And if you haven't read it yet, now is the perfect time to start (I promise, this one will drive you crazy). There's SO MUCH tension and drama, and also sexy Lexa in a riding outfit (sometimes).
The open arena was steeped in silence. The air was brittle as glass—dry, thin, with the metallic taste of snow already settled on the mountainous. Colorado didn’t give you a choice—you either hardened, or you broke.Lexa moved in the saddle as if she were part of August. He went in an extended trot, each stride the result of minute weight shifts, the faint tension of her calves. Beneath her—honed power, trained in precision. No passion, no improvisation. Only control.
Now, as the sun tilted toward the horizon, she was finishing the session. Sand crunched under the hooves. August moved perfectly, like a Swiss mechanism.At the edge of the arena stood Anya—in a gray parka, narrow-faced, sharp-cheekboned, with eyes like ice.
“You ride like the whole of Europe’s chasing you,” she said in crisp English with a faint Russian accent.Lexa slowed the gelding and came to a halt.“My family is behind me.”Anya smirked. She held a training plan on a tablet and a metal flask of coffee.“Softer through your core,” Anya’s voice cut from the rail. “Right now you’re not a rider, you’re a skeleton on a stick.”
Lexa bit her tongue. Collected the horse. Shifted into shoulder-in. August responded willingly, almost with relief. And yet—it was still cold mechanics, as always. She worked without feeling.
“Better. But you still ride like they’re judging you, not the pair of you. Your back isn’t a shield. It’s a language.”“I’ve been judged my whole life,” Lexa shot back, never breaking rhythm.
Anya didn’t reply. She stood, leaning against the metal rail, watching with that habitual detachment. Upright posture, knitted hat, Russian severity. She was one of those who didn’t touch, didn’t pity, didn’t ask outright. And that was exactly why Lexa stayed with her.
Thirty minutes later, after finishing transitions and a series of leg-yields, Lexa dismounted and led August toward the stables without a word. Anya walked beside her, hands in her pockets, her stride precise, almost masculine.
“Good today. Better than Friday. Less control, more feel. But you’re still thinking before you breathe.”“Habit,” Lexa replied. “It’s safer that way here.”“Tomorrow’s an early start,” Anya said. “They’ve put you in the first three for the exhibition. Profile test. Not just technique—expression. The horse can do it, but you hold him back.”“He’s too sensitive.”“He’s a mirror. You’re frosted glass.”Lexa stopped sharply.“Just say you think I’m not emotional enough.”Anya raised an eyebrow.“I’m not talking about emotion. I’m talking about truth. You sit in the saddle like it’s armor. It’s meant to hold you, not hide you.”
They reached the exit. The air smelled of manure, cold metal, and the cottony scent from the stalls.
“Did you dream of England?” Anya asked suddenly. “Last night.”Lexa froze. Glanced at her from the corner of her eye.“I’ve never told you about Clarke.”“You haven’t. And you think your control is made of steel. But, Lexa—I’m Russian. We know how to listen to pauses.”“It doesn’t change anything,” Lexa said quietly.
Silence hung between them like snow in the air. Autumn here smelled of hay and ice.
“She stayed there,” Lexa said at last. “Like everything I can’t afford. I made my choice. The past doesn’t have a visa for the Olympic team.”“And do you have one?”Lexa turned away.“I will.”Anya nodded.“Then don’t forget what you’re doing this for. Or who you’re trying to erase.”
She left first, leaving Lexa alone—alone with the horse, the shadow in her chest, and fingers trembling on the reins.
