Page 10 of My Dark Horse Prince

The train rockets past, drowning the sounds of my sobs, and I realize that maybe I wasn’t so smart to duck and roll. Snapping my neck might have killed me quickly. The throbbing of my leg, the sharp pains from my shoulder, my clavicle, and my back would all end instead of dragging on and on. Because there’s no way I survive this, badly injured, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere.

Without a coat.

In the rain.

Bleeding to death as nature covers up the gory details.

It’s really just a question of how long I suffer.

We have discussions about this with the vet, when a horse is injured. How long should we make him or her suffer before we throw in the towel? And when that time has come, what’s the most effective way to kill the poor creature?

Now it’s my reality.

I can’t help thinking how sad it is that my mom, my sister, and my dear friend Kris will have no idea what happened to me. My belongings are still on the train, including my phone, my identification, and all my money, but I imagine Yevginiy’s men will dispose of those. So the Russian authorities, if they even find me, will just find an unidentified Jane Doe.

I must be bleeding quite a lot, because it’s not long before my world begins to become hazy. My thoughts are disconnected. My body, blessedly, stops hurting and is no longer cold.

My last thought is that I wish I could have ridden a horse one last time. I’ve avoided it for a decade because it was too risky. One fall and my leg could have been unable to bear weight. One misstep and I would have been confined to a wheelchair for life.

But now I’m dying anyway. . .

In my final moment, as darkness closes in around me, the strangest thing happens.

A vision of a huge, dark horse appears on the horizon, running toward me. He’s got the most beautiful white blaze down his face, and he’s looking right at me, neighing loudly as my world drifts into nothingness. Maybe he’s come to give me a ride to heaven. It’s not a bad way to go.

3

I’m warm.

The air blowing past my face is cold—frigid, even—but my body is somehow warm.

How can that be?

The sun’s rays are just peeking over the horizon as I open my eyes, and I blink repeatedly to clear them until I can look around. I’m in the middle of nowhere, lying on the cold, hard ground, and it’s still lightly raining, but my back is warm.

Suddenly, I remember it all in a rush.

The train.

The woman.

The villain.

The knives.

The window.

My body, broken.

The dark horse, pounding toward me.

Something nudges my hand, and it’s soft and fuzzy. I turn my head slowly, and my eyes meet one big, dark blue one. The dark horse from last night is lying at my back, nuzzling my hand.

I shout and lunge forward, wondering how those stab wounds didn’t kill me.

And more bizarrely, why don’t they even hurt?

Am I in heaven? Is that what happens? You just blink and you’re in the same world, but now you’re not part of it? Is that why I’m warm?

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