Page 74 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Come back tomorrow,” he says. “My friend was asking about you.”

“Your friend?” I ask.

“Danils,” he says. “You never should have left him.”

I’m surprised he’s putting it that way. The public story is that Danils dumped me, but I didn’t mind. I was relieved, to be honest. After I found out he was cheating, I disconnected, and after that happened, I realized what a mess our ‘relationship’ was anyway.

Not that his infidelity was an excuse in Martinš’s book. No woman should ever leave a powerful man, not for any reason, not even if he dumps her. Even if he cheats. No matter what, she should slink around forever, licking his boots and hoping he’ll take her back. “It’s too bad I had such poor judgment,” I say, hoping he can’t sense my sarcasm.

“It is,” he says. “But I think he might take you back yet.” He nods. “That was not quite what he said, but almost.”

Not for anything in this world would I go back to Danils, but I don’t say that, either. “I’ll let you know,” I say. “But I’d better get back. I have my first lesson in an hour.”

He scowls, but he doesn’t make a move to stop me.

The moment I’m out the front door, every muscle in my body turns soft. I very nearly collapse against the front door, drawing in ragged breaths, waiting for my heart to stop pounding in my ears and my legs to stop shaking.

“Why didn’t you stop her?” It’s faint, but I can still hear Martinš through the solid wooden door. He must be really angry.

My mom says something, but I can’t make out the words.

“I didn’t hear you ask her to move back. I told you Danils said if she goes back to him, he’ll hire me.”

Mom tries again, but it doesn’t seem to help.

Because the next sound I hear is a crash.

It’s not like Martinš has even been an amazing breadwinner, but with the sheer volume of belongings that he breaks, it’s a wonder they have any furniture at all. At least when he’s breaking things, he’s not hurting Mom.

In the end, though, there’s not much I can do. I keep asking her to leave him, but until she’s ready to do it, nothing will change. The only thing that happens when I visit is I wind up in the crosshairs. I call the police on my way back to Liepašeta. Hopefully, if he does start breaking more than lamps, the surprise arrival of the police for a sound disturbance will cool him down instead of riling him up.

Usually when I was around, a visit from the police would buy me a few days of polite behavior.

Sometimes it went the other way.

When Mom calls me the next morning, she sounds utterly drained. That’s not a good sign. “Can you pick up some food for me?”

That’s not either. Because when she’s black and blue, she can’t go out, but Martinš still expects her to make his dinner. “Mom.”

“Please?” He definitely beat her. Badly.

During my two-hour break, I drive out and pick up rye bread, lentils, smoked mackerel, sour cream, eggs, and a few fresh greens. It’s not a lot, but I don’t have much money to spare. There’s no way she’ll be able to pay me for any of it. He’s always expected her to perform miracles like she’s Jesus, blessing the loaves and the fishes.

I almost leave the bags on her front porch, but I think about the sour cream and the eggs and change my mind. I hate seeing her all bruised, but I’d hate if all the food I could barely afford went to waste.

I knock, and then I wait.

Horrifyingly, it’s not Mom who opens the door.

Martinš is spoiling for a fight from the second I see him. His knuckles are bruised and one of them’s bleeding. His eyes are bloodshot—which means he’s been drinking—and he has a little bit of spittle on his chin. He’s clearly been ranting, too.

“Here.” I hold out the bag. “My mom couldn’t go shopping, since you beat her black and blue.” When I’m not in the house, and my car is mere steps away, sometimes I have the confidence to get a little mouthy.

Which is really stupid. His face contorts.

Screw the sour cream. I should’ve dumped it and run.

When Mom stands up behind him, her face is more purple than flesh colored. “Mirdza, thank you.”

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