Page 58 of My Dark Horse Prince

His mouth on mine is everything I needed. I had no idea I could yearn for something even while experiencing it, but that’s what’s happening, because I know that any moment, it will end.

Unless. . .

I shake my head.

And he misinterprets that and stops.

I’m my own worst enemy.

He inhales slowly, his eyes lifting from my mouth to my eyes again. “Sleep well, Mirdza. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then he’s gone.

My heart and my head usually agree, but right now, my heart is ticked off. I wonder which one is right.

11

For several years after Martinš shattered my leg, I dreamt every night that I was riding on Blanka—my heart horse. The grey mare who changed everything for me in the show jumping ring. It’s no surprise that most of the time, we’re at the Olympics in my dreams, representing Latvia and sometimes even winning a gold medal.

At first it hurt, dreaming of something I could never have. Eventually I came to look forward to my nightly rides. They were the only way I ever sat on a horse. But over time, that dream came to me less and less often. It’s been weeks and weeks since I dreamed of being on horseback.

Until tonight.

Only, when I go to sleep after having dinner with Grigoriy, after being thoroughly kissed in my doorway, and while knowing he’s sleeping next to me, I’m not riding Blanka, my Dutch warmblood.

I’m riding Charlemagne, the dark bay with that perfect blaze down his face, and the deep blue eyes that are so rarely seen on horses. He’s smooth and fluid, but still a big mover. He’s responsive in a way very few horses are, and he’s almost unbelievably powerful.

When I rode him the other day, I was tentative, nervous even. I clung to him with my body as much as my legs, hunching forward to grasp chunks of his mane. I worried I’d upset him, or that he’d react badly to my cues based on past experiences, but he had been steady and true. We did nothing exciting. Barely any trotting, no cantering, and certainly no sharp turns or jumps—with the exception of his temper tantrum, where we hopped that downed fence and raced up to the main house.

But in my dream, my leg’s hale. My limbs are powerful and strong. I cling to him like I used to, with my upper thighs, keeping my heels down and the weight in the balls of my feet light and even. My hips move with him perfectly, and when we clear a jump, it’s nirvana.

I forgot the feeling.

The glorious, freeing rush.

He speeds just a hair as we approach, and I apply pressure. Not a half-halt—just a hair’s bit of restraint. And then his head lifts as his haunches bunch, and we’re in motion.

Watching a slow-motion jump as a bystander is an awe-inspiring thing. Horses literally launch twice, or very nearly. Their front end lifts away, like a coiled spring, leaping up and outward, but then their back end also compresses and practically explodes, especially on the talented jumpers, propelling them upward and forward in a way that’s like poetry in motion.

But from their back, you’re an active participant. Your most important job, other than lining them up, is not getting in the way while you sail over the obstacle. You don’t want to pull on their mouth, but you can’t chuck your hands forward either.

As with everything related to good horsemanship, balance is the key. Working as one with the animal. After years of riding Blanka, we moved very closely together. But sometimes I had to correct her, and sometimes I over-adjusted.

At times, we were at cross purposes.

But not with Charlemagne.

We sail over jump after jump, and then we pivot and come after the next. It feels like I’m riding a deer, to be honest. A powerful, majestic, responsive deer. Until a strange sound—a buzzing, ringing, jarring sound—wakes me.

I nearly bawl when I realize it was all just a dream.

Because now it’s over.

The alarm on my new phone is the most grating sound ever. Now that I’m awake, my leg joins the chorus to scream good morning as well. I toss back a few NSAID fever reducers to bring the swelling down and force myself to leave the warmth of the fluffy, cloud-like bed.

As tempting as it is, I can’t just lie around all day.

It hits me while I’m in the shower that this might be my last day alive. I mean, I’m not trying to be melodramatic, but the doctor read me an impressively long list of possible complications, and the most significant was that a relatively large number of people, compared to, say, your risk of dying in a plane crash, die from complications caused by the anesthesia.

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