Page 42 of My Dark Horse Prince

“There are wards around the whole place,” I say. “Kris said that.”

“But what if someone inside the building tries to hurt you?” A muscle in his jaw works. “I don’t know any of these people. I should at least be within earshot.”

“You know where my room is,” I say. “You can be anywhere but there.” I start hobbling my way down the hall, but I turn to look over my shoulder. “I’ll be locking my door.”

His laughter follows me down the hall.

The next morning, when I finally emerge from my room, which thankfully has a connected bathroom, Grigoriy’s eating breakfast in the dining room. “My mom always had breakfast in the sunroom.” He points through the doorway at a tiny alcove with a much smaller table and a whole wall of windows. “But all of that furniture is long gone. The table Kris bought is quite small.” He eyes my crutches. “I thought we might eat here instead.”

He’s learning. He didn’t mention my leg or crutches or anything. He almost did, but I’ll still give him credit. “Thanks.” I lean the crutches against the table and hop as I pull out the chair and take a seat.

The muscles in Grigoriy’s forearms are practically straining where he’s gripping the table. I imagine it took all his restraint to keep from hopping up and circling the table to help me. But it shows that he can be taught.

“The woman who does the cooking said she wasn’t sure what we liked, so she made a lot of things.” He gestures. “There’s buckwheat kasha, which might be good if you like gruel.” He grimaces. “Pancakes with sour cream and raspberry syrup, which are pretty good. They’re still a little crisp on the edges.” He pushes his plate toward me, and I notice the remains of raspberry sauce. “Syrniki, which is even better.”

I love the cheese pancakes, myself. My grandma used to make them. I grab a plate and reach across the table to snag a few of the syrniki.

“And she made ponchiki, but someone should have told her I don’t like them cold.”

“Oh, I do.” I pile a few of the fried cheese donut holes on my plate. “They’re my very favorite, hot or cold.” I think it’s the creamy cheese the Russians add that makes them taste a hundred times better than regular donut holes. I actually like them a bit better cold. They’re stickier? Somehow it makes the sugar less overwhelming.

He smiles. “I was worried you’d want lentils.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s a misnomer. Latvians eat a lot of lentils, but it’s not all we eat.”

He stands and reaches all the way down to the end. With no warning, he tosses me a roll.

I catch the crusty, dark brown roll. “We also don’t have to have rye at every meal.”

“That’s Russian black bread. It’s far superior to your Latvian rye.”

I doubt it, but I don’t argue. “Oh.” I notice a plate at the end. “Is that zapekanka?” My mouth starts to water.

“I think so,” he says. “I hate raisins, though.”

“You’re wrong on almost everything,” I say.

Before I can stand up and hunch over, he snags the plate and slides the others around to make room. I grab a slice, and it’s even better than the ponchiki. “I should give my compliments to your cook.” I sip on the tea—which is also quite good. Plenty of flavor, but not heavy, with a bit of sweetness that’s clearly from a bit of added honey. “But if I stayed here very long, I’d become fat as a house.”

He laughs. “I doubt that very much.”

“I’m only thin because I’ve never had enough money to afford being able to gorge myself.”

Grigoriy tilts his head, squints, and then shrugs. “I think you’ll be very cute when you’re chubby.”

“Excuse me?” I slam my fork down on the table. “Just stop.”

“Stop?” Grigoriy leans toward me, his eyes intent on mine. “Stop providing you breakfast? Stop telling you that you’ll look good no matter how many stacks of syrniki you eat? Which part of that made you so angry? Or are you always this grumpy to people who save your life and have the audacity to try to flirt afterward?”

His words surprise me. He did save my life. And he’s done nothing but try to help since, albeit in a bit of a high-handed way. He’s right. I have been furious about it.

Why?

I hate circling back to the same thing over and over, but in this case. . . I swallow. “I think I might be nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“My leg,” I say. “It hasn’t been strong and hale for more than a decade. It hurts all the time. I grew used to that. I couldn’t ride—and for a while it felt like my life was over. It felt like I had no value and no future for a while, but I figured that out, too. I found a new future. I reconciled myself to never attaining any of my original goals. But then a freak accident wrecked even that.” I sigh, poking at my syrniki.

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