It rang a few times too long and the familiar panic where her safety was concerned came over me.
“Jethro? Why are you calling me—isn’t the match about to start?” Her soft voice came down the phone, sliding straight into my ear.
“You really should’ve come with us, Jaz. The sun is out and the sky is crystal clear.”
“Maybe next time.”
Maybe next time.
Her favourite expression.
Only thing was there was never a next time because she would refuse to go on that outing, too.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Okay, well I better go. Just wanted to check on you and let you know I’ll win again and give you the crystal vase or whatever shit they give us.”
Jaz giggled. “Okay. Be safe. And remember what I said. Try to figure out a way to face what you are. No more ‘fixing’. Get that woman to love you then you can hide again.”
I didn’t want to tell her that it’d gotten to the point where I could no longer hide—even from myself.
“Sure, easy done.” My tone dripped with sarcasm. Before she could respond, I added, “See you when we get back tonight.”
Hanging up, I looked at the screen.
I spotted Kestrel striding back alone across the field. I knew he would’ve stopped to place a wager on our team in the betting gazebo.
My stomach tensed.
Nila would be on her own. Cut and Daniel would never leave the gambling tent, so I just had to hope to God that whoever was mingling in our private space would leave her alone. She’d be surrounded by Black Diamond brothers peddling illegal stones. She would be untouchable under their protection. Not to mention imprisoned if she had a lunatic idea of running.
Escaping us was never that easy. There was a reason why her ancestors never fled.
My fingers drummed against my phone. Going against all better judgement, I opened a new message and typed:
Kite007: I’m assuming you haven’t replied because of what happened the other day. But perhaps now you’re ready to talk. You have questions. Lots of questions. What if I told you it would be easier for me to answer this way than any other?
My heart rate spiked, hovering my finger over the send button.
What am I doing?
Not only was it a disaster waiting to happen to write things down for anyone to read, but I had no intention of answering any of the questions she’d asked in the truck.
I always knew Nila would eventually find out that I was Kite. Hell, I wasn’t exactly subtle—but I’d always planned to let the ruse die a death when she did. It wasn’t needed anymore. I’d had enough enlightenment of her thoughts. And having the ability of talking this way only made the connection between us harder to ignore.
It was too dangerous. Secrets were too easily shared when hidden behind closed doors. Things I never intended to say suddenly had the audacity to find their way into a faceless message.
My fingers hovered, tingling with the urge to press send.
Do it.
I did.
“Ready to kit up?” Kes asked, shrugging out of his over-shirt and revealing the team colours below.
My temper flared to think Nila had feelings for him.
Feelings for my damn brother.
Feelings that I’d made happen by letting her chase the wrong path.
“Yes. I’m ready.” Depositing my phone into the saddlebag, I unfolded my matching colours and slipped them on.
Another reason I’d wanted to kill off Kite was to give Nila no choice but to be honest to my face. I didn’t want her running to Kes. I didn’t want him anywhere near her.
She’s mine, goddammit.
With a shaky hand, I tied my cravat and shoved Nila Weaver unsuccessfully from my thoughts.
Game time.
It’s time to win.
There were very few places where I could be completely free.
In fact, I could count three in total.
One, when I went to see Jasmine.
Two, when I took Wings for a gallop away from cameras and family and obligations of being someone I wasn’t.
And three, when I let down every guard on the polo field.
I fed off people’s energy. I drank the players’ nervousness, revelled in their tingling excitement, and for once, I was grateful for the disease I lived with.
We took our positions.
In my hand, I held my reins and a short braided whip. My cream jodhpurs, polished black knee-high boots, and gold velvet waistcoat over the billowing old-world sleeves of my white shirt made me feel like a knight about to joust for some fair maiden’s affection.
Kes grinned, sitting atop Moth and her nineteen hands of elegant muscle. Wings was only eighteen hands high, but he had something Moth didn’t. He had ferocity that rippled around him. Other horses felt it. Their nostrils flared, their eyes tracking him wherever he went.
He was an anomaly.
Just like his owner.
The Hawks were well known for hosting polo matches and commandeering the rules of any game we were invited to. Common rules that we broke were: no horses to be higher than sixteen hands, and multiple mounts per player.
I flatly refused to play on any other horse but Wings. Therefore, the rest of the players were forced to follow my lead.
Another rule we tweaked was to have a longer half-time. Instead of the stupid length of ten-minutes, we stipulated an hour—the horses needed it, seeing as we didn’t change mounts.
And an hour would be perfect for what I had planned.
I had every intention of seeking out Nila and finishing what she started this morning. What I wanted to do to her would be a fuck-load better than any showerhead.
The umpire cantered onto the pitch. The game we were about to play would be fast, brutal, and mentally draining. Men were known to break legs from an incorrectly wielded hook or concussion from falling mid-flight.
The umpire spun his speech while everyone nodded but didn’t listen. We all focused on the hard white ball in his hand.
The moment the ball hit the turf, it would be on.
The horses jostled and pawed, tasting imminent war.