Page 24 of My Dark Horse Prince

“You can ask me,” Grigoriy says softly, his voice gruff, his breath warming my face. “I’m right here.”

How do I explain that it’s strange to talk to someone who was a stallion four minutes ago? I can’t really tell him that I’m trying to pretend the man who’s carrying me doesn’t exist. “Right.”

“Normally, I can harness the wind,” he says. “Using its currents, I’m always precisely the temperature I wish to be.”

That must be nice.

“I don’t understand how they could not be working. I used my powers last night,” Grigoriy says.

“You did?” Aleks jogs up next to us. “When?”

“Twice,” Grigoriy says. “First, to heal her, and then to keep us warm.”

“So I really did get stabbed,” I say. “That’s not all in my head.”

“You were nearly gone when I found you.” Grigoriy’s arms tighten around me, and his voice drops, its timbre deepening. “I’m going to find that man who—”

Aleks clears his throat. “I could use my powers as well, but only when Kris was touching me.”

Grigoriy slows down, mere steps from what looks like a massive side door to the palace. A half smile turns the corner of his mouth up. And then the wind whistles all around us, tossing my hair up and flying past.

“Yes,” Grigoriy says, his voice rumbling against me. “Yeees.”

Suddenly we’re lifting up off the ground, and I can’t help it. I panic. “No!” I shriek. “Put me down.”

As quickly as we lifted into the air, we drop back down, lightly, and I can breathe again.

But Grigoriy doesn’t release me. If anything, he tightens his grip yet again. “Let’s get inside first.”

Without even touching the massive wooden double doors, they fly open. A maid in a black and white maid costume, that would totally be sold in stores as a Halloween joke, squeaks and runs down the hall as if we’re marauding invaders.

As if he wants to reinforce the impression that we don’t belong, or that we’re delusional, Grigoriy announces himself, like they do for lords entering balls in movies about Victorian times. “Grigoriy Khilkov, Prince of Dolgovo, has returned.”

“Cool it, Storm,” Kristiana says. “If you’re not careful, your new servants will call the po-po.”

“The who?” Aleks asks.

“What’s storm?” Grigoriy asks.

Deciding to respond to the more easy-to-explain question, I say, “She means the politsiya,” I say in Russian. “And I’m more worried they’ll call a doctor and have you admitted.”

“Our resident wind superhero is currently naked and ranting,” Kris says. “Aleks, you should probably stop your friend before they come take him away.”

“What am I supposed to do while he’s holding her?” Aleks asks. “You should have let me take her earlier.”

“No one’s taking her anywhere.” Grigoriy sounds a bit like a toddler. If toddlers had rock hard pecs, abs that could double as a washboard, and voices that sent little thrills up my spine.

The problem is that I’ve had plenty of boyfriends who wound up being far, far too toddler-esque, so now I hate any man who acts this way. “You can put me down,” I say. “I think now that we’re inside, I’ll be able to hop anywhere I want to go.”

He turns to look at me, and a strong, deep shiver runs down my entire body when our eyes meet at such close range. Clearly my errant body did not get the memo that I’m unimpressed by domineering men. His voice is low and rough when he says, “I don’t want to put you down.”

“Too bad,” I say. “In the twenty-first century, women have rights.”

He frowns. “You had rights a hundred years ago, too.”

“We have more now. Take my word for it.”

“You can’t walk,” he says. “Once we find a place for you to sit, I’ll put you down.”

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