Page 140 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

It feels so ungrateful of me to not spend time withhimafter he’s done me this great service, but I cannot help it. The request flies out of my mouth. “May I please take her for a ride?”

A smile stretches across his face. “Why do you ask me for permission? Do as you please.”

I let out a high-pitched sound of excitement. I cast about for a stable hand—only to have Rahk call for him to aid me at once. As Bartholomew is being saddled, I cannot help but look back at the prince, with his usually severe manner so warm and pleased as he turns to go back into the house.

And then I’m running back toward him. He stops at the sound of gravel crunching beneath my shoes. His face is surprised, yet again, as I throw my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek.

His hand comes up at once, catching the side of my face and tilting it toward his. I haven’t a second to be taken aback before his mouth claims mine in a searing kiss that shocks me to my core.

It’s not a long kiss. In fact, it’s very short. Just a firm press of warm lips—there and gone.

Rahk releases me, and his face is not amused anymore. Instead, he looks at me very intently. In that moment, as I stand there frozen, still on my toes, I don’t know if he means to communicate something with that black-eyed gaze of his or if he is studying my face for a reaction.

I drop down to my heels. I cannot bear the intensity of his focus, so I swallow and retreat a step. My hand has found my hair, raking through it like that will somehow help me not drown in this moment.

“Thank you!” I blurt, meaning the horse.

I realize only as I turn and charge back to the stables that it sounded like I was thanking him for the kiss.

More than ever, I need the pounding of hooves beneath me, the wind tangling in my hair, the solid comfort of Bartholomew supporting me. Swinging into her saddle is like coming home. Together, we race out of the stables and into the grounds behind Rahk’s estate.

It is like taking flight. I stand a little in my stirrups to stay out of her way, her movements full of power and yet so smooth. We soar across a green ocean of grass. Sharp wind drives tears from my eyes and into my hair. Bartholomew always loves when I let her gallop as fast as her heart wants, and that joy seeps from her muscles into mine. Rahk’s kiss will be considered later. Right now, I’mfree.

I missed her so much.

She wants to keep going, even when we reach the edge of Rahk’s estate. I haven’t the heart to stop her, so I let her take us toward the fields near Caphryl Wood.

We ride over the edge of the hill. I grin as we crest, savoring the sheer power of Bartholomew’s body, when my grin is suddenly wiped away in puzzlement.

The valley below me, that leads into the forest, isn’t empty as usual. There are . . .people.

Bartholomew comes to an unsteady halt at a word from me. I survey the scene before us.

The people look mostly poor, with tattered clothes and old, dented hoes and trowels. There are not many of them, perhaps a dozen in all. They are busy working in the part of the field that glitters at night. The part of the land that is now recovered from the forest. In the midst of this work, I catch glimpses of fresh plants and though it’s hard to tell from here, I could almost swear there is one the size of a small tree with enormous red fruit on it.

“Ymer will eat you all!” roars the troll’s deep, rickety voice. “Get off Ymer’s land!”

The troll is on his feet—the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing. He holds his club in one fist and stomps around the grass. People scatter at his approach, taking advantage of his slowness. Then, when he is distracted, others rush in behind him to keep working.

Bartholomew nickers beneath me, sensing my unease.

“What on earth?” I whisper.

I swing my leg over to dismount. Ymer continues railing at the people. They mostly give him a wide berth, but his face grows redder by the moment. If they miscalculate and get too close, hewillkill them.

“Stay here, love,” I say to Bartholomew, keeping her away from Ymer’s gaze.

I grab my skirts and jog over to the nearest person. I never take my eye off of the troll. It is a middle-aged woman I reach. “What are you doing?” I hiss. “That troll will kill you!”

“Yes, yes,” replies the woman eagerly, her face bright, “but this is a miracle! We plant the seeds, and the fruits ripen withindays! They are bigger and sweeter than anything we’ve ever seen!”

The small tree with enormous red fruit, I realize in shock, is a tomato plant, with tomatoes bigger than a cantaloupe.

How am I going to continue my raids if there are people here? And what if Ymer actually starts killing people?

“Is that you, small elf?” roars the troll. “Ymer will skin you alive!”

My heart lurches. Everyone in my nearby vicinity scrambles to safety. I tear my gaze away from the strange plants, register Ymer’s approach, and pump my legs into a run over the hilltop. I grab Bartholomew’s reins and leap into her saddle, turning her around quickly.

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