"We're here," Havoc says, his voice low. "You can let go now, Sasha."
I realize my arms are still locked around his waist, fingers clutching his shirt. Reluctantly, I release him and awkwardly swing my leg over, nearly stumbling when my feet hit the ground. My legs feel like jelly.
"You can take the helmet off," Havoc says, dismounting with easy grace.
I shake my head, grateful for the dark visor hiding my flushed face. "I'm good."
Havoc frowns, stepping closer. "Take it off. Can't meet Bluebell with your face covered. You'll freak her out."
"Just—just give me a minute," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathless even to my own ears.
His eyes narrow. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Bullshit." His tone shifts to that commanding one he uses in the clubhouse when giving orders. "Take it off or I will."
When I don't move, his hands come up, fingers finding the strap under my chin. The brush of his knuckles against my skin makes me shiver as he unbuckles the helmet and lifts it carefully from my head.
Cool air hits my burning cheeks, and I know I must look a mess—face flushed, eyes dilated, hair stuck to my damp forehead. I’m terrified he'll read everything I'm feeling.
Despite myself, I raise my eyes to his. His expression darkens immediately, pupils expanding as he takes in my state.
"What's going on?" he asks, voice rougher now. "You feeling sick?"
"Just... feeling a little weird," I mutter, looking away. "The vibrations..."
His eyes search mine, and I watch understanding dawn in them—a flicker of realization followed by something darker, more primal. His jaw clenches tight, muscles working beneath his skin. And when he subtly adjusts himself in his pants, my heart skips a beat.
Is he turned on too?
"Come on," Havoc says abruptly. "We're here to meet Bluebell. Let's go say hi."
His tone aims for lightness, but the strain is evident. The tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife. Every molecule of air seems charged with electricity.
I nod jerkily, unable to form words. My body still thrums with the lingering sensations from the ride, and now a fresh wave of heat floods through me at the knowledge that he might be just as turned on.
Havoc gestures toward the barn, keeping distance between us as we walk.
"She's a good mare," he says. "Your mom loved her more than anything. Except you and Viking, of course."
I focus on breathing, on putting one foot in front of the other. On pretending the last few minutes never happened.
Inside the barn, a stable hand nods to Havoc before disappearing down the aisle. Sunshine filters through high windows, dust motes dancing in golden beams. The smell of hay and horses surrounds us.
"Down here," Havoc says, leading me past several occupied stalls.
We stop at the end of the row, and he gestures for me to look inside. "There she is. Bluebell."
I step forward, my breath catching in my throat.
The mare stands in a shaft of sunlight, her coat gleaming pure white, almost luminescent. She's tall and elegant, with intelligent eyes that turn toward us as we approach. Her mane and tail flow like spun silver, and there's something regal in the way she holds her head.
"She's beautiful," I whisper, all the chaos in my body suddenly quieting.
The heat and confusion from the motorcycle ride evaporate as I stare at living proof of my mother's existence. This horse knew her, felt her touch, carried her.
Without thinking, I step closer to the stall door. Bluebell's ears prick forward curiously, and she takes a tentative step toward me, stretching her elegant neck.
