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The world blurs around me and the fact I’m sobbing doesn’t exactly help either. But my mind is finally clear. There is no changing Samuel. He is what he is and he’s an asshole. I’ve tried my hardest to be understanding, to give him time to heal, but it’s not good enough. It’s never been good enough.
His cruel words sound over and over in my head, bringing on a fresh set of tears—tears of sadness, laced with a pinch of anger. If he doesn’t want to be here, then I’m not forcing him to stay. I only want what’s best for him. If he thinks I’m a hindrance to his progress, then he can leave. I won’t be blamed any longer. I’m sick of being the scapegoat. I am done.
As Potter gallops towards the mountains, the ground becomes bumpy and our ride becomes unsteady as I’ve never ridden out this way before. But I keep urging him forward, as the further away I flee, the better I feel.
My dress is hiked up, my hair is flowing freely, and I’m barefoot, riding my horse bareback—it’s an indescribable feeling of utopia. It’s exactly what I need. Sadly, my need for freedom has me losing my good judgment and as I steer Potter through dense vegetation, he suddenly becomes spooked and panics.
I try and calm him down, soothing him with gentle words, but it’s too late. The unfamiliar grounds, combined with the uneven earth and thick undergrowth, has him neighing furiously and suddenly slowing down his trot. He backs up as something I cannot see startles him.
“Easy, Potter,” I affirm, but he doesn’t listen. I try and steady him, but it’s useless.
Without warning, he rears up onto his hind legs, bucking me off his one thousand pound body. I don’t stand a chance holding on. I lose grip of the reins and get thrown feet away. I land with a painful thud, my body connecting brutally with the terrain.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in my temple, I automatically curl myself into a tight ball, afraid Potter will trample me. The stampede thankfully doesn’t come.
“Potter, easy boy!”
I cautiously raise my head, almost crying in relief when I see Saxon charging through the scrublands like a madman. He’s riding Luna, looking at ease on the powerful beauty. Potter neighs and gallops off in the opposite direction.
“Potter!” I scream, but the shooting pain in my temple has me dropping like a sack of potatoes.
“Lucy! Are you okay?” Saxon’s words are jumbled, broken down into slow motion.
The world starts spinning and I close my eyes when something sticky trickles into my right eye. I’m lying on my side, collecting my breaths while counting the billion stars flashing before me. I lie still, at peace, to gather my thoughts and push out the static. But when a wave of nausea rolls over me, I sit up as I think I’m going to be sick.
“Lucy? Can you hear me?” Saxon’s voice is my beacon of light and I hold onto it to stop myself from drowning.
“Y-yes,” I stammer, my voice ricocheting off the walls of my brain. I try and focus, thankful when his strong frame becomes clearer.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding.” He ties Luna to a tree before running back over to me.
“I’m fine.” I try and raise my hand to feel for blood, but my arm feels so incredibly heavy. It plops loudly into my lap.
“You’re not fine,” he rebukes, ripping off his t-shirt.
Before I can question if my eyesight is failing me, he drops to his knees before me and presses the garment to my forehead. The moment it connects with my brow, I yelp.
He recoils. “Sorry.” He eases up the pressure, but continues holding it to my temple, his face hard, mixed with concern. “What were you doing riding like that? You could have gotten yourself killed.”
Looking up at him from under my lashes, I don’t hide my embarrassment. Now that I’m not riddled with anger, I know that he’s right. “I know. It was stupid.”
His signature fragrance seems stronger, wrapping me in a bubble of pure masculinity. I never want to leave.
“What happened?”
Saxon isn’t silly. He knows for me to take off so irresponsibly, something heavy went down. “Samuel doesn’t love me anymore,” I pathetically reveal.
His eyes widen, but he shakes his head. “That’s not true.”
“I heard him, Saxon,” I miserably confess. “He told your parents that I make him s-sick. That I’m hindering his p-progress.” My lower lip trembles, but I refuse to cry.
He sucks in a hissed breath through his teeth. “He’s an asshole. Don’t listen to him. The only person hindering his progress is himself.” His gaze never wavers from my injury as he tends to my wounds.
We’re silent, our heavy breathing filling the still night air. I begin to feel better, no longer lightheaded, and my nausea slips away. But Saxon continues nursing me until he’s satisfied I’ve stopped bleeding.
The moonlight paints his naked torso, the swirls of colors of his tattoos contrasting against the blackness of the night. With a need so fierce and unplanned, I shakily reach out and stroke my fingers across his collarbone and down his muscled bicep. I dare not look at his chest, only focusing on his face and arm.
“They’re really beautiful,” I whisper, my voice cutting through the sudden inner storm.
