The rumbling earthquakes formed by eight horses thundering past would forever live inside my soul. My dreams would always conjure Jethro how he looked right now—capable, joyous, completely perfect in every way.
Another strike and the ball shot past, followed by a mass of muscle and men. The clatter of sticks colliding and grunts of players fully in the throes of sport sent my tummy frothing with bubbles.
I’d been told to stay in the gazebo under the watchful eye of Flaw. But I grew bored and resentful as Flaw orchestrated a magical event of disappearing diamonds followed by huge sums of cash changing hands.
The moment the bugle had sounded, I’d rushed out to witness the game. And now, watching the sea of sweat-glistening men, I’d found heaven.
Jethro suddenly looked directly at me. His arm jerked, pulling the reins tight and causing Wings to toss his head mid-gallop. My entire body tingled as Jethro just stared. We held eye contact far longer than was safe, and the moment he was too far away, I felt bereaved—as if he’d stolen my heart and taken it flying up the field with him.
I wanted to chase after him. I wanted to steal Moth from Kes and fightbesideJethro, rather than against him. I wanted the rush, the fear, the intoxicating knowledge of invincibility. But most of all, I wanted what Jethro had
...
freedom.
I wanted to be as happy as him. To be at peace like him.
I wanted to stare into his eyes while he was truly himself—no games, no lies, no debts.
Kes suddenly stood up in his stirrups, high fiving Jethro foreffortlessly scoring another goal.
Jethro smiled. He positively glowed. He was resplendent.
Then the bugle trumpeted and the game began anew.
His happiness turned sharp with aggression. He and Wings moved as one—gliding so smoothly it looked almost telepathic—pirouetting mid-gallop to intercept the ball and steal it. Jethro...or should I say Kite...dominated the entire game.
He truly is one of a kind.
Tears came to my eyes as I finally acknowledged what lived beneath my hate.
My lust was slowly evolving, slowly growing. And I wished I had the power to stop it.
But I had as much power as stopping my heart from tripping into love as I did from tearing myself from the match. I fell into disgrace.
By the end of the first half, my knickers were damp and my heart ached. Every muscle hummed as if I’d been beaten, and I couldn’t stop the small voice repeating over and over:
You’re falling for him.
You’re falling for him.
You’re falling for him.
I wasn’t.
I couldn’t.
I’m not!
But no matter how hard I tried, the words enemy, tormentor, and adversary ceased to have meaning.
Other words came instead: ally, accomplice...friend.
When the bugle blared, signalling half-time, I sagged in relief. I needed to find a cool dark place and glue myself back together. I couldn’t let anyone—especially Jethro—see me in such broken pieces.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wings cantering toward me. Jethro sat proud and regal atop him, his golden eyes blazing with passion and need.
My stomach somersaulted.
