Page 63 of My Dark Horse Prince

A groom? A stable? How vast is this property? I suppose Grigoriy did mention it was quite large. I can’t even see the windmills from the main house, thanks to the rolling hills. “I’m sure he’ll let you know soon.”

“No one has even seen him,” the man presses. “And there haven’t been any reports of manure, either. I’m sure someone would have told me.”

Oh, geez. “Uh, well, he is a dark horse.” I grimace. “Maybe he kind of blended in?”

“Or perhaps he hopped that same fence and left the property for the past few days.” He shakes his head. “You should be very careful. Master Grigoriy told the entire staff to give you anything you want at all times, which means that he values you. He’d be distraught if you were to hurt yourself because you were on such a terrible beast.”

Charlemagne paws the ground.

I can’t help laughing. The poor guy’s trying so hard while simultaneously insulting his own boss. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “And actually, a few days in a stall might be good for this guy.” I pat his neck.

Charlemagne tosses his head and starts to move again, practically running the butler guy over.

“I should probably know your name, right?” I turn around, craning my neck to see his face.

“It’s Sergey,” he says.

Right. I did hear that the first day, I think. The butler’s name means servant. It’s still kind of funny, even now. I mean, it’s a common Russian name, but still. It’s pretty on-the-nose. “Thanks for your concern, Sergey. I’m actually really happy to know there’s a barn and hopefully some tack I can use in the future.”

Charlemagne takes off at a trot. I’m a little hard pressed to hold on at first, but then I acclimate, my hips moving naturally with his rhythm, which is quite comfortable for a trot. Once we reach the front gate, which is helpfully open, the ground flattens out, and he starts to canter.

It’s not a race. It’s not choppy or unsteady. It’s smooth and even nicer than the trot. With the wind on my face blowing my hair behind me, I realize that I haven’t been this happy in a very, very long time. I’m not sure how long we canter like that before he pulls up short. He glances up at the sun—starting to rise higher in the sky—and tosses his head.

He thinks we should head back.

I can’t argue with him, so I nod and pat his neck. “Okay.”

He turns around carefully and slowly moves back into a trot, glancing back to make sure I’m fine. I’m more than fine when he finally starts to canter again, and I try to savor every last moment. The muscles in my legs that are hardly ever used are complaining, of course, and even with a steady and smooth canter, each time we hit the ground, my injured leg jars and pain shoots upward, but it’s worth it.

I’d nearly forgotten how much being astride fills me with utter delight. But too soon, we’re back, dropping to a trot to enter at the gate and head up the drive.

I worry that we’ll see Sergey again, or that a groom will show up and try to take him, but it doesn’t happen. We circle around back and find his pile of discarded clothing behind the hedge where he tossed it.

“I suppose I should change you back,” I say.

He whinnies.

“But this was exactly what I needed,” I say.

He whuffles.

Once I’m back on my feet and I’ve secured my crutches under my now-sore legs, I hop-slide my way over to the hedge, and then I point. “You go here, and then I can shift you and—”

But he bumps me, and when I turn, his big horsey face is waiting to nuzzle my cheek with his face. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his neck and hug him, pressing my face against his round-cheeked, stallion face. Unlike most horses, he doesn’t seem to mind.

The only horse I own—of the six—who lets me hug her is my heart-horse, Blanka. She’s so accustomed to me hugging her, loving on her, and generally needing to be around her that she will stand calmly and let me just be. That kind of connection is special. No matter how bad my day has been, a little time with her almost always resets it. Thanks to her, I can find my balance again.

I know that Charlemagne is really Grigoriy. I know, but even knowing that, it feels different when he’s a big, powerful, shiny bay stallion. He’s as calm as Blanka, and he seems to understand that I need to feel this connection with a horse. I need to feel the peace and comfort that they bring that can’t really be explained.

Maybe because he is a horse sometimes, he gets it. I don’t know.

But when I release him, I’m literally crying tears of joy. For the first time since that incident on the train—no, since the horse rammed me into that wall—or maybe before all that, maybe for the first time in years, I feel ready to move forward.

I have a surgery planned. I rode again, and not in a desperate attempt to stay alive. I rode for fun.

When I reach my hand out and splay it against Charlemagne’s gorgeous, dappled back, I’m actually excited for what the future holds. It’s bizarre. My life has taken a very strange turn, but I’m hopeful that good things are ahead.

Is that completely crazy of me?

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