Page 154 of Chaos

“What?” I’m not the only one to screech, and Ruin’s ears flatten at the noise, a hoof scuffing at the ground as he snorts unhappily—as do I. “He’ll get out.”

“That’s the point.”

Eliza and Grace lean into each other, the former’s voice a not-quite-low-enough murmur, “Maybeshe’spsychotic.”

“She,” the horse trainer grinds out through a gritted smile, “thinks that the pen is the problem. He doesn’t like being cooped up. He’s never gonna relax enough to follow any commands in there.”

And that’s our main problem—the groundwork of it all. Ruin might be as close to desensitised as he’s ever likely to get, but basic commands? Forget it. “So, what? I just let him run off into the sunset?”

“He won’t run. Not if you’re with him.”

Listen, I’m the first to insist that Ruin and I have something special going on, some kindred spirit shit, but even I think that maybe Carmen is putting a little too much weight on our bond. Because I’m pretty damn sure the second that gate opens, he’ll bolt.

But evidently, I’m not the one in charge.

“Trust me.” Carmen slaps her palms against the fence and backs up, smiling encouragingly. “He’s got nowhere else to go. Why would he run?”

Spoken like a perfectly secure, well-adjusted person.

How nice that must be.

“Here.” Carmen slings a lead rope over the fence, a bridle too.

I move to grab them, not thinking much of it, my brain still caught up on the whole ‘semi-releasing a half-feral horse’ thing. It’s not until my little sister screams at the top of her damn lungs that I abruptly catch up.

“You want her to ride him?”

“She did it once, didn’t she?”

“He almost killed her!”

I scoff. “He did not.”

“He threw you off!”

“You weren’t even there.” I roll my eyes at Grace. “And he said sorry.”

She buries her shaking head in her hands. “Psychopathy, party of three.”

Ignoring my dramatic twin, I squint at Carmen. “What about a saddle?”

“Do you need one?”

If I did, I sure as fuck wouldn’t admit it. Besides, I’ve ridden bareback before.

On an entirely different horse that was never likened to a mythological helldog. But semantics, hey?

I wrap the lead rope around my hand only to unwrap it right away and repeat the action a few times, the rough fibres a soothing scratch against my skin. “My brother might fire you for this.”

Carmen shrugs. “I can live with that.”

“Not if my sister kills you.”

Again, utter nonchalance. “I’ve had a good life.”

Jesus. She’s either really fucking confident about this or she knows who’s bed I woke up in this morning, and this is her revenge.

Either way, she’s the boss. I’m just a lowly ranch hand—a ranch bitch, to quote myself. So, using the same slow, calm techniques as usual, I fix the lead rope and bridle into place,tutting when I get nippedagain. “Your love language really is biting, isn’t it?”

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