Maverick sits deep and steady, one hand loose on the reins, the other relaxed at his side as if he’s not riding twelve hundred pounds of attitude, muscle, and absolute refusal.
Thor was supposed to be unridable.
Mean. Dangerous. Too wild. Too damaged. Too much.
I remember saying once that maybe some creatures were not meant to be owned.
Maverick had agreed, then spent nearly a year earning Thor’s permission anyway.
Not breaking him.
Never that.
Maverick understood broken things too well to mistake surrender for trust. So he waited. Showed up. Stood close. Walked away. Tried again. Bled once. Cursed many times. Got bitten hard enough to make Luca declare the horse an enemy of the Moretti bloodline.
Then one day, Thor lowered his head.
And Maverick, patient and impossible, became the first man that horse ever chose to carry.
The sight of them now steals something from my chest.
Thor races beneath the open sky, and Maverick rides him like he was born out of the same storm.
My husband looks untouchable from here.
Powerful. Beautiful. Dangerous.
TheDon.
The outlaw.
The man Palm Springs still whispers about when they think no one is listening.
Then he turns his head and finds me.
Even from across the arena, I feel it.
That look.
The one that belongs only to me.
Not the world. Not his men. Not enemies. Not ghosts.
Me.
His mouth curves, and he winks because he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
That he looks powerful.
That he looks magnificent.
That I love him so much it sometimes feels too big for my body to hold.
I laugh under my breath and shake my head.
Winter flicks an ear at me, unimpressed by my emotion.
My hand stills on her mane.
