Page 40 of My Dark Horse Prince

Grigoriy throws his hands in the air. “You’re being impossible.”

“Try with him.” I toss my head at Aleks.

“Oh, please,” Aleks says.

“Just do it.”

Grigoriy stomps his way over to Aleks and yanks his arm toward him, holding both their arms up. “Satisfied?”

“Now try it.” I practically bite out every word. “And I want to see you really focusing.”

Both men sigh.

But nothing happens.

“Call one of the staff,” I say.

“When are you going to be satisfied that we have some kind of connection?” Grigoriy releases Aleks and walks toward me. He’s not stomping. He’s not striding. He’s not even stalking.

He’s sauntering.

I hate how it makes my heart rate pick up. How it makes my breath catch. And how I both want him to keep walking and want him to stop at the same time.

“Stop,” I say, my cautious side winning.

“You stop.” He does listen, but he’s still staring right at me. The two feet between us doesn’t feel like much of a buffer. “Until I can recover my powers, you’re going to have to lend a hand for a bit.” He smiles. “Consider it payment for the surgery and the clothes.”

“See?” I fume. “I knew you’d bring that up again.”

“Only because you’re being so stubborn,” he says. “You keep insisting there’s nothing between us. You keep saying you want to go with her.” He jabs his finger toward the door without even looking.

“You’re a stranger to me,” I say.

“And how will running away from me change that?” he asks.

“I’m so very, deeply sorry,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Kris said that’s what she said to get Aleks his powers back.”

He shakes his head. “She said she forgave him and that’s when they came back.”

“How’s this?” I sigh. “I forgive you, Grigoriy, for being pushy. I forgive you for not healing my leg. I forgive you for being overbearing. I forgive you for anything and everything for all time.”

“For all time?” He’s smiling and he takes a step closer. “I like that. Say it again.”

“Try your powers.” I fold my arms over my chest, leaning against the edge of the sofa for support. “See if they’re back.”

He frowns. “They aren’t. Nothing changed.”

“You did nothing that was really wrong. Of course nothing changed when I fake-forgave you.”

“Say it like you mean it,” he says.

“I don’t mean it,” I say. “You didn’t do anything. Being overbearing isn’t a sin that needs my forgiveness, but if it was, I can’t pretend to give it.”

He grits his teeth. “So you really didn’t mean it.”

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