"Do you enjoy polo?" I ask, needing to break the silence.
"Only when the horse throws the player," she says without missing a beat.
The response is so unexpected, so perfectly dry, that I laugh. Actually laugh, the sound surprising us both.
She grins at me, and the tension that's been coiled between us for the past week loosens.
This is my chance. My moment to say what I've needed to say.
"Victoria." I turn to face her. "I need to apologize."
Her expression shifts. Becomes guarded. "For what?"
"For what happened in the security room." The words come harder than I wanted. "I shouldn’t—"
"Wait." She holds up a hand, confusion crossing her face. "Are you saying you regret it?"
"No. I—"
"Because it sounds like you regret it." Her voice carries hurt now. "Like you wish it hadn't happened."
"That's not what I'm saying." I step closer, desperate to make her understand. "I don't regret being with you. I regret how I was with you. I was rough. Demanding—"
"I liked it." The words come out quiet but firm.
I stop. Stare at her.
"I liked it," she repeats, and her cheeks flush with color. "I liked it a lot. Couldn't you tell?"
My mind struggles to process. To reconcile what I've been tormenting myself with for a week against what she's telling me now.
"You're not... you don't think I was too rough?"
"Zakhar." She steps closer. "You gave me something I didn't know I needed. You made me feel safe enough to surrender. That's not something to apologize for."
The relief that floods through me is almost painful in its intensity.
We're standing very close now. The match below is starting, hoofbeats thundering across the field, but it feels distant. Irrelevant.
"You should watch the game," I say, my voice low and rough.
"Should I?"
"Maybe I can make it entertaining," I murmur, leaning closer. "If you want to enjoy it,solntse... all you have to do is stay still."
26
VICTORIA
I face the polo field, hands gripping the balcony rail, trying to steady my breathing.
The sunlight is warm on my skin. Below, riders are taking their positions, horses stamping and tossing their heads. The crowd settles into anticipation, conversations dying down as the match prepares to begin.
Behind me, Zakhar's presence is a wall of heat. His body presses close enough that I can feel him without him actually touching me yet. Close enough that the space between us hums with electricity. Close enough that anticipation makes my skin prickle and my pulse race.
Then his hands find the hem of my dress. Start gathering the fabric slowly, deliberately, bunching it up in his fists with patient, methodical movements.
My breath catches. My fingers tighten on the railing.
