Page 110 of My Dark Horse Prince

“No?”

“I mean.” I sigh. “I’m an idiot.” Apparently I come by it honestly, because my mom’s a moron, too. But if she can learn and grow, maybe there’s hope for me yet.

“So you still want me to train you?”

“Do you hate it?” I ask. “I know you’re already struggling to find time for your practice, and with the wedding—”

Kris hugs me then, cutting me off entirely.

“Oh.”

“I love you, Mirdza.”

I choke up a little bit, then. Even after hugging my mom and telling her she’s not trash for a long time today, I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear the same thing.

She finally releases me. “I love helping you. I love you. You’re kind and hard-working, and you care for your family and friends, even if there are precious few of us in the world who have been kind to you. I don’t know many people that would still be a light in the world after all the darkness they’ve encountered, but you’re one of them.”

“Thank you.” I drag in breath.

“Now tomorrow, you get in there and you kick that man if he’s being an idiot.”

“Do you mean Grigoriy? Or Charlemagne?”

Kris laughs. “You know, I did it too, using different names for Aleks when he was a horse or a man, but it’s kind of crazy.”

“What?”

“He’s the same both ways,” Kris says. “He’s not ever really a beast. He’s always a man.”

“Some men are beasts,” I say.

“But not this one.” Kris’s voice is small, but her eyes are intense. “He loves you, I think.”

“He said that.”

“Kick him in the arena, but be kind when you leave it, if you can possibly manage it.”

With that, she heads back toward the house. And I’m left with nothing but a pile of thoughts I don’t know how to sift through.

21

The next day’s training goes much better. I treat Charlemagne like a horse, and he acts like one. But in spite of our seeming breakthrough, Kris works us harder than ever before. To make matters worse, Aleksandr has something going on—he’s still hunting for any documentation or family records or something that will explain why Boris Yurovsky and Mikhail Kurakin’s powers did nothing to Kristiana—so we don’t even have anyone to take our soreness away.

And since I bailed on the grocery store yesterday, for a noble cause, but still. . .I’m stuck going today. Now that I’m buying groceries for three of us, I have to bring home a lot more than I used to. It’s hard, with my leg, but I don’t want Mom to leave, and Adriana’s gone a lot.

The bus, as usual, is running late.

Which wouldn’t be so bad, but I bought sour cream. It’s been sitting a while already, so long that it’s not even sweating. It’s just dropped to the ambient temperature, which is pretty hot since we’re outdoors.

I finally decide to walk to the other line, in case this one has a bus that’s out of commission or something. It’s not as convenient, and the walk from the bus stop to Liepašeta is an extra mile, which is going to kill my bad leg, but at least I have some hope I’ll actually get home. I sling my purse crossways across my body, gather up my bags—four in each hand—and start to cross the road.

That’s when not one, but two of my bags decide to break at the same time. A jar of pickles shatters as it hits the road, creating a dark puddle that spreads all over the asphalt. A bag of lentils busts and scatters, some of them sticking in clumps in the pickle juice puddles.

Cars start honking.

I want to sit down and cry.

Before I can, a large black sedan pulls up close and turns sideways at the last moment, blocking everyone else who was honking. Then the driver’s side door opens.

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