Chapter 5 Blue Eyes and Beating Hearts
Chapter five
Blue Eyes and Beating Hearts
Hunter’s thoughts churned as he went—memories of her body under his, of her lustrous hair sweeping his bare chest, her bountiful breasts in his hands, of the sweet taste of her lips on his.
Virility in his body rose and intertwined with rage as those memories of love were quickly followed by memories of the blood on her skin, of the way she had sent him away like discarded armor, of his new realization that she never felt the same about him.
And here she was again, using the same tactics, the same arch of the spine, the same tilt of the mouth, on another man.
By the time he pushed open the side door that led to the stables, his jaw ached from clenching it.
He crossed the straw-strewn floor in long strides, heading for his horse’s stall.
His horse, a plain brown gelding with a white star on its forehead, tossed its head and shifted restlessly in the stall as Hunter approached.
Animals always seemed to sense when their riders carried lightning under their skin.
The animal lifted its head, sensing his agitation.
“Easy,” Hunter demanded. “Easy, I said, goddammit.”
His hands shook as he reached for the bridle.
With each heartbeat, the image of Liora’s fingers on that man’s lap grew sharper.
The idea of her lying under someone else, arching and gasping and whispering those same words—his vision went red around the edges.
He yanked the bridle too hard. His horse tossed its head, whites of its eyes showing, hooves clattering on the planks.
“Stand still, you stupid beast!” Hunter snapped, slamming a palm against the horse’s shoulder. The horse jigged sideways, bumping the stall wall, knocking Hunter back. His temper flared.
From outside the stables, Grimm approached, Snow White astride. They had finished stretching their legs for the day and she was ready to retire to the library when she noticed commotion inside the stables.
Then she saw the way Hunter drew his arm back, hand open, yelling, as if to strike again, this time on the frightened horse’s face.
“No!” Snow White cried with a sudden gulp of air.
At that very moment a knight appeared—the boy from the king’s processional—he jumped towards Hunter, grabbing his wrist from behind to stop the attack.
The young knight was dressed plainly—white riding coat, metal armor—but everything about him marked rank: the quality of the fabric, the shine of his armor, the easy balance in his stature, the way he’d moved without hesitation into the path of Hunter’s anger.
“Unhand me,” Hunter growled, low and dangerous.
The boy didn’t flinch. “Gladly,” he said, “so long as you leave this stable at once.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Hunter’s ears burned. He yanked his arm free more roughly than strictly necessary and stepped back from the gelding, who seized the opportunity to plant all four hooves as far from both men as possible.
Hunter reached for his sword. Before he could summon a cutting reply, he became aware of Snow White watching them from Grimm’s back.
He froze, his hand stinging from the impact.
He couldn't look at the horse. He couldn't look at the girl.
Shame, hot and acidic, flooded his throat, and he turned on his heel.
But her eyes were wide, not with disgust now but with something like fascination. The young man must have felt her gaze as well, because he turned. For a moment, the world in the stable seemed to narrow to the space between them.
He lifted his hand slightly, palm open, in a gesture halfway between greeting and reassurance. “Apologies,” he said to her, as if this were his mess to atone for. “We came in loud.”
Snow White swallowed. Her heart, which had been beating fast with worry for the gelding, stuttered for an entirely different reason now.
Up close, she could see wheat-blonde hair and clear blue eyes that seemed, in that moment, to see only her and nothing else.
His mouth was strong and soft at the same time—a mouth that would, she realized with a kind of dizzy horror, be very easy to imagine on hers.
“I…” she began, then stopped because the words in her chest were all tangled. “Thank you,” she managed at last, nodding toward the brown horse. “For… for that.”
He smiled, and it hit her like a physical thing.
Not a practiced smirk, not an oily grin, but something open and a little embarrassed, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his own face.
“Couldn’t just stand by,” he said. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
” He nodded at the gelding. “Only feeding off of his rider’s energy. ”
Snow White’s lips twitched. “People shouldn’t hurt animals,” she said quietly.
“I agree,” he replied, and something in the way he said it made her feel as if they’d just discovered a secret language. “We have to be their voice, since they cannot speak for themselves.”
For a second, the sounds of the stable faded—the stamping horses, the distant wind—leaving only the drum of her own pulse.
It wasn’t just that he was handsome; she had seen handsome lords before, parading through the great hall.
It was the way he looked at her, not through her.
Most people looked at her and saw a problem, an object, or a ghost of the queen.
He looked at her and saw… a girl. A girl who liked horses.
“Are you all right?” the young man asked, brows raised as he looked up at her. “He didn’t scare your horse?”
“Grimm’s seen worse,” she said, patting the stallion’s neck to steady her own trembling hand. “He only gets nervous when I do.”
“Smart,” the stranger said. “Knows to trust good judgment.”
When he said that, her stomach flipped. She tried to convince herself this was only gratitude, only the relief of someone stepping between anger and an innocent creature.
But as she really looked at him—at the way the light from the stable door softened the line of his jaw, at the way a dimple creased his cheek when he smiled again—another feeling bloomed, bright and frightening and sweet.
Is this…? she thought, half breathless. Is this what those books meant? Her heart seemed to be everywhere at once: in her throat, in her ears, in her fingers gripping the reins.
