Page 107 of My Dark Horse Prince

“And did you stop him?” Kris asks. “Did you even try a half-halt?”

“I mean, I can’t go hauling on his reins. It’s not really a horse. He’s a person.”

Kris throws the crop she’s been slapping against her thigh onto the ground. “I quit.”

“What?”

Charlemagne whinnies loudly.

“Neither of you listen, so there’s no point in me wasting my time out here.”

I’ve realized lately that it’s not just Blanka I want to win back. It’s my life. More than a decade ago, I lost everything that mattered to me. I couldn’t ride. My dreams of the future were gone. Everything went down the drain.

For the first time since that horrible day, it has felt like I’m really living. I might ride into the ring and complete a circuit in a Grand Prix… I might win my horse back, my heart-horse, and I might qualify for the Olympics. While I was training years ago, anything seemed possible.

It’s felt like I’m getting my life back, only now, Kristiana’s giving up on me. I slide off Charlemagne’s back and try to run after her.

But my leg isn’t having it.

After riding all day, I don’t have the strength to race after her. My leg gives out, and I drop to the ground and start to bawl. Charlemagne bumps me with his nose repeatedly. I shove him away. “Just stop.”

He bumps me again.

This time, I shove my hand on his face and say, “I wish you were a man.” Because then he’ll be naked, and he’ll have to go away and leave me alone.

It works.

A split second later, a very naked Grigoriy’s standing in the middle of the arena, naked as a jaybird, except for a saddle pad he’s holding around his mid-section.

“Have you lost your mind?” He glances around. “Anyone could have seen that. Grooms. That trainer John.”

“No one’s here,” I say. “It’s blisteringly hot, and we’re the only idiots stupid enough to be out here. Now go away.”

To my shock, he listens, stomping off toward the old barn.

Only my saddle and bridle remain, lying in the dirt forlornly. That leaves me to haul them to the tack room myself. English saddles aren’t too heavy, but with my overworked and complaining leg and the sun beating down overhead, I’m sweating and swearing up a storm by the time I finally reach the tack room.

The grooms are looking at me like I’m nuts, but I don’t even care. I drop off my tack, wipe it down, and start stomping toward the corner of the barn where my apartment’s located. I’m almost there when I hear him.

“Mirdza.” He doesn’t sound angry, which surprises me.

“I don’t have the energy right now.” My leg’s throbbing, and I’m sweaty, and I stink, and I lean against the doorframe of my place and close my eyes, trying my hardest not to cry.

He’s closer than I thought he could be when he whispers, “Mirdza, look at me.”

I don’t want to look at him. That’s always when I get confused.

“It’s my fault,” he says. “I can feel that you’re scared. I can feel your hesitancy, and I want to show you that it’s going to be fine. That’s why I rush toward the jumps.”

“But it’s not safe when you do that,” I say. “You’re the horse, not the rider.”

“I know.”

“And it shows that you don’t really listen to me.” You big liar.

“I know.”

“If you know everything,” I say, turning to glare, “then why can’t you just—”

---