I step over the threshold. The smell hits me instantly—warm, living heat. Hay. Leather oil. Molasses. And beneath it all, the deep, earthy scent of manure. It is disgusting and comforting all at once. It smells real. It smells like life, messy and unsterilized.
The interior is vast. A wide cobblestone aisle runs down the center, flanked by rows of mahogany stalls with brass fixtures. Above, skylights let in the diffuse grey light of the storm. It is quiet, save for the occasional snort of a horse or the stamp of a hoof.
"This is the Equine Therapy Center," Alaric explains, his voice echoing in the rafters. "We use it for the patients who are too broken to speak to humans. Animals don't lie, Elodie. They don't judge. And they don't care about your bank account."
He stops at a stall near the end of the row. "Meet Charon."
I step closer, peering through the bars. A massive black head turns toward me. The horse is a monster. A Friesian stallion, jet black from mane to tail, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk and eyes that look like obsidian pools. He snorts, a cloud of steam erupting from his nostrils, and paws the ground. The sound is like a thunderclap.
"He's... big," I whisper, instinctively stepping back.
"He is seventeen hands of pure muscle and bad attitude," Alaric corrects, sounding affectionate. He unlocks the stall door and slides it open. "He threw three grooms last month. He bites. He kicks. He hates everyone."
Alaric steps into the stall. I hold my breath, expecting the beast to trample him. Instead, Charon lowers his head. Alaric reaches out and strokes the velvet nose, murmuring something in a language I don't recognize. Latin? French? Or just the language of monsters recognizing monsters? The stallion nuzzles Alaric’s chest, huffing softly.
"He respects dominance," Alaric says, looking back at me. "He knows I could kill him, so he allows me to lead him."
He leads the horse out of the stall. Charon is fully tacked up in black leather gear that looks as expensive as Alaric’s car. The saddle is deep and polished; the bridle glints with silver.
"Your turn," Alaric says.
"I can't ride him," I protest, my voice rising an octave. "Alaric, I've never been on a horse. He’ll kill me."
"He might," Alaric agrees casually. "If you let him." He leads the horse into the center of the indoor arena, a large oval of packed dirt surrounded by a high wooden wall. He stops and turns to me. "Come here."
I walk toward them, my legs feeling like lead. The closer I get, the bigger Charon seems. He smells of power. I can feel the heat radiating off his massive flank. Alaric hands me the reins. "Hold these. Don't pull. Just contact."
I take the leather straps. My hands are shaking. Charon feels the tremor immediately. He tosses his head, the metal bit clinking against his teeth, and steps sideways, invading my space. I gasp and shrink back.
"Stand your ground!" Alaric barks. "If you retreat, you lose. He is testing you."
"He's huge!"
"He is a prey animal, Elodie. He is looking for a leader. If you don't lead, he will panic. Be the predator."
Be the predator.Easy for him to say. He is the apex predator. I am just the girl who cried in a bathroom yesterday. But I look at the horse. I look at the massive, dark eye watching me. I swallow my fear. I tighten my grip on the reins. "Easy," I say, trying to pitch my voice low like Alaric does. "Easy, you beast."
Charon snorts, but he stands still.
"Good," Alaric murmurs. He moves to the side of the horse. "Now, mount."
"How?"
"Left foot in the stirrup. Grab the pommel. Jump." He sees my hesitation. He sighs, a sound of impatience. "I will help you. But only this once."
He steps behind me. His hands—those large, scarred hands that were inside me only hours ago—grip my waist. The touch burns through the layers of the riding coat and the shirt. It brands me. "Left foot up," he commands near my ear.
I lift my boot and jam it into the silver stirrup. "One, two, three." Alaric hoists me up. His strength is effortless. I swing my right leg over the saddle and land with a thump.
The world tilts. I am suddenly eight feet in the air. The ground looks terrifyingly far away. The saddle feels slippery, precarious. Charon shifts his weight, and I grab the mane, terrified I’m going to slide off.
"Sit up," Alaric orders. He doesn't let go of the bridle. He stands next to the horse's shoulder, looking up at me. "Shoulders back. Spine straight. You look like a sack of potatoes."
I straighten my spine, glaring at him. "I'm terrified."
"Fear makes you heavy. Confidence makes you light." He walks to my leg. "Your stirrups are too long."
He begins to adjust the leather strap. His head is level with my thigh. He finishes the adjustment and then places his hand on my calf. "Leg position is critical," he says, his voice dropping into that dark, lecture-hall tone. He slides his hand up my boot. Over my knee. onto my thigh. He grips the inside of my thigh, hard.
