I didn’t think I would like polo. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’d never witnessed something so intense, so visceral.
The rumbling earthquakes formed by eight horses thundering past would forever live inside my soul. My dreams would always conjure Jethro how he looked right now—capable, joyous, completely perfect in every way.
Another strike and the ball shot past, followed by a mass of muscle and men. The clatter of sticks colliding and grunts of players fully in the throes of sport sent my tummy frothing with bubbles.
I’d been told to stay in the gazebo under the watchful eye of Flaw. But I grew bored and resentful as Flaw orchestrated a magical event of disappearing diamonds followed by huge sums of cash changing hands.
The moment the bugle had sounded, I’d rushed out to witness the game. And now, watching the sea of sweat-glistening men, I’d found heaven.
Jethro suddenly looked directly at me. His arm jerked, pulling the reins tight and causing Wings to toss his head mid-gallop. My entire body tingled as Jethro just stared. We held eye contact far longer than was safe, and the moment he was too far away, I felt bereaved—as if he’d stolen my heart and taken it flying up the field with him.
I wanted to chase after him. I wanted to steal Moth from Kes and fight beside Jethro, rather than against him. I wanted the rush, the fear, the intoxicating knowledge of invincibility. But most of all, I wanted what Jethro had
…
freedom.
I wanted to be as happy as him. To be at peace like him.
I wanted to stare into his eyes while he was truly himself—no games, no lies, no debts.
Kes suddenly stood up in his stirrups, high fiving Jethro for effortlessly scoring another goal.
Jethro smiled. He positively glowed. He was resplendent.
Then the bugle trumpeted and the game began anew.
His happiness turned sharp with aggression. He and Wings moved as one—gliding so smoothly it looked almost telepathic—pirouetting mid-gallop to intercept the ball and steal it. Jethro…or should I say Kite…dominated the entire game.
He truly is one of a kind.
Tears came to my eyes as I finally acknowledged what lived beneath my hate.
My lust was slowly evolving, slowly growing. And I wished I had the power to stop it.
But I had as much power as stopping my heart from tripping into love as I did from tearing myself from the match. I fell into disgrace.
By the end of the first half, my knickers were damp and my heart ached. Every muscle hummed as if I’d been beaten, and I couldn’t stop the small voice repeating over and over:
You’re falling for him.
You’re falling for him.
You’re falling for him.
I wasn’t.
I couldn’t.
I’m not!
But no matter how hard I tried, the words enemy, tormentor, and adversary ceased to have meaning.
Other words came instead: ally, accomplice…friend.
When the bugle blared, signalling half-time, I sagged in relief. I needed to find a cool dark place and glue myself back together. I couldn’t let anyone—especially Jethro—see me in such broken pieces.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wings cantering toward me. Jethro sat proud and regal atop him, his golden eyes blazing with passion and need.
My stomach somersaulted.
He wants you.
I shook my head. He couldn’t touch me. Not when I was so…delicate. There would be no way I could halt the mess inside and find my way back to sanity if he touched me.
Run.
It’s the only way.
Leaving the border of the arena, I darted through the crowds and away from my feelings and the man I couldn’t face.
Ladies giggled as the gates were opened to carry on the time-old tradition of stomping on the divots caused by the horse’s hooves. Music floated across the sun-drenched field from large speakers.
I left it all behind.
Walking briskly past the Hawk’s private gazebo, I caught the eye of Flaw. He crooked his finger, motioning me to go inside. I shook my head and pointed to the perimeter of the grandstand, indicating I needed some space.
He frowned then weaved through customers, who’d no doubt bought a smuggled diamond or two, and made his way toward me.
No, I need time alone.
I broke into a jog.
My ballerina shoes coasted over the thick grass whereas ladies in heels struggled, their pretty shoes sinking into the mud.
Before the match had started, I’d been in my element—drinking in the designs of their gowns and improving on styles that intrigued me. All around, women clustered in beautiful fabrics, laughing beneath hats that dripped with organza and hand-stitched lace flowers.
Now those same fashions were in my way as I wriggled through the dispersing crowd and ducked down the side of the grandstand.
No one disturbed me as I kept my eyes trained on the ground and didn’t stop jogging until I rounded the back of the tiered seating and disappeared into the hushed world of scaffolding and churned earth.
The second the shadows claimed me, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank God.
There was no one here apart from stacked chairs and boxes of polo equipment.
I could let go of my iron control and indulge in a moment of self-pity. I was screwed up, and I had to find some way of fixing myself.
You’re not falling for him.
You’re not.
I found a place to recline and hung my head in my hands. “You can’t be, Nila. Think of your family. Think about why you’re here. About your promise.”
My voice fell around me like the tears I wanted to shed.
You know how wrong all of this is.
You know what he means to do.
I groaned, digging my fingers into my hair and tugging. A single tear rolled down my nose. It hovered on the tip like a jewel, before splashing to the dirt below.
At least I was hidden. Jethro wouldn’t find me, and by the time we returned to Hawksridge, I would’ve torn out my heart and destroyed all notions of having feelings for him.
I would do what was necessary. What was right.
I just hope I have the strength to do it over and over again.