The Dare Collection September 2018. Stefanie London
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it sounds like Damien isn’t an amateur. He rejoins me and our horses race, stride for stride. My hair flies behind me, the ribbon tying my plait unable to withstand the wind we create.
Something rips loose within me and I let out a whoop of delight, reveling in this one heady moment of freedom, of just being a girl in the sunshine and fresh air, going faster and faster until my heart threatens to pound out of my chest.
We reach a river by an ancient stone bridge. “You deserve a drink, my friend,” I croon to my horse, dismounting and leading him to drink.
“Pudding,” Damien says flatly.
“Excuse me?” Is the prince hungry or has he become addled by the ride?
“The horse I gave you. His name is Pudding. Or as the groomers call him, Puddin’. He has never been considered a racehorse. If I hadn’t seen you ride him with my own two eyes, I would never have believed it.”
“I see. Well, it appears there is more to Puddin’ than meets the eye.” I tie him off to a willow tree next to the water where he can slake his thirst and enjoy nibbling the thick sweet grass.
“And you.” He dismounts and draws in close. So close. And when he reaches out and lifts my chin, forcing me to stare directly into his eyes, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“What are you doing?” It’s a wonder that I can whisper the question with my mouth this dry.
“I don’t know.” His voice is flint on steel. “Fuck.” The desperate rasp sends a shudder along my spine. “Back in the meadow, when you were riding? You cried out, and for a moment, I swear, I remembered.”
“What?” My hand trembles. “What memory did you have?”
“I don’t know. It’s like trying to look underwater. Everything is murky. Time feels distorted. All I know is that I was there with you, and you made a sound.” He frowns. “Do I sound insane? Do you have any idea what I am talking about?”
A faint flush creeps up my cheeks. I pull my hand from his and walk to a small cluster of wildflowers, bending to pick a few. “Who can say? Apparently I have a reputation for being...noisy.”
I think of the sounds I made in his arms. Whimpers. Cries. Gasps of pure pleasure.
I toss the blossoms to the grass. How I wish I could forget. My curse is that I can remember everything in perfect detail.
“My brother Nikolai used to bring me here to go fishing,” Damien said after a long moment. “That is a memory that I cannot erase. He loved this bridge. It was always one of his favorite places. I hated to fish but always agreed to go.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I idolized my brother. Both of my brothers. I’m sure they considered me a pain in the ass, but they never told me I couldn’t tag along. And they looked out for me.”
“You aren’t close now.”
“No.” Darkness returns to his eyes. “I’m better off alone. People who get close to me have a nasty habit of winding up hurt. Or worse.”
I don’t want to give him comfort. I don’t want to risk touching him and seeing what feelings might rise to the surface for me while I’m nothing but a stranger to him. But my heart overrides my head.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I approach him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“No one is better alone. Trust me. I’m something of an expert in the subject.”
He is stiff, but eventually his hands find their way to my waist, and he holds me tight, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
He lets out a shuddering breath. I take one in return. And at this moment, that’s enough.
Damien
SHE CRADLES MY face in her palms. Her eyes search mine, and I know what she wants to see. Recognition. But other than a moment of déjà vu, this woman is a stranger to me. A beautiful, headstrong, drive-me-crazy stranger.
She reaches up, rubs a thumb along the scar above my brow.
“Does it still hurt?” All of the earlier haughtiness disappears from her voice.
I shake my head.
She strokes a finger gingerly along my nose, and I close my eyes.
“Why does this injury seem fresher than the others?”
“It didn’t heal correctly,” I tell her, then blink my eyes open to meet her gaze. “After weeks of recuperation, I was rewarded with having the doctors break it again. Though I’m not quite sure I approve of their handiwork.” I grab her wrist and lower her hand, but for some reason I don’t let go. “Still crooked, but it’s the best they could do with how badly it was injured.” I paint on my devil’s grin. “Now I have a whole face full of reminders of all that I’ve done to put my family in danger.”
“You’re beautiful,” she blurts.
Her words are too unexpected for me shutter my reaction. My eyes go wide.
“I don’t see your scars, Damien. I don’t see your past. All I see is a man who has punished himself for far too long. A man who suffered great loss in his life before I even met him—and who suffers even more so because of me.”
A tear streaks her cheek, and I instinctively wipe it away. Whatever happened or did not happen between us, she suffers now because of me. And I can’t help think that in her eyes, I have failed her.
Just like I failed Victoria.
My father and brothers.
“Are you still angry at me?” I ask, releasing her hand.
She lets it fall against my chest. “Furious,” she says, but there is no fury in her voice. “Are you not angry with me for barging into your life and messing it up even more?”
My hands rest on her hips, my fingertips kneading her soft skin beneath her riding clothes. “The angriest,” I lie. Because the truth is, while I am definitely in one royal fucking mess I don’t know how to clean up, right now I care nothing for the fate of Edenvale or Nightgardin. I care only that this woman has not run from me screaming. This woman I do not know who claims she carries my child.
“Juliet,” I say, my mouth going dry.
“Damien,” she responds.
“I—” I don’t know what the hell to say, so I brush my lips against hers, testing the waters, and she whimpers, and that is answer enough.
I scoop her into my arms, and she yelps with laughter.
“What are you doing? Do you not have broken ribs that are still healing?” she scolds.
“I don’t care,” I growl, leaving the horses to drink while I take her to a place I have not been since I was a young teen. We weave through a copse of trees until we emerge at a circular clearing small enough that most would pass it by, but I know better.
Before fast cars, there were horses. As much as I loved my brothers, it was when I grew older that I realized I’d always live in their shadows—that there was no true place for me in the palace. So I’d ride far and fast until I found a place I could get lost.
I set Juliet on her feet, and she spins to take in the lush green canopy of the tree branches, the purple wildflowers that grow at the bases of the trunks, and a small space where a fourteen-year-old boy could hide away from the life of a prince—and where a twenty-five-year-old man can get to know the stranger who is his wife.
“Damien,” she whispers. “How did you know this place was here?”
She spins to face