Second Debt (Indebted #3)(38)

Did they fail?

Am I destined to fail?

The smack of the ball resonated like thunder as Kes hooked his stick around an opposing player, giving Jethro time to swoop in and shoot the ball toward the goal.

My heart raced as Jethro’s firm legs wrapped around his galloping steed. His gloved hands wielded his stick like a dangerous weapon, while his concentration level sent a flush of wetness between my legs. I wanted to become so precious to him that he looked at me with the same unbarred happiness.

My wonderings of boosting a car and fleeing faded with every heartbeat. Watching Jethro be free gave me the truth I’d been looking for.

I was an idiot to stay. To not take the fateful opportunity.

But I’d come to the conclusion: I would rather be an idiot and win, than a coward and run.

I didn’t think I would like polo. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’d never witnessed something so intense, so visceral.

The rumbling earthquakes formed by eight horses thundering past would forever live inside my soul. My dreams would always conjure Jethro how he looked right now—capable, joyous, completely perfect in every way.

Another strike and the ball shot past, followed by a mass of muscle and men. The clatter of sticks colliding and grunts of players fully in the throes of sport sent my tummy frothing with bubbles.

I’d been told to stay in the gazebo under the watchful eye of Flaw. But I grew bored and resentful as Flaw orchestrated a magical event of disappearing diamonds followed by huge sums of cash changing hands.

The moment the bugle had sounded, I’d rushed out to witness the game. And now, watching the sea of sweat-glistening men, I’d found heaven.

Jethro suddenly looked directly at me. His arm jerked, pulling the reins tight and causing Wings to toss his head mid-gallop. My entire body tingled as Jethro just stared. We held eye contact far longer than was safe, and the moment he was too far away, I felt bereaved—as if he’d stolen my heart and taken it flying up the field with him.

I wanted to chase after him. I wanted to steal Moth from Kes and fight beside Jethro, rather than against him. I wanