Page 151 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Adriana.” Nojus’s hand strokes the top of my head and my heart races.

I can’t help looking around desperately for anything I could use to defend myself.

“You still haven’t repaid me.”

“I’ve done you a lot of services.”

“None of that discharged your debt.” His hand slides down my jaw slowly and hooks beneath my chin. “I’ve told you what you can do.” He lifts my face toward his. “I can’t figure out why you keep refusing. It’s making me self-conscious, to be honest. Do you not find me attractive?”

He makes my skin crawl. He makes me want to claw my own nails down my face until I’m so hideous no one would look at me. He reminds me so much of Martinš, my step-father, that the thought of him touching me makes me want to throw-up.

“It’s nothing personal,” I say. “I vowed years ago never to date, never to fall in love, and never to marry. You’ve met my step father. You know why.”

“What I know,” Nojus says, “is that I’m right here, telling you that you can pay me back, or you can die.”

My hand itches to slap him, but I doubt I could defeat him, even with my jujitsu classes. And seeing as he’s got at least six men in the next room, I know that even if I could, I’d still lose. “My sister has a new boyfriend,” I finally say, my voice trembling. “She just won a huge jumping contest. It’s why I was already here in Riga when you called.”

“And?” His hand slides over my shoulder.

I think about something else. Anything else. If I can’t distract myself, I’ll punch him. Or I’ll puke. Either one will likely get me killed.

“If you let me go see her, I’ll come back with your money.”

“You think your crippled sister’s boyfriend is just going to give you half a million euros?” His laughter grates on my ears. “What an optimistic slut you are.” Without warning, he slaps me across my face, sending me sprawling across the floor. My hair falls loose, the rubber band holding it back snapping.

But I welcome the violence. It’s so much easier to handle than the misery-inducing caresses he usually employs.

“You have one hour. If you’re not back here in one hour, I’ll send my men to either collect you or kill you, Adriana. You will be given the choice. If they collect you.” His hand drops to his crotch and he rubs.

I drop my eyes so he can’t see how disgusting I find him. Few people are worse than Martinš, but Nojus, the Lithuanian arms dealer who supplies the criminals on the eastern side of Latvia might be one of them.

“One hour.”

“Don’t forget to keep this with you.” He sets one of his burner phones in front of me. “I’d hate to have to add the cost of locating you to your already increasing debt. You might never repay it.”

I’ve barely reached the street outside an unknown number calls. I’m pretty sure I know who it is. It has to be either Mirdza or Kristiana, calling from the arena. After all, when Nojus called me, I almost threw Blanka’s reins at Kris and ran away.

Mirdza’s probably pissed.

She just made a huge comeback, the likes of which I never imagined, and not only did her boyfriend not go to see it, our mother skipped, too. And then her sister ran away and left her instead of celebrating. I’d be super duper pissed.

Maybe she’ll forgive me. My twin sister’s nothing like me.

She’s the one everyone loves. The one people want to be like. The one people want to help. She’s also the reason Kristiana ever gave me anything at all, and without those two horses, I’d never even have been able to race. I should be grateful to have a sister like her. I know I should. I’m the worthless sack of crap, and I’m the one always taking, taking, taking, but for some reason that knowledge just makes me angrier.

Every time I think about Mirdza, I’m overcome with the same guilt. The guilt I’ve always carried around. She’s crippled because of me. Because when I should have stepped in to help her—I’m the fighter—or help my mother, or call the authorities, or. . .well, anything. I should have done something, but instead I ran.

Her life was forever wrecked because of me.

Until Mr. Handsome Prince showed up, I guess. He seems willing to cut the world in pieces and run it through a blender for her if she just mentions she’d like an earth smoothie. When she moves around a room, his eyes track her every movement, like he’s a magnet, but instead of tracking north, he tracks Mirdza.

I know Aleksandr is rich. I hear Grigoriy is, too. He’s a prince, for heaven’s sake, or he says he is. He must have money. Is there any chance she might be able to get. . .but half a million euros? How could I even ask her for that?

Just before the call’s about to go to voicemail, I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Kristiana,” she says. “It’s me, Mirdza.” It’s definitely her, but why’s she calling me Kristiana? She didn’t stutter or stammer or correct herself. And she doesn’t sound mad that I left, either. What’s going on?

“Thank goodness you’re calling.” I open my mouth to force the words out—to ask her for money. Maybe I can drill down to the final amount later. After she’s agreed to talk to Grigoriy. I’m going to have to tell her the reason, and that makes me want to scream.

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