Moth’s elegant legs chewed up the lawn, heading toward the paddock I’d galloped over many times on my own.
Horse and rider merged in utmost perfection.
Only, she wasn’t alone.
The ring of male laughter came over the breeze as Kestrel shot past her on Black Plague, his hand in the air and a grin plastered to his motherfucking face.
The picture they presented tore out my heart, turning it to dust.
All this time, I’d worked my ass off to protect Nila, Kes, and Jaz. All this time, I’d distanced myself and done what was required.
And how was I fucking repaid?
By beingforgotten.
Nila hunched further over Moth’s withers, galloping faster. Together, they tore off into the distance, leaving me stricken...hollow.
No amount of pills could stop me feeling the wave of crashing desolation.
The numbing fog couldn’t help me.
This was my breaking point.
My utter grief.
I’dwanted to experience that with her.
I’d wanted to make her smile and laugh and slide inside her in the dark, secretive world of the stables.
I’d wanted to grant her the gift better than any material thing.
But that’d been stolen from me.
By the one man I thought had my back forever.
Betrayer. Stealer. Forsaker.
I turned around and went back into my office.
But I returned empty.
My heart was left tagging along like a kite, its strings tied to Nila as she galloped further away beneath the cloud-filled sky.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nila
IT WAS FINISHED.
The centrepiece of my Rainbow Diamond collection.
I stepped back to inspect the gown, making sure it hung just right.
The mannequin presented the crinoline dress as if I’d stepped through time and created something my great-great-grandmother would wear.
The hoop in the thick petticoats forced the rich grey dress to flare in an elegant bell-like swish. There were no layers or feathers or tulle—not like the corset highlight of my Fire and Coal show in Milan. This was understated and sleek—like a smoky waterfall shimmering with secrets and mystery.
Around the cuffs, I’d sewn cream lace that I’d found in a rusted-shut cupboard in my quarters. The lace held the W sigil. My ancestors must’ve painstakingly created it decades ago; it was fitting to adorn a gown such as this.
