26. CHAPTER 23 #3
Before I could breathe, she gave the mare a quick, desperate kick. Selene, sensing the frantic energy didn't just trot, she broke into a ragged, uneven gallop.
Any semblance of riding vanished. I watched Léonie's shoulders lurch forward, her hands pulled tight as she gripped the reins too high.
She bounced dangerously in the saddle, her form far messier than the composed woman I was used to, but she didn't slow down.
She rode with a suicidal kind of courage, as if the risk of falling was nothing compared to the risk of staying near me.
What the hell does she think she’s doing?
My heart almost escaped my chest from pure, cold terror.
“Léa!” I shouted, but the wind swallowed it.
Fuck!
I gave Bucephalus a fierce nudge, urging him into a sudden, aggressive gallop to chase her down. I needed to catch her before she lost her balance, and I needed the speed to outrun the knowledge that, for once in my life, I felt stripped raw.
I didn't just ride after her; I hunted her down. Bucephalus covered the distance in massive thundering strides, closing the gap until I was close enough to see the terrifying sway of her body. She was going to fall. The realisation sent a chill down my spine.
“Léonie! Pull back!”
She didn't… or couldn't.
I leaned out of my saddle and I hauled on her reins, forcing both horses to a skidding, dust-choked halt.
I was off Bucephalus before he'd even stopped moving. My boots hit the dirt hard.
Reaching for her, I wrapped a hand around her waist and lifted her down with more force than grace.
I didn't step back once her feet hit the ground. I caged her against the mare's side, my chest heaving and my heart pounding a rhythm I couldn't control.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” I rasped. My voice was a wreck, the unshakeable front I usually maintained was nowhere to be found. I was terrified. Fear gripped me, cold. Paralyzing me in a way I haven’t felt before.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide in shock—that open-book face showing a mix of adrenaline and something far too familiar—fear.
“I wanted to get away from you,” she whispered, her breath on my lips. “I wanted a place where I could pretend, at least for a minute, that you didn't exist.”
I tried to catch my breathe and swallowed.
“Such a place will never exist,” I said, forcing the words out under my breath.
I dipped my head, drawn by the gravity of the truth she’d forced out of me. My gaze dropped to her mouth, and the world narrowed to her body pressed to mine, the heat radiating between us, the mix of her perfume, sweat, the smell of the horses and the cool breeze wrapping around us.
My hands flexed at her waist. She wasn't pulling away. If anything, she seemed to be waiting.
I was a hair's breadth from breaking every rule I’d set for myself. I wanted to kiss her until she regretted the stunt she’d just pulled, and then keep going until she forgot she’d ever tried to run.
Then, the mare stirred, and I froze, the reality of the estate rushing back in.
I couldn't do this. Not while I felt this vulnerable.
My hands slid from her waist, slowly to make it clear I knew exactly what I was walking away from.
“The horses are lathered,” I said, my voice finally regaining a shred of its usual composure. “I should walk them back.”
Without waiting for an answer, I took Selene's reins. My fingers brushed hers before either of us let go—a reminder that neither of us was finished with this.
For now, we both needed space to breathe.
Leading the horses back to the stables, I could still hear her.
You just sound like a man who doesn't know how to lose.
She was right. I don’t know how to lose.
All I knew was that I wanted her, and I was running out of ways to pretend otherwise.
The tension from the trail hadn't stayed at the stables. It had followed us into the villa.
We didn't revisit the gallop, or talk about the way I’d pinned her against the mare or the second my breath had hitched near her lips. To speak of it would be to acknowledge the power dynamic had changed, that I’d been a man who nearly lost his composure.
Instead, we talked about the trivialities that felt like real conversations. The wine, the history of the ranch’s stone walls, the serenity of the countryside. But every time her fork clinked tapped the china, or her eyes caught mine over the rim of her glass, the air between us sparked.
“You’re quiet tonight,” I noted, watching the candlelight dance in her eyes.
“Just thinking about the horses,” she said, though we both knew she was lying. “You said your father taught you to ride. Was he as… demanding a teacher as you?”
“He was worse,” I said, with a faint smile on my lips. “He didn't believe in safety nets. He believed that if you weren't afraid of the fall, you weren't riding hard enough.”
Léonie set her glass down, her eyes never leaving mine. “And what happens when you finally fall, Orion? Does the world end, or do you just realise the ground isn't as hard as you thought?”
