Page 57 of My Dark Horse Prince

In the end, he’s so insistent, I let him drive. . .again. Thankfully, the ride home’s much better, even though it’s dark. “Maybe I’m less scared because I can’t see everything you’re doing wrong,” I say.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he says. “I’m an excellent driver.” He stretches and drops one hand on top of mine.

“Nice try.” I slip my hand free. “Grab that steering wheel, mister.”

“That’s ‘Your Majesty’ to you,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m not saying that,” I say. “Ever.”

“We’ll see.” He’s still smirking when we pull into the garage of his house. And that’s when it hits me.

We’re sleeping in the same house again. “Where did you sleep last night?”

His eyebrows rise. “Why are you asking?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m just curious.” I frown. “Please tell me it wasn’t on the floor outside my door.”

“I’m not that masochistic. I slept in the room next to yours.”

“Why?” I glare. “I told you I was locking the door.”

He laughs. “If I wanted to get in, do you think that flimsy lock would stop me?”

I think about the way he ripped that doorframe off this morning, without the use of even a scrap of magic. “I guess not.”

“The answer is that, wards or not, you can’t even run. I’m sleeping close in case something happens. At least I’ll hear you.”

Like the rays of the sun melting the frost from the grass, my heart warms a bit. He may tease me, and he may be a conceited, overbearing prince, but deep down, I’m beginning to think Grigoriy might be a good guy.

So when I reach my room, instead of ducking through and slamming the door in his face, I release my crutches, lean them against the wall, and turn around, bracing my hands against the busted doorframe. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” His eyes are so very, very blue—a dark blue that would make the most brilliant sapphire weep with envy.

I bite my lip.

He smiles, and his head starts to lower.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “We aren’t engaged.”

“Mhmm.” His head keeps lowering, his eyes moving from mine down to my mouth.

“You’re not my fiancé, or even my boyfriend.”

His voice is a deep, gentle murmur this time, that makes my stomach do a somersault. “Okay.”

“You should stop telling people stuff like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And—”

But this time, before I can nervous-chatter anything else, his mouth covers mine, his hands pressing against the wall on either side of my head. He somehow manages to apply no pressure whatsoever to my fragile and precarious body, while also engaging the nerves in every single square inch of my skin.

I’m tingling.

I’m pulsing.

I’m alive in a way I never have been, not in thirty years of life.

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