Page 47 of My Dark Horse Prince

“She’s mine,” Grigoriy says, “and you’d better be telling the truth.”

Dr. Hubert’s tiny. He’s lost most of his hair. And he’s living in a country, the language of which he doesn’t speak. But when he says the next words, he sounds utterly, entirely, massively confident. “Then you should be thanking me. Because there’s not much good bone left, but I can put Humpty Dumpty back together again, and when I’m done, she’ll be able to walk without those.” He points at my horrible crutches and wheels backward. “Now, muscle man, are you ready to stand down? Or am I going to have to call security?”

9

When Kris hugged me, I felt painfully hopeful. I had someone on my side, someone willing to risk their money on me. When Aleks found a surgeon who would meet with me, I felt even more delighted. The idea of having the surgery here, where there are people who will care for me afterward. . .it’s almost overwhelming.

But when the surgeon tells me I’ll be able to walk again, I begin to shake all over.

With joy.

I hadn’t admitted to myself how terrifying the prospect of being wheelchair-bound really was. I’m not someone who’s brilliant. I’m not nearly as beautiful as Kris, at least, not in the striking, look-at-me way that she is. And I’m not exceptionally talented at, well, at anything.

Not anymore, anyway.

But I’m an active person who finds a lot of peace and comfort in movement. In being and doing and going. I may not be able to ride horses anymore, but I groom them. I lunge them. I lead them around. It’s what keeps me sane. It’s what makes it alright that I only teach and never ride. Being around horses, leading them, petting them, and standing with them centers me.

I can’t even fathom a life without my pushy, idiotic, hare-brained angels.

And this surgeon says he can give it back to me.

“How soon can we schedule the surgery?” Kris asks.

She and Aleks ask all the hard questions, pelting the doctor with pointed demands and pinning him down.

It’s a Tuesday now.

He agrees to shift things around to do it on Friday.

In my wildest dreams, I never thought I might have the surgery in three days. “What’s the recovery time?” I ask.

Aleks waves him off. “We can talk about that the day of the surgery. No worries about that.”

“What about the second surgery?” I ask.

The surgeon smiles devilishly. “Those surgeons weren’t as good as me.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll do it all in one. And since I’ll use a graft, the recovery results will be better than what any of them predicted.”

“That’s amazing,” Kris says.

“Now, let’s talk about how many days you’ll be here and your rehab schedule.”

“We have another appointment,” Aleks says. “We can finalize that information later.”

Kris grabs the handles of my wheelchair, and Aleks grabs my crutches, and we shoot out the door.

“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t even have the chance to ask—”

But we’re leaving the front office. . .and even Grigoriy isn’t objecting.

“How am I supposed to know how soon I can get back to work?” I ask. “Brigita’s holding onto my horses for now, but if I don’t get back in time, the contract says—”

“You won’t have any recovery time,” Kris whispers.

“What?” I throw my hands down on the wheelchair outer bar and stop myself forcibly. “Someone explain what you’re talking about.”

“Aleks’s magic allows him to accelerate the healing of anything,” Grigoriy says matter-of-factly, like I should just know this.

“I told you. Remember?” Kris asks.

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