Page 8 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Excuse me?” She turns toward me, her lips slightly parted.

“The old lady, as she left, told me I’m ready for a soul bond with someone.” I laugh. “A soul bond. Can you even imagine that?”

The grey mother shakes her head. “Not in the slightest. I’m pretty sure my soul is a crumpled, worn-out thing, if it even exists.”

“My sister has never dated,” I say. “She fights with men. Spits on them. Attacks them sometimes. But she’s never dated a single man.”

“But you have,” the woman says.

I nod.

“He was terrible, too.”

I can’t help nodding. “It was a big mistake. I thought he was different, but he dictated what I had to do, and he grew impatient if I didn’t follow his directions.”

“They’re all the same,” she says. “And the only hope you have is to find the biggest, baddest, and scariest one.”

“What?” I’m shocked to hear her say that.

“In school, I met a guy who everyone else was scared of. He liked me.”

I know this story. I could tell this story.

“I was delighted.”

So was I.

“And then to get away from him, I found someone even scarier.”

Oh. I disappointed him in small ways until he was utterly disgusted, and then I let him discard me, like it was his decision. “And to get away from him?”

She looks at her hands.

“That’s how you met. . .” I toss my head at the door.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t want someone who’s powerful enough to protect me,” I say. “I’m fine hiding in the shadows. If I’m going to find a soul-bond, it’s going to be with someone who will hide right alongside me.”

The woman smiles. “Good luck. It’s too late for me. I’d have to entice the devil himself to keep me safe from Yevginiy. He’s pretty much the worst man in Saint Petersburg.”

A shiver runs through me. “But you’re free, now.”

“He doesn’t know about my cousin in Novgorod,” she whispers. “It’s my last hope.”

The woman and I tremble through the stops at Chudovo and Myasnoi Bor, but the man never shows. We’re nearly to Chechulino, the train rocking, her daughter sleeping, when the sliding door separating train cars opens.

I barely notice it.

After all, only existing passengers can even move from one train car to the next. Usually it’s only the ticket takers, and they appear less and less often as we travel deeper into Russia.

But then the bootsteps register at almost the same time as the woman stiffens next to me. It’s not one set of footsteps, either. There are dozens, like a regiment marching in step, but less organized. Heavy, ponderous steps, the sound made by heavy boots worn by large men.

I bite my lip and my fingers grip the arm rests, and then I turn.

At the front of a large group of men—at least ten—is the man in black. Yevginiy. He looks exactly the same as before, just as angry, just as eager, and just as resolved. Only now, he’s not alone. The man next to him is broader and, somehow, even darker. The man behind him is so tall that his head nearly brushes the top of the train ceiling.

And they’re armed.

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