Page 5 of My Dark Horse Prince

Violent men have a kind of aura about them. Something about them sucks in the light and casts a pool of darkness around them. I curl inward reflexively, but my heart freezes dead in my chest when he stops in the aisle behind me.

I knew.

Before he stopped there, I knew.

He’s found them.

The light-stealing villain found them.

“Otpravit’sya.” His voice is low and menacing. A chill runs down my spine, freezing me in place. The word in Russian just means ‘Get off,’ but somehow, when he says it, it’s like an expletive-laden command. His voice may be quiet, but it’s full of promise. He’s livid that they had the audacity to leave without his permission.

They will pay for that decision. That much is very clear.

Most people on this train have no idea what’s going on. The woman next to me is prattling on about her cat. She says it only eats its dinner when mushed pumpkin is added to the dish—which explains the smell—and she hopes that Vlad can remember to do it.

Who cares about Vlad? Does she really have no idea what’s happening behind us? Two lives that were so close to freedom are now ruined. And the penalty for their attempt will be heavy.

“Do you have pets, dear? Anything you love with all your heart?”

As if it’s just come back online, I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. This is one of those moments—the moments in life that you never forget. Paths roll out all around you, yawning lazily, beckoning, and only one path really matters.

The one you choose.

I should tell the woman about my horses. They’re the reason I’m here. One of them is blind in his right eye. He’s a great jumper, but you must always be cautious that no one spooks him on that side. Another is allergic to alfalfa. One bite and he’ll break out in painful hives all over his body. Another of my horses is my heart horse—she and I were Olympic-bound when my uncle, a man like the one behind me, decided I needed to learn a lesson.

I wasn’t on a train, but I couldn’t escape.

He shattered my leg.

A decade later, I’m still suffering from his rage. For the sake of all those animals and more, I should keep my mouth shut. I should chat with the old woman about her tabby cat and forget about the man behind us. I should pretend nothing is happening so I can make it to Russia and keep my animals safe.

But the face of the little girl in grey floats in front of me. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth parts in surprise, and the blood drains out of her already pale skin. Her dark hair’s pulled back and plaited, making her baby-round cheeks easy to see.

She could be me.

I was her.

And no one on the train or in my life cared enough to spare me.

Is her life about to be shattered?

What will he do to her mother?

Mine never even tried to escape. She only shook and cried and hid, and eventually, defended him instead of protecting me. What did it take for this mother to grab her daughter’s hand and make it to this train? If Adriana were here, she’d already be standing, shouting at the man, her small hands balled into fists of rage. She’d be alerting every single passenger to the threat.

She’d be doing something.

But I’ve learned.

I know what happens when people like me try to intervene. When we try to fight the Martinš of the world, we shatter.

“Come,” the man says, his voice louder this time. “Now.”

“The train will be departing in one minute,” the loud speaker bleats.

“Let go,” the little girl says, her voice unsteady. “Let my mom go. You make her cry.”

The little girl might look like me, but she talks like Adriana. And in that moment, something snaps inside of me. The bands of fear that encircle my heart at all times fray and my heart beats loudly in my ears. I stand up and turn around to face the villain.

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