Page 4 of My Dark Horse Prince

I used to dream that the hottest, richest, smartest guy in school fell for me. Sometimes, I’d slip and he’d catch me. Other times, it would be raining and he’d offer to share his umbrella with me. Still another time, I was walking home—which happened often—and he’d stop to give me a ride, shocking everyone else around.

When it happened, it was just like a fairy tale. The day started out warm, but somehow, during class, the temperature dropped. When school let out, I walked outside into an almost arctic wind. I stopped, shivering, and wrapped my arms around myself, preparing for the long walk to the bus stop.

I barely went two steps before a nice, warm leather jacket dropped around my shoulders. Nearly every eye was on me, all the girls jealous, all the guys curious, as Danils Ozols steered me away from the crowds and toward his beautiful imported Mustang. “I hear you like horses,” he said. “This is my favorite kind.”

It was a pretty cheesy line, but it made my heart race. For weeks, I was perpetually on cloud nine, as all my classmates watched in envy. The only person who was truly happy for me was my best friend Kristiana. Even my sister Adriana seemed to be some strange mix of jealous and leery of Danils.

Every girl may dream of Prince Charming, and in Daugavpils, Danils was about as close as it got. His dad owned half the town and his uncle owned the other half. He was good looking, confident, connected, and fairly smart. And he knew it. Over time, I discovered that while he might have loved me forever, it wasn’t the kind of love I wanted. His love wasn’t unconditional. It was fraught with conditions—I had to do what he wanted, when he wanted to do it, and if I ever said no, I was disciplined.

It was after I refused to sleep with him that he decided to find another girlfriend. After all, we had been together for a ‘long time.’ He had been patient.

That was around the same time that my mother decided to remarry. . . my uncle. That’s right. My dad’s older brother, whom we had never heard from a single time after my dad died and left us penniless, came through town and needed a place to stay. He flirted with my mother shamelessly.

Then he found a job in town and moved here.

On top of it being super gross that he married his little brother’s widow, he’s also a supersize bag of garbage. He forced my mom to leave the barn apartment at Kristiana’s family estate, where she’d been the cleaning lady for our entire life almost, and move into an apartment he found. He spent all his time telling us how lucky we were that he would provide for us.

Martinš was the reason I quit living with my mom before I was even done with school. If Kris hadn’t offered to let me use the barn apartment again—her stable has several different groom’s quarters, but she saved the best one for me, always—I’d have really been in trouble.

But no matter what my lousy uncle says or does, Mom won’t leave him. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I see guys like him everywhere. Most of them are alcoholics like Martinš, but that’s just an excuse. The drinking didn’t make them horrible people. They chose their lives, every step of the way.

I used to think I could do something about the evils of the world. We’re taught when we’re kids that if we’re brave, strong, and loud enough, we can make a difference. In some things, sure, but when we’re going up against men who are holding all the cards? No way.

My sister Adriana still tries, the idiot.

But I’ve learned that the only way to deal with men like him is to avoid, to hide, or my personal favorite, to run.

The biggest problem in my life is that I can no longer run. At all.

After boarding the train in Riga, bound first for Tallinn, and then on to St. Petersburg, I can’t help feeling a little like a sitting duck. At least they’re still speaking my native tongue, but I’m in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, and I have limited mobility. I spent over a hundred euro on a dumb multi-leg train ticket, even taking the cheapest, slowest route, which means I have just under four hundred euro left to pay for food and a hotel if I need it. I know nothing about the kind of place where Kris is staying. I can’t think that a Russian horse trainer has much money, so they may not even have a couch to offer me.

After the first few stops, I settle in more comfortably. The train rocks and rattles as we move, rocketing along. My bag’s right above me, safely tucked into the overhead storage. My purse sways ahead of me along with the train, stuffed into the mesh compartment on the half wall. I’m sitting in the first seat behind the door—something about being close to an exit makes me feel safer, even if I don’t plan to use it.

The downside is that people are almost constantly moving past me, and each one makes me jump. For a twenty-hour trip, it’s not ideal. I steal snatches of sleep in fits and starts, opening my purse to stuff my face with dried, smoked pike and chunks of rye bread when my stomach complains the loudest.

We’re sitting in the Moskovskiy Railway Station in Saint Petersburg when a smallish woman dressed in drab grey pants and wrapped in an old grey jacket boards, dragging a tiny little girl behind her. She’s also wearing all grey, as if they want to disappear into the background. The sun’s just setting, and they keep their faces down.

I recognize them immediately.

They’re frightened, and they’re on the run.

I recognize them, because I have been them. My attempt to leave didn’t end well. I wish them better luck in their endeavors. They take the seats just behind me, clearly also wanting to be close to an exit. The little girl whispers, “Will he find—”

Her mother shushes her.

Just like the mother, I hope he won’t find them. Oh, please, please, please God, let him not find them.

The loudspeaker has switched to Russian, so it’s lucky that I speak it mostly fluently as well. Thanks to my mother’s family, I’ve been to Russia many times. I’m not quite as proficient as I am in Latvian, but I don’t struggle either.

“Four minutes to departure. Find your seats quickly. The conductor will check for tickets soon.”

No one has checked for tickets in at least three stops, so I’m not at all convinced that’s true. I suppose it’s to make stowaways think twice. A flurry of people board, all of them scanning the rows for empty seats before ducking into one or another, here or there. A hunched-over woman with a head shawl takes the seat next to me, and we share a nod. She looks to be in her sixties, and she smells like pumpkin for some reason. She offers me a piece of gum and I decline, but I smile to let her know I appreciate the offer. I’m so distracted that I almost don’t notice when a large man in a dark coat hops on the train briskly, his heavy footfalls thunking loudly, even against the dense carpet of the train floor.

But when I glance his direction, I immediately forget anything else.

All the alarms in my body go off. He’s exactly the kind of man I avoid, always. It’s not that he’s wearing all black. It’s not his closely trimmed beard, scattered with a bit of grey. It’s not even his heavy footfalls, his serious visage, or his flinty eyes.

No, it’s something else entirely.

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