Page 211 of A King's Oath

“Hi, it’s nice to see you again, Delacour. Your club?”

“I wish. My uncle owns the resort and convinced me to come oversee training for these bebes. It’s been a real stress-buster. What about you?”

“Oh, I am on a stress-buster of my own. A vacation.”

His head bounced back in a laugh — “You are in the right place, my friend. Loire is vacation all year round.”

“I can see that,” Samarth nudged his chin at the line of ponies trotting together, kids squealing. They rode past him again and one of them, a tiny boy, waved his hand at him. Samarth waved back. The one behind him leaned with his gloved hand out. Samarth met his hand in time for a clap. That spurred the others in line and he was standing half leaning across the fence, little gloved hands smacking into his palm.

One hand smacked firm but delicate and he glanced up in time for her to throw both her hands up and do a joyous little jiggle atop her pony, hips swaying, legs firm. Samarth’s hand shot out instinctively to steady her, but she flicked her ponytail and kept riding like it was all part of the choreography — spine straight, one hand going to the reins, the other to her waist.

He blinked — amused, impressed, unable to look away.

She circled the paddock again, and again she smacked his palm and danced. Again he steadied her. And again. Other kids got bored of the high-fives but for her, it became a rhythm, a small private game that delighted him for reasons he didn’t entirely understand.

“Let’s grab coffee if you are around after the session. Or are you here to get some riding time in?” Delacour offered.

“Sure, coffee sounds good. I’ll take a pony out for a ride happily if you let me.”

“All yours.”

The girl came trotting again, this time leading the pack with loose strands of her hair flying with the wind she had kicked up.

“Slow,” the instructor at the far end let out a whistle and Samarth saw her relax her heels, obeying but not without a dramatic huff. A defiant toss of her head and her eyes met his again. He cocked his eyebrow. As if the reprimand to slow down was washed away by their game, she held out one hand and took the other off her horse. As had been established, he obliged — clapping her hand and holding her body steady until she had passed him. She looked over her shoulder at him and he noticed she had perfectly rounded eyes.

She didn’t smile like a child. She beamed like a star on fire. Samarth couldn’t stop watching her.

Not just for her skill — though she was surprisingly good — but because something about her stirred something deeply forgotten in him. A feeling that wasn’t planned, wasn’t princely, wasn’t responsible. Just warm. Proud. Nostalgic.

The final bell rang. The ponies rounded the pen toward the gate, hooves light against the soft earth. She had managed to get her horse to gallop the last few yards with her arms out again. She rode at the front, and just as her pony slowed, she let go of the reins and flung herself forward.

Samarth’s heart leapt to his throat.

But then — arms caught her mid-air. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

She had thrown herself into her mother’s arms.

Samarth cocked his head to find them behind her pony.

And time folded in on itself.

Ava.

His mouth opened on a gasp. He felt like his chest was caving in on itself. Samarth turned away, trying to settle his breath first. Itcame in slow, shallow, manic breaths. He began to stride away. His breath swelled. He continued to stride, his legs eating up the land that had brought him this close to her. Her and her… daughter?

He was not a coward. He was not a man to run. He was not a man to escape. Except when it came to her. She was the one he had wronged in his life and had done it intentionally, brutally, repeatedly. His boots began to crunch the gravel harder and he realised he was running, his feet galloping like her daughter’s horse…

His body froze.

His feet pressed into the soft earth.

Was she?

Could she…?

But she looked so small…

They had last been together eight years ago…

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