Page 9 of My Dark Horse Prince

One of them’s holding a knife that gleams softly in the incandescent light of the train. Another taps the end of a dark grey gun against his thigh.

“Put that away,” the man I assume is Yevginiy says. “Gunfire would attract too much attention.”

“No.” The little girl behind us has woken up, and she stands. “You need to leave us alone. We don’t want you anymore.”

“I thought you were cute for a while, but you aren’t even my daughter,” Yevginiy says. “You need to learn to keep your stupid mouth shut before I get truly sick of you.” His closed fist flies backward, slamming into her small face almost absentmindedly.

Her small frame collapses, like a fork sliding through cake.

The woman at my side cries out and tries to push past Yevginiy, her arms thrown out in front of her, yearning to hold her daughter.

But her big, bad lover isn’t done yet. Just as casually as before, his hand reaches for her, his large, strong fingers wrapping slowly around her upper arm, yanking her back against his side. “I didn’t tell you that you could leave. In fact, I told you not to go.”

She turns her head upward. “You promised me when we met that you never hit women. You said your mother made you swear.”

His laugh is dark and terrifying. “She’s a little girl. I’ve kept that promise. I would never hurt you.” And then he turns, and commands his men. “That girl there, the cripple.” My crutches are leaning against the corner of the train, wedged into the short space against the doorframe, but my leg brace is hard to hide.

I can’t put any weight on my leg right now without it.

Every single person I meet can immediately tell that I’m broken.

“Kill her and toss her out the window.”

“No,” the woman shouts. “No, Yevginiy, don’t. I’ll go back with you. I won’t run away again.”

“Do it,” he says, ignoring her pleas. “If I don’t follow through on her punishments, how will she ever believe me in the future?”

“No, please don’t.” The woman drops to her knees in front of him, her hands grasping at his. “Please, I beg you for mercy. She was only trying to help.” Tears run down her face, and she’s shaking so much that her words are distorted. “Please, please, leave her be.”

“At first it amused me, you know.” He tilts his head. “You leaving. It felt like a game, like you were flirting, almost, like you wanted more of my attention.” He crouches down closer to her. “But this is pissing me off. You’re doing it too often now, and I’ve told you before that I’m the only one who can give you toys. When you find your own, you force me to take them from you.” He scowls at me. “She can’t keep you safe. No one can keep you safe, except for me.”

"Yevginiy,” she pleads, “don’t hurt her. Please, don’t. I don’t want to keep her. Just let her go.” She sinks to the ground, her hands covering her face. “Please. Please.” She repeats the word over and over like a rosary, like a chant.

That’s when I realize that she already knows he won’t change his mind. Without even thinking, I reach back and grab one of my crutches. The wide man he ordered to kill me is close now, his knife raised, his mouth half-smiling. He has a small scar on his jaw, just under his left ear.

He likes hurting people, that much is quite clear. There’s a reason Yevginiy told him to do it. So when I bring my crutch around, pretending to use it to try and run away, his smile broadens.

“I’ll make it quick,” he lies.

As if someone like him would miss out on enjoying any part of this.

I don’t even feel bad when I bring my crutch around the door frame and slam it downward into the space between his head and his shoulder. A broken clavicle is painful—I know from personal experience—and it’s an easy bone to snap.

When I hear the crack, I smile. He drops the knife. My leg screams at me as I crouch to snatch the knife from the ground. I stumble forward, bracing myself with my other hand.

“Durak, you idiot!” Yevginiy shouts. He sighs with disgust and waves his hand. “Someone else get her. Now.”

I force myself back to my feet and turn for the door. No passengers in this car have done a thing to help, but maybe in the next—

The knife hits my right shoulder, sinking in deeply enough that it protrudes through the front. Blood sprays all over the wall. I expect the pain to be worse than anything I’ve ever felt—Martinš never used blades—but it’s not so bad. It feels like a sunburn that’s been scratched, maybe, burning and tingling, and it’s a sharp pain, sure, but it’s not nearly as bad as the radiating pain I feel from my leg every single day. I don’t even drop the knife I’m holding in my right hand.

I keep walking, using the one crutch I’ve got, and I make it as far as the door, my left hand releasing the handle of my crutch to reach for the button that makes the door open.

But another set of hands yanks me back, and a much longer knife stabs me in the lower back. This one hurts far, far worse. I can feel the warmth of my own blood flowing down and out, stealing over my back as I sink toward the floor.

Someone picks me up, and then I’m jostled pretty badly, and then they make good on their threat to shove me out the window of a moving train, my injured shoulder slamming into the side of the window at first, twisting my entire body sideways, before they finally succeed in shoving me out.

I duck and roll, so that when I hit the undergrowth below, on the same side as my shoulder stab wound, at least it only snaps my clavicle and not my neck.

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