Page 1 of My Dark Horse Prince

1

I’ve been obsessed with horses my entire life.

It makes sense, really. Warmbloods—the type of horse I’ve spent the most time with—weigh between twelve hundred and fifteen hundred pounds, and yet their go-to move when they encounter danger is to run away.

A barking dog? They’re off.

Gunshot? They bolt.

A car backfires? Sayonara.

Windblown plastic bag? They’ll dead sprint the opposite direction.

In that regard, they’re just like me. Mom has always joked that when God made my twin sister Adriana and me, he gave her all the fight and I got all the flight.

She’s not really wrong.

Horses and I share the exact same reaction to danger.

My mom has always pulled an ostrich. She’d hide. . .kind of. Mostly she’d just try not to see whatever bad thing was happening. But me? I learned at an early age that if something terrible was going down, I didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

It’s good that I’m not actually more like a horse, because if a horse’s leg stops working, you have to put it down. Horses can’t live with a leg they can’t stand on. They’ll develop laminitis in the other hooves and die miserably.

Meanwhile, I’ve been hobbling around for almost ten years on my train wreck of a limb. Unfortunately, it’s finally gotten bad enough that I can’t run. I can barely walk.

“You needed to talk to me?” Brigita already looks exceptionally annoyed. Then again, she always does.

I swallow. You can do this, Mirdza. I give myself pep talks sometimes. They don’t help, but they play in my bizarre brain anyway. “Yeah. So, you know I had to cancel a few lessons.”

She arches one eyebrow. That’s how I know she really is annoyed.

“Okay. You do know. The thing is, I finally got in to see a surgeon. It looks like that time Emilia and Vilks crashed into me, it dislodged some of the plates and screws that were holding my leg together.”

“And?” I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyebrow hikes up another centimeter.

“I’ll need a surgery to fix it.” I cough. “Maybe a series of surgeries, actually,” I say. “The reason I’ve been in such terrible pain is that—”

“Get to the point,” Brigita says.

I blink repeatedly. The point. Oh, no. This is where I have to ask her. “I’m going to need some time off, and I was hoping you might give me a loan to pay for the surgeries.” I cringe as I ask, which can’t possibly increase my chances of convincing her.

“You need time off?” She sighs. “How much do you need, exactly?”

“I’m not supposed to be on my feet at all afterward,” I say. “And if you can loan me the money, I’ll get the surgery set up right away. Then, if I need a second, which they think I could, that would be as soon as thirty days after. Really, it would be just about two months before I could be up and teaching again with a brace.”

I don’t mention that the surgeon said a minimum of three months. I’m sure I’ll be fine in two. Maybe less.

“How much money would you need to borrow?” Her lips are pressed into a tight line, and she’s picking dirt out from under her fingernails.

“Fifty thousand euros.” I close my eyes at the end, because I can’t stand to see her scowl at me.

But the sound she’s making almost sounds like. . .laughter.

I open my eyes, and I was right. She’s laughing.

“You’re not upset?” Have I been misreading her this entire time? Is she more understanding than I realized? Maybe Danils has told her good things. Maybe—

Her laughter abruptly stops. “You’re fired, of course.”

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