Page 43 of My Queendom for a Horse

I bolt past him, shoot down the stairs, and jog out the door without another word.

I’ll deal with his insistence that he come along tomorrow.

Because there’s no way my surly, infuriatingly strong, cursed magician man is coming with me on another date.

Absolutely no way.

9

Riding Obsidian Devil continues to be the best part of every single day. He moves like no horse I’ve ever ridden, and I guess that makes sense.

Because he’s not a real horse.

We sail over a four and a half foot jump, and he turns just where I signal. “Yes, exactly like that.” I pat his neck. It’s gotten easier to treat him like a horse when he’s a horse, but I have found myself talking to Five a little more like he’s a human without thinking.

Which isn’t really that abnormal for me, anyway.

“I wonder how high you can actually jump.”

Obsidian Devil tosses his head.

“I don’t want to hurt you, of course.”

He snorts.

“And it’s not strictly necessary for us to test your limits. I mean, the races I do are more about speed and consistency. Some of the jumps are hard, technically, but it’s the addition of the extra horses jockeying for a place that make them really difficult.”

He jogs forward, pulling on the bit. I take it he’s game to try a few higher jumps.

I call one of the grooms over to move the jump up another six inches. “This is five feet,” I whisper. “It’s the highest I’ve—”

Before I can even tell him that we’ll take it in six-inch increments, he takes off, and we’re moving toward a very steep jump without the right positioning. I consider ripping his mouth off. It’s super rude to take off when I haven’t told him to go.

But we’re more of a partnership than a rider and mount. I decide to let him decide whether he can make it and simply let him move.

He sails over it with at least another six inches to spare.

The poor groom’s mouth is dangling open.

“Eduards, why don’t you take it up another notch?”

He nods, his eyes wide. After he shifts it, he doesn’t bother walking toward the edge of the ring. He wants a front row seat, apparently.

“This time, how about you wait for me to tell you—”

But again, he just takes off.

“Hey, that’s really rude.” I gather up my reins, but just barely, before we’re swinging around, heading for the wooden bars. “Whoa, there.”

He doesn’t seem to be listening to me at all when his shoulders bunch, and we sail over the five and a half foot jump.

Easily.

And now I’m wondering if we should try six feet. Because it really feels like he could do it, no problem.

Eduards might be having a mini-stroke. He’s staring at us wide-eyed.

I mean, it has been fun, and he did clear it with room. “How about—”

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