She became suddenly self-conscious—of her crooked hair, of the smell of manure on the bottom of her boots, of the smear of dust on her cheek she hadn’t wiped off properly that morning.
She fought the wild urge to smooth her rags, to tuck her hair behind her ears, to make herself look like the princess she was.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward Grimm’s shoulder.
It took her a second to realize he was asking permission to come closer. That he thought he needed it. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Of course.”
He stepped in, hand out, letting Grimm sniff his fingers before stroking the stallion’s neck. “He’s beautiful,” the young man said. “Strong. Proud.” He glanced up at her. “Like someone else I just met.”
Heat rushed to Snow White’s face. She was glad, for once, of the stable’s dimmer light.
“I’m not—” she began automatically, then stopped, not wanting to argue herself out of a compliment from the first person who had looked at her in years.
She slid one leg over Grimm’s back to dismount, then hesitated.
The ground seemed further away than usual.
Or perhaps it was simply that the idea of being on the same level as this boy, face to face, made her more nervous than any high saddle.
“Here, let me help you,” he offered, seeing her pause.
She didn’t need help. She’d been slipping off Grimm’s back like a cat since she was eight. But there was something in his earnest expression that made her nod. “All right,” she said.
He moved to her side, hands lifting, careful not to touch her until the last possible moment. As she swung her leg over and slid down, his palms settled lightly at her waist.
The contact shocked her.
His hands were warm and strong through the rough wool, fingers spanning her easily.
Her own hands, which had been gripping the saddle, fluttered awkwardly for balance, then landed for a second on his shoulders, which were more muscular than she expected.
For that heartbeat, their bodies and breaths aligned.
She felt the rise and fall of his chest under her fingertips, the faint rasp of fabric under her palms, the steady strength in his grip.
She began to feel like the floor was spinning.
Her boots hit the straw. He did not let go at once. “Steady,” he murmured.
“I am,” she said, then quickly unsure if he was talking to her or Grimm. “Steady, I mean.”
He smiled again, and this time there was a hint of shyness in it, as if he was as startled by their nearness as she was.
They were standing very close now, barely an arm’s length apart.
She could see the deep blue ring around his irises, the tiny freckle at the corner of his mouth, the way a lock of hair refused to lie flat over his forehead.
No one had ever told her about love or what it felt like.
She didn’t know that falling in love could feel like stepping off the edge of a cliff.
It was as if every book she’d ever read had gathered itself into a synchronized chorus of this—this is what we meant.
“Thank you,” she said again, softer now, the words carrying more than one meaning.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his own voice lower than before. “Any decent person would have done the same.”
But she knew, and somehow he seemed to know too, that what had just passed between them was not something “any decent person” did every day.
Grimm snorted, as if to reclaim her attention.
Snow White startled slightly, then, desperate to do something with her hands, reached past the young man to the cloth bag hanging from a peg on the wall.
It knocked lightly against his shoulder as she fumbled with the ties.
He stepped forward half a pace, misreading the movement. His eyes flickered down to her mouth. For the barest instant, he leaned forward, like a man drawn by gravity.
She felt the air change between them, warmer and tighter. Her own body, responding before her mind could catch up, tipped forward a fraction.
Time stretched.
He closed his eyes, just a little, as if bracing for impact.
Snow White’s hand found an apple in the sack. Her fingers curled around it like a lifeline.
She turned her head, reaching past his temple, and the moment shattered.
She lifted the fruit over his shoulder.
“Here,” she said brightly—to Grimm, to herself, to the entire awkward universe. “Someone’s earned a treat.” The stallion nickered. Glad for something safe to do, Snow White pressed the apple to his muzzle. Grimm’s strong teeth crunched through the skin. Juice ran over her fingers.
The young man blinked, realization and mortification chasing each other across his face. “I, ah—” He cleared his throat, stepping back fully now. “Of course. The apple. For the horse. Naturally.”
Heat climbed Snow White’s neck. “Obviously,” she managed. “What else would it be for?” They both laughed then, a touch too loud, a touch too quickly, the sound covering everything neither quite dared to say.
To salvage what little dignity he could, the young man reached for the sack as well. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” she said.
He pulled out another apple, this one a little smaller, and turned toward the brown gelding.
The horse eyed him with suspicion, then, tempted by the scent of fruit, inched closer.
The young man held out the apple flat on his palm, making soft, soothing noises.
“There,” he said under his breath. “See? We’re friends. No one’s going to hurt you today.”
Snow White watched him, something tender unfolding in her chest. There was an ease in the way he moved around the animals, a patience that matched her own.
When the gelding finally snatched the apple, their hands brushed as she steadied the bag.
Just a graze of skin against skin. It was enough.
A spark shot up Snow White’s arm. Her cheeks burned.
She was shockingly aware of every place her body existed in space—her fingertips, her toes, the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered wildly.
He looked up at her, eyes wide for a half second as if he’d felt the same jolt. Then he ducked his head, smiling into his collar in an attempt at nonchalance.
Above them, unseen, a curtain in the tower window shifted.
Queen Liora, watching from on high, saw only enough to know everything she needed: her daughter on a magnificent black horse, a handsome young prince closer than any man had been allowed to stand in years, the air between them crackling with something new.
Her hand clenched on the windowsill. “Interesting,” she murmured, and the word was anything but pleased.