CHAPTER 27
Reins Between Us
POORVI
The stables smell faintly of hay and earth, warm under the morning sun. A couple of horses shift in their stalls, the low sounds they make breaking the silence that has been stretched between Vihaan and me since last night.
I stand just outside, my hands brushing over the wooden railing, trying to keep myself steady.
I didn’t sleep much, not with the weight of his silence pressing down on me.
I can tell he’s upset, though he hasn’t said why.
Then again, I’ve been holding things inside me too—words that tangle in my throat whenever I try to let them out.
“Poorvi,” his voice cuts through, smooth but firm, carrying that trace of command he doesn’t even realize he holds.
I turn. He’s already there, dressed casually but with the kind of ease that makes him look like he belongs everywhere—here, in these stables, in the villa, in any world he decides is his. His gaze lands on me, unreadable, and then he walks toward a tall brown stallion tied near the fence.
“You’ve never ridden a horse, have you?”
It isn’t really a question. I shake my head, clutching the fabric of my kurti with restless fingers. “No. I’ve only ever seen them in processions or at fairs.”
His lips tug slightly, not quite a smile. “Then today you will learn.”
“Vihaan—” I start, but stop when his eyes flicker to mine, steady and unyielding.
There’s an edge to him today. Not anger exactly, but something restrained. I can feel it in the way he moves, the way his jaw ticks when he tightens the saddle straps. He’s upset. With me? With himself? I don’t know. But it coils between us like a rope drawn too tight.
“I don’t think I can—”
“You can,” he cuts in, voice quiet but final.
I bite my lip, annoyed by his certainty and yet… somewhat grateful, too. That’s how it always is with him. I want to resist, but part of me wants to give in.
He gestures for me to come closer. My feet feel heavy, but I walk anyway, stopping just near enough to smell the faint scent of leather and the sharper note of his cologne.
His hand brushes against mine as he passes me the reins, and a current zips through me. I almost drop them. He notices, I know he does, because that half-smile returns, brief and infuriating.
“Hold tight. He can sense hesitation.”
Like you, I almost say, but swallow the words.
The horse shifts slightly, and my grip tightens instinctively. My heart is beating far too fast, and it has little to do with the animal before me.
He steps closer, so close that his shoulder brushes mine, his hand covering mine over the reins. “Don’t strangle him,” he murmurs near my ear, voice low, steady. “Firm, not fearful.”
My breath catches. “Easy for you to say.”
“Not really. The first time I rode, I fell flat on my face.”
I blink, surprised, turning to look at him. His expression softens just a little, and that small shift does something to me. He doesn’t often share pieces of himself like this.
“And you still got back on?”
“I had to,” he says simply, his thumb brushing lightly against my knuckles before he pulls back. “Sometimes falling is the only way to learn what holds you.”
His words linger longer than they should.
I climb onto the horse with his help, every movement awkward and graceless. He steadies me, one hand at my waist, the other guiding my leg over the saddle. I freeze at his touch, at how firm yet careful it is.
“You’re trembling,” he observes, voice softer now.
“Because this is terrifying,” I mutter, refusing to meet his eyes.
“It’s not the horse you’re afraid of.”
I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, his gaze far too piercing, and then he steps back, his hand sliding away. I instantly miss the warmth.
“Keep your back straight,” he instructs. “And look ahead, not down.”
I do as he says, though my eyes flick to him more often than the path. He walks beside the horse, close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. The thought unsettles me.
Minutes pass like that—his voice guiding me, my breath shallow, the horse’s steady rhythm grounding me. Slowly, the panic eases. I find myself trusting the animal. Trusting him.
“You’re doing well,” he says, glancing up at me, and for a moment the pride in his eyes makes my chest ache.
I smile before I can stop myself. “That’s because you’re here.”
The words slip out unguarded, and immediately I regret them. I look away, heat rising to my cheeks.
Silence follows, heavy and unspoken. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, he says, “Good.”
My heart stumbles. I chance a look at him. His face is angled away, but there’s a softness there that wasn’t before.
We circle back toward the stable. I think it’s over, but just as I begin to dismount, I falter. My foot slips, and before panic can set in, his arms are around me, steady and sure, pulling me down against him.
For a second, we’re too close. His breath brushes against my temple, his chest firm against mine.
“You really like catching me whenever I fall, don’t you?” I whisper, trying to mask the thundering of my heart.
His lips curve, just barely. “Maybe I like the excuse to hold you.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. I look up at him, startled, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers, burning, pulling.
And then, as if realizing he’s said too much, he lets go, stepping back. The distance feels colder than it should.
I smooth my dupatta, forcing a smile. “I think that’s enough riding for one day.”
He nods once, expression shuttered again. “As you wish.”
But I can’t shake the memory of his hands, his words, the almost-smile that makes my heart misbehave. Even in silence, Vihaan makes me feel too much.
And the worst part? I’m starting to wonder if falling—whether from a horse or into him—is something I’ll ever truly recover from.