At first I’m awkward, stiff, but then Leon mounts his own horse and nudges us into a slow walk, then a trot, then a reckless, exhilarating race across the wild grass.
I shriek, clutching the mane, half terrified and wholly alive. For a few stolen minutes, I’m just a girl, chasing laughter, not a pawn or a wife or a weapon.
When we finally reel in the horses, I’m breathless, cheeks stinging from the wind. Leon is grinning, mud streaked up his jeans, hair a mess, eyes shining.
He shows me how to rub the horses down, how to check their hooves for stones, how to braid their tails with practiced, gentle fingers. I pretend to be bored, but the truth is, the ritual soothes something inside me.
There’s comfort in the work, in the small talk, in the shared space that isn’t dangerous or forced.
He chops wood out back, splitting logs with clean, efficient swings. I watch from the porch, hugging my knees, letting the cold seep through my clothes.
He catches me looking and winks, sweat beading at his temples. In the kitchen, he moves with easy competence—kneading bread, stirring a pot of stew, pouring coffee black and bitter. We eat at the old wooden table, sunlight striping the floor, the dog snoring at our feet.
I study him across the table, searching for the mask, the agenda, the threat.
Leon just eats, steals glances at me as if expecting me to vanish. I try not to let it matter, try not to let my guard slip, but the quiet creeps in—comfortable, almost fragile.
I talk more than I mean to: about old TV shows, disastrous recipes, the way city horses always look offended by mud. Leon tells me stories about the horses—ridiculous names, stubborn tempers. We laugh, low and unguarded, and for a moment, I forget who we are.
Night falls, and Leon builds a fire. The room glows orange and gold, shadows dancing across the old walls. He pours us both a glass of whiskey, and we sit side by side on the battered sofa, letting the heat seep into our bones. The silence isn’t empty—it’s companionable, filled with the crackle of wood and the faint sound of crickets outside. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel something I haven’t felt in months: peace.
It unsettles me, this easy happiness. I remind myself that nothing here is permanent, that the outside world is waiting. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t find it so easy to let my guard down, to laugh, to learn, to let him see me without the armor.
Just for tonight, I let myself believe in this fragile, impossible happiness, even as I promise I’ll never trust it for long.
***
The days slip by with a quiet, golden sameness that feels nothing like captivity.
Each morning, I wake before the sun, padding barefoot to the kitchen to find Leon already up—sometimes making coffee, sometimes just leaning against the counter in that easy way I’ve never seen from him before.
There’s no schedule, no guards, no polished cars idling outside. Instead, there are old boots and flannel shirts, muddy trails winding through dew-soaked grass, the clean, cold air cutting through every last remnant of city nerves. For the first time in years, my muscles ache from something other than tension.
We ride early, side by side, horses snorting steam into the dawn. I’m clumsy at first, but Leon’s patience is endless. He’s strict, but there’s laughter in him now—dry, surprising, infectious.
Sometimes we race across the fields, and he lets me win, falling back with a grin that says he knows exactly what I’m doing.
Other times, we talk. About the horses. About food. About stupid childhood memories—the kind you never tell anyone because they’re too precious, too small. I catch him reminiscing about a dog he had as a kid, about the mischief he got up to with Nikola as a child. There are cracks in his armor I’ve never seen before, glimpses of a boy who once belonged somewhere softer.
I try not to read into it. I try not to let the warmth in my chest turn into something dangerous. It’s there, all the same.
I watch the way he moves through this place, how he always leaves my favorite tea in the kitchen, how he finds my scarf in the tack room and wraps it around my neck with gruff tenderness.
At night, when the fire burns low and the wind rattles the windows, he’ll drape a blanket over my shoulders before I even realize I’m cold.
It unsettles me, the way he notices everything. How he seems to anticipate my moods before I do. He isn’t gentle, not really—there’s a bluntness to his affection, an edge that never quite goes away. I find myself wanting to lean into it, wanting to let myself trust the way he looks at me now. For a little while, it’s easy to believe I could be happy here. I let myself relax, let myself laugh, let myself be softer than I’ve dared in years.
But peace never lasts. Even in the quiet, I feel it shifting—a subtle tightening of the air, a tension threading through our days.
I notice Leon watching me sometimes, his eyes lingering a second too long when I check my phone, when I mention my family, when I go quiet and thoughtful in the evenings. Henever says anything outright, but there’s a sharpness in his tone when he talks about loyalty, about what it means to belong to someone, about the cost of betrayal.
He’ll say it casually, tossing the words into the firelight.
“Funny how people claim love, but still keep secrets.” Or, “In my world, trust isn’t given—it’s earned, and lost with just one mistake.”
The first time, I let it pass.
The second, I answer with a shrug, laughing it off, pretending not to hear the warning in his voice.
