Page 127 of My Dark Horse Prince

The old Mirdza might have been embarrassed. She might have been mortified. She might have been angry with Grigoriy, or even nervous about his reaction. But in this moment, all I can feel is bubbly happiness, so I laugh.

“I guess it does mean we’re together,” I say. “Although, the ‘back’ is misplaced.”

Grigoriy presses a kiss to my forehead. “Together?” He sighs, the breath from his mouth warming my entire face. “Are we, really?”

“Aren’t we?” I ask. “Or do you only want things you can’t have?”

“I want you,” he says simply. “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

“I think you may be the only person I’ve ever wanted,” I say.

“You think?” He raises his eyebrows.

“You are,” I say. “But I’m new at this. Cut me a little slack.”

He lifts me up and sets me on the hood of my new car. “Oh, I’ll do anything to you that you want. And then some.” And when he kisses me this time, it’s even better than I imagined it would be.

24

Eleven years ago, Blanka and I were waiting at the edge of the show ring, waiting for them to post the order. I was at my first World Cup qualifier, and I was shaking like a leaf in a stiff wind. The second they posted the route and the maximum time for the course, I started to review the best path in my head.

I remember chanting it like a rosary.

Round to the right. Cut through the green stripes. Circle the rainbow flowers and hit the blue vertical to start. Then out and around the black and white checkered jump to the black tuxedo jump, and then just six strides to the first combination.

Blanka stood utterly still, completely calm, trusting me entirely to tell her where to go and how fast to take it.

After the incident ten years, six months, and eleven days ago, I thought I’d never ride again. I thought my legs would never slide into tall, shiny black boots. I feared that my hands would never slide into tight, fitted gloves. I worried that my head would never be cradled by a sleek, shiny black helmet, and that my arms would never slide into the fitted show jacket that always makes me feel like a champion.

Because my leg would never be able to survive something as risky as jumping at speed.

But here I am, wearing the gear, standing with my hands clutched around the reins of an English bridle, and the horse standing beside me isn’t Blanka, but he is utterly calm, just like she was.

Only, while I wait for them to post the route, I see someone I wish I didn’t have to see.

Danils is sitting in the stands, which I should have expected. He’s back with Brigita, according to my mother, and of course he has to come and cheer for his girlfriend. I turn away quickly, but not before I notice something strange.

He salutes me.

Why would he do that?

What could it mean?

I refuse to let him get in my head and make me nervous. I shake it off, and turn back to wait for the order to be posted. When the official in the white polo shirt and dark trousers marches my way, my heart picks up speed. I want to stay calm, but I can’t expect the impossible.

It’s a little like taking a position in front of a starting line, when they tell you what route you have to take. But as he approaches, I notice that the official doesn’t have a paper in his hand.

I frown.

“Where’s the route?” I ask softly, even though I know Charlemagne can’t reply.

“Mirdza Strelkova,” he says.

“That’s me.” Now my pulse is pounding like the galloping of hooves on cement. Loud and rhythmic.

“There’s been a report.” He arches one eyebrow and tilts his head.

To look at my bad leg.

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