to eat, Leonid whispers in my ear, “But I never had any, and I kind of like it that you’re sort of a package deal.”

Chapter26

Whitney

November hurricanes are rare, but theydosometimes happen. In fact, Hurricane Whitney hit Houston on the very weekend I was born. Mom was at the hospital when it lost power, and then they evacuated us. Mom was huffing and measuring the time between contractions while driving out of town.

She gave birth to me in the back of our family Tahoe on the side of the road. Dad caught me—he said he’d never been more terrified.

Mom said she should’ve known I’d have a tempestuous personality. Maybe she did. She named me Whitney after the hurricane, after all. So while the rest of my family has always been all sunshine and rainbows and happiness, I’ve always gravitated toward storm clouds, lightning, and gale-force winds.

Even so, my mom and stepdad were shocked when I told them I was getting a handgun. They were evenmoresurprised when I told them I wanted a rifle. And when I started winning competitions—sharp-shooting, shotguns, and handguns—no one really understood it. At least when I ride and shoot from horseback, they get that. Sort of.

But no one understood when I said I was graduating with a Political Science degree—specializing in peace and conflict. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, and theyreallydon’t get that. The Archer-Brooks family is nothing if not practical.

“I guess you can always come back here and help me with the horses,” Steve had said.

“You could go to law school with that,” Mom said. “It’s a good foundation for law and order.”

“Or you could help us run the retreat,” Aunt Helen said. “All your attack training might help the visitors sleep easier.”

I’m sick of people patronizing me.

Even though I know they’re not the problem. They all fit in beautifully with one another. They all belong. I’m the odd one. I’m the square in a family full of circles.

I’m all sharp edges and snarling irritation amidst a sea of “I’m sorries,” and “oh, let me help yous.”

I’m the pea under the royal mattress.

I make everyone uncomfortable. But riding in the car with Leonid? I feel like he might actually get me. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

“And the brand new truck,” Izzy hisses.

I suppress my smile. She’ssomuch like our mom without even realizing it. “Yeah, that, too. A new truck will be awesome, you know, for the not-breaking down thing. But also, that awesome toolbox in the back’s going to be perfect for all my guns.”

“Good grief,” Izzy says. “I’m so happy to know that the box I had custom made for saddles is going to be filled instead with weapons.”

Yep. Exactly no one gets me.

When my old yellow truck backfires, again, Izzy grumbles.

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