Page 37 of My Dark Horse Prince

“I would stop,” he says, “if you would step in and order things for yourself, but the only way you’ll get this is if I make you.” He grins and switches to Latvian. “Have I told you how much I loved the feel of you riding me?” His grin is pure evil. “I’ll buy whatever I need to feel that again.”

“You knew that would sound dirty,” I snap. “That’s why you switched to Latvian.”

Aleks looks supremely annoyed. “But I can still understand you.” He shudders. “Knock it off, man. You sound. . .pervy.”

He didn’t sound pervy, not to me, but I’m not about to admit it. “Look—”

But the sales lady has returned, her arms laden with clothing stacked on two boot boxes.

“We’ll take all of that, plus your nicest saddle,” Grigoriy says.

“A Voltaire,” Kris says. “Sized for a wide warmblood, with pro flaps.”

“We’d need to see the horse,” the woman says. “And our Voltaire rep won’t be here for three more days, and even then it takes two months to—”

“You have some on consignment?” Kris asks.

The woman nods.

“Great. I’ll pick one.” She brushes past her toward the tack area, and none of them seem to be listening to me at all.

“But—”

“You went through something terrifying,” Aleks says in a very low, very soft voice.

“I did,” I say.

“We both feel awful, and we both feel a little at fault.”

“It wasn’t—”

Aleks waves. “The point is that, even if you hate this, it makes Kris feel a bit better. It’s making Grigoriy feel better. Their trauma may not be as direct as yours was, but if it’s not hurting you to watch them buy you things, let it go.”

I stare at him.

“I have literal buckets of gems and precious stones. We have way, way more money than we will ever need. Don’t stress about the cost. Whether Grigoriy repays me or not, it’s irrelevant. It’s making my betrothed happier, so I’d greatly prefer if you let us buy out all the boots in this store.”

I close my open mouth with a click and stop arguing. It hadn’t occurred to me that Kris and Grigoriy might feel unsafe or upset that I was attacked, or that I’m injured, and now that I see what’s motivating them, and Aleks has assured me the money isn’t an issue (which I struggle to even understand), I’m better able to let it go.

I cringe my way through another huge stack of clothing, which I’m worried won’t fit in the back of the Range Rover, and then I grit my teeth and endure while we hobble into the store next door and buy a pair of sneakers, a few pairs of boots, and a few more things for Kris and Grigoriy, but then I’m done.

My good leg is trembling.

My bad leg is screaming.

I’ll collapse if I can’t sit down soon.

“I’d be happy to carry you,” Grigoriy says. His arms are already heavy laden with bags.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Liar,” Kris says.

“Here,” Aleks says, moving toward me. “I can—”

But Grigoriy practically knocks him over, racing toward me.

I shove one hand against his chest—which is distractingly hard and well-muscled—and shake my head. “No. Respect my words and let me walk.”

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