Page 7 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Thank you,” the mother says, her eyes intent.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“I mean it,” the mother says. “We might be dead if not for you.”

The words rock me. I knew it already, but hearing them aloud causes me to tremble again. I should have run. I should have hidden. I should have done anything but inject myself into the middle of that fight. Luckily, post-aid cowardice isn’t immediately obvious.

Of course, when the train stops next, the conductor announcing loudly, “We’ll be stopped for five minutes here at Tosno, and then we’ll depart for Lyuban. Gather your belongings and depart if this is your stop.”

The old woman jerks awake and looks around in a daze. “Is this Tosno?”

I nod.

She scrambles to her feet. “Better get going. Nice chatting.” She leans close and whispers, “You’re ready to bond, young woman. When the chance comes, take it.”

“Huh?”

Her laugh is short and sharp, just like the last time. “You know what bonds are?”

“Like, tying someone’s hands, you mean?” I wish she’d just leave already.

Again, with the cackle. “Chemical bonds are when atoms are drawn together and form new molecules. A government bond is when you’re stuck in a promise to pay, bound to someone over time. You can bond things with glue. Or people with feelings.” She smiles, her teeth as ragged and unkempt as her hair. “But you’re ready for a soul bond—a connection that will change you, and him, forever. You won’t want to do it. It may make you tremble like you did back there with that horrible man. But you need it. It’s time.”

Then without explaining anything else, she just ducks off.

It was nice, in a way, her ranting. It distracted me from my fear of the horrible man, as she called him. He could easily have looked up where our train’s headed, and it would have been a snap for him to drive here faster, if he had a car.

The minutes tick down slowly, but finally, the doors close.

And he doesn’t show.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the train once again sways and rocks and rattles along its path.

A moment later, someone drops into my seat.

I look up, surprised, but it’s the mother in grey. Her eyes are weary, and I’m sure that she’s even more relieved than I am that the man didn’t show up at the stop. Escaping once was a near miss—but he wouldn’t come alone if he returned.

“I put sand in his gas tank,” she says. “I saw it on a movie. I hope it works.”

My heart swells. Not only did she leave, but she took steps to stymie his attempt to follow.

“My daughter’s exhausted, and she wanted to stretch out. I hope this is alright.” She tosses her head behind her.

I turn around and look at her little girl, sprawled at an angle across two seats, her hands wrapped around their small bag as if it’s a pillow.

“Of course,” I say.

“May God bless you for your bravery.”

“I’m impressed with you,” I say truthfully. “My mother never left.”

A shudder runs through the woman. “This is my fifth attempt.”

Fifth attempt.

The words practically hang in the air between us. She’s failed four times. I wonder about the cost of all those efforts.

“A nice, quiet man,” I say finally.

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