There’s a difference.
Buran doesn’t need trust. He needs clarity. So does Anya.
She brings him to a halt near the fence and looks down at me, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright with triumph. “Well?”
I study her posture, the reins, the horse, her lifted chin. “You survived.”
Her smile fades into offense. “That’s your praise?”
“For now.”
She rolls her eyes, then leans down slightly. “Help me dismount.”
“You know how.”
“Yaromir.”
I step closer.
The moment her foot leaves the stirrup, she shifts her weight wrong on purpose. I catch her around the waist before she can slide badly. She lands against me, laughing softly, hands on my shoulders.
“You did that intentionally,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Dangerous.”
“A little.” Her laughter fades when she realizes how close we are.
The stableman suddenly decides to leave. Smart man.
Buran snorts behind us.
Anya looks toward him, then back to me. “Your horse is judging us.”
“He does that.”
Her hands stay on my shoulders, and the cold air turns warm between us.
Weeks ago, I thought I was bringing a weapon into my house. A pretty insult. A bride taken to wound my brother and my father.
Now she stands in my arms with wind in her hair, dirt on the hem of her riding habit, and triumph in her eyes because she has just conquered a horse half my men are afraid to approach.
She’s still a weapon.
But not one I hold. One I stand beside.
That distinction should worry me.
It does.
I kiss her anyway.
28
ANYA
We havelunch outside because I ask for it, and because Yaromir has become worse at saying no to me.