The question wasn't about horses. It was a challenge as usual. She was still trying to get under my skin, even after what had transpired today. Testing to see if I'll let my guard down and how far she could push before something cracked.
“You’re getting very poetic for someone who couldn't find her stirrups two hours ago.”
I bent forward, my tone softening. “The ground is hard, trust me. I have the childhood scars to prove it. My gaze lingered on her face for a moment. "I think you’ve had enough soul-searching for one evening.”
Cocking an eyebrow, I asked, “So tell me, aside from trying to outrun me, what’s the best thing you’ve seen on the estate so far?”
Léonie rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. The heavy, philosophical air between us popped like a bubble, replaced by the the unsettling ease of a shared joke.
“Fine. No more poetry,” she conceded, picking up her wine glass. “And for the record, I knew where my stirrups were, keeping my feet in them was the problem. There’s a difference.”
A counterpoint rose to the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it, smiled, and let her have the last word.
She took a sip of her drink, looking out over the terrace as she actually considered the question I'd asked. Some of the defensiveness had left her.
“The best thing?” she asked, her voice fraying a little “The oak trees near the guest wing. I’ve always admired oaks left to grow as they please, and the ones here… they feel untamed—like no one’s bothered to force them into shape or anything.”
She looked back at me with the most genuine smile on her face. “It feels really freeing…” She beamed.
The sincerity in her voice made a muscle in my jaw ticked. It wasn’t surprising she’d choose the only things here as wild as she is.
She placed her chin on her hand, her gaze dropping to my rolled-up sleeves. “What about you? Aside from watching me almost eat dirt, what’s your favorite part of being back here?”
“Today?”
I took a long look at her. The champagne slip dress she chose tonight clung to her as if it had been poured on.
Thin straps, a low, clean neckline, the fabric skimming the lines of her body without trying too hard.
Her skin glowed against the soft metallic sheen, and her hair was pulled back into a loose knot, with a few stray strands framing her face.
“You.”
Her breath caught.
“And I’m trying to decide,” I continued, “if letting you leave the house looking like this in the future should be prohibited.”
“Are we getting jealous already?”
“I don’t get jealous.”
“Mmm... men have started wars over less.”
I held the wine bottle, my eyes tracking the way the candlelight caught the curve of her breasts through the fabric.
“They have. Those men were usually fighting for things they hadn't yet won. I don't feel the need to start a war over something I've already captured.”
For the briefest moment, she looked caught off guard. I expected her sharp tongue as usual, but the response never came.
Her gaze dropped to the stream of wine filling her glass, trying to conceal the flash of annoyance that suggested she hadn't intended to give me a reaction at all.
She'd rather die than give me an honest reaction. The fact that one had slipped through anyway felt suspiciously like progress.
“To kidnapping,” she said, lifting her glass. “The consensual kind.”
“To my wife not filing charges,”
Her lips curved as she sipped.
We ate. The food was excellent, but I barely tasted any of it.
My mind was still back on that trail, stuck in the half-second when her horse had bolted and the world had gone silent.
I kept seeing the way her hands had gripped the reins—hard and desperate—and how she’d looked at me afterward.
As though she'd finally understood what would happen if she stopped fighting me.
Every time she laughed now, it felt like a deliberate strike at the walls I’d spent years building.
She asked about polo tournaments, and I told her how my father never missed a match. Those were the only moments I had truly felt his pride—when the adrenaline was high as I rode, and the victory was sure.
I studied her dress again, the way the color worked with her skin.
“You used to wear neutrals everywhere,” I said. “Beige, cream, black…now you’re wearing color. What changed?”
She arched a brow. “You noticed that too?”
“I notice everything,” I said. “It’s my job.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the small flicker of pleasure in her expression.
“I wore neutrals to piss my mother off,” she admitted.
I sat back. “Explain.”
“Everyone assumed I’d grown into some new aesthetic or whatever,” she said, “but I never corrected them. Only my mother understood my defiance. She loves drama, bright colors…statement pieces. She wanted a daughter who looked like a painting. So, I became a sketch instead. The more boring the colors I wore, the more it annoyed her.”
“A rebellion by subtraction.”
“Something like that.”
“And now?” I asked. “You’re wearing color.”
She smiled into her glass. “Now I wear color to piss you off.”