What am I doing?
Not only was it a disaster waiting to happen to write things down for anyone to read, but I had no intention of answering any of the questions she’d asked in the truck.
I always knew Nila would eventually find out that I was Kite. Hell, I wasn’t exactly subtle—but I’d always planned to let the ruse die adeath when she did. It wasn’t needed anymore. I’d had enough enlightenment of her thoughts. And having the ability of talking this way only made the connection between us harder to ignore.
It was too dangerous. Secrets were too easily shared when hidden behind closed doors. Things I never intended to say suddenly had the audacity to find their way into a faceless message.
My fingers hovered, tingling with the urge to press send.
Do it.
I did.
“Ready to kit up?” Kes asked, shrugging out of his over-shirt and revealing the team colours below.
My temper flared to think Nila had feelings for him.
Feelings for my damn brother.
Feelings that I’d made happen by letting her chase the wrong path.
“Yes. I’m ready.” Depositing my phone into the saddlebag, I unfolded my matching colours and slipped them on.
Another reason I’d wanted to kill off Kite was to give Nila no choice but to be honest to my face. I didn’t want her running to Kes. I didn’t want him anywhere near her.
She’s mine, goddammit.
With a shaky hand, I tied my cravat and shoved Nila Weaver unsuccessfully from my thoughts.
Game time.
It’s time to win.
* * * * *
There were very few places where I could be completely free.
In fact, I could count three in total.
One, when I went to see Jasmine.
Two, when I took Wings for a gallop away from cameras and family and obligations of being someone I wasn’t.
And three, when I let down every guard on the polo field.
I fed off people’s energy. I drank the players’ nervousness, revelled in their tingling excitement, and for once, I was grateful for the disease I lived with.
We took our positions.
In my hand, I held my reins and a short braided whip. My cream jodhpurs, polished black knee-high boots, and gold velvet waistcoatover the billowing old-world sleeves of my white shirt made me feel like a knight about to joust for some fair maiden’s affection.
Kes grinned, sitting atop Moth and her nineteen hands of elegant muscle. Wings was only eighteen hands high, but he had something Moth didn’t. He had ferocity that rippled around him. Other horses felt it. Their nostrils flared, their eyes tracking him wherever he went.
He was an anomaly.
Just like his owner.
The Hawks were well known for hosting polo matches and commandeering the rules of any game we were invited to. Common rules that we broke were: no horses to be higher than sixteen hands, and multiple mounts per player.
