We reach the stables without spectacle. Stable hands rush forward the moment they see him. He dismounts fluidly. Then I’m lifted from the saddle and slung back over his shoulder. He leads the white horse toward her stall, issuing orders for her to be brushed down and given extra treats for her trouble.
“I can walk, you know,” I mutter, bracing a hand against his back to steady myself.
“I’m sure you can,” he replies evenly, not slowing his stride as he exits the stable, “but that does not mean I will allow it.”
“Why?” I twist slightly, testing his grip.
“What would stop you from running if I set you down? Hmm.”
“Would you believe me if I said I wouldn’t?”
“Should I?” His shifting tone lightens as he replies coolly. “You have given me no indication thus far that you are trustworthy. In fact, quite the opposite.”
His hand shifts—slides higher along my thigh, fingers spreading as if testing my reaction.
“Hey. Stop that.” I jerk against him.
“What?” He does it again, deliberately slower, even squeezes. “This?”
Through my clenched jaw, I answer, “Yes.”
“And why should I?”
“It’s— I just—don’t.” The words tangle in my mouth, far less composed than I’d like.
His steps slow.
Then he stops.
Without comment, he lowers me carefully from his shoulder until my boots touch the ground. His hands linger at my waist a moment longer than necessary before he releases me.
“Does my touching you make you uncomfortable?” His head tilts slightly, and he raises a brow.
“Uncomfortable, no.” It’s a complete lie. “Annoyed, yes.” I don’t want him to know how much it unsettles me. This could be something he can use in his favor.
In response, he reaches out, slow and deliberate, and brushes his fingers along my cheek.
I flinch back before I can stop myself. “Is that necessary?”
“Why do you shy away?” His hand drops, but his gaze lingers.
“Because I don’t like it.”
“Being touched?”
“By you, yes.”
A crease forms between his dark brows as he studies me closely, as though reassessing. “By me,” he repeats thoughtfully, “or anyone?”
“Does it matter?” I shift my weight, refusing to give ground.
Brows furrowed, he says, “I wouldn’t ask a question I don’t want the answer to.”
“Just because you ask doesn’t mean I’ll give you the answer.”
He chuckles softly, the sound low and amused. “I can tell we are going to get along splendidly.”
The glare I’ve been fixing on him hardens. “If you say so. I somehow doubt that.”
