Page 114 of My Dark Horse Prince

No, two buckets.

“Oh.” I slap Grigoriy. “Why did you do that?” I straighten up and throw my hair behind my shoulders. “He just doesn’t listen.” I feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

“Nice try,” Kris says, “but I noticed your hand grabbing him by his hair. Nice move, by the way.” She coughs. “Either way, sorry to interrupt, but we got your confirmation. You’re in.” She waves a paper at me and beams. “You’re officially racing in the Grand Prix in just over a week.”

I can barely contain my squeal.

“And that’s not all,” she says.

“Not all?” I don’t understand.

“I thought you’d be happy to know that your other four horses, the ones Brigita didn’t return so that she could spy on you more?”

“Yeah?”

“Apparently Danils bought them for you and had them delivered. They’re all back, in the stalls across from your apartment. You can run your whole program properly again, if you still want to.”

22

The next morning, my mom’s squawks wake me up.

“What’s wrong?” I rub my eyes as I drag myself out of bed. Adriana’s already gone. She’s always been an absurdly early riser.

“He signed.” My mother’s hand is shaking. “I just got a notification from the court that the petition for divorce, which was only just served a few days ago, has already been signed.” She blinks. “Once the requisite thirty days have passed. . .it’ll be official.”

He did it.

Danils brought all my horses back, well, except for Blanka. And he got Martinš to sign—exactly what he said he’d do. I’m not sure how I feel about it, except that I’m utterly grateful. It’s been a very long time since anyone other than Kristiana has done something so kind for me.

When I leave my apartment, helmet in hand, I’m already running late. I’m never late, so in spite of all the good news, I’m a little flustered. But when I start across the courtyard for the old barn, I pull up short.

There’s a beautiful, shiny, powder blue Ford Bronco in the parking space right outside my apartment with a big red bow on the hood. My name’s scrawled across the front windshield.

I can barely force myself to take the steps required to reach the driver’s door, and when I open it, there’s a card on the seat.

Mirdza.

My name is the only thing on the windshield, and it’s the only thing on the front of the card, too. It’s written in a slashy, masculine hand. My fingers shake as they open it.

Mirdza,

Since we ‘haven’t broken up,’ I decided I should take better care of you. It’s not safe to take rides from strangers.

Don’t take the bus anymore, either.

-G

PS- I figured you needed a car with space for lots of tack and a horse on its butt.

I circle the vehicle slowly to see what he means, and sure enough, there’s a bucking horse emblem on the back bumper, right next to the spare tire. It’s cute, really. And it’s an American import. I never in a million years dreamed of owning a car, much less a car like this.

But the papers in the glove compartment have my name on them.

Mirdza Strelkova.

Is all of this because he doesn’t want me taking rides from Danils? It feels like it. And for some reason, that pisses me off. It makes me mad enough that I pick up my phone and dial.

“Mirdza?” Danils’s voice is so hopeful that I almost hang up.

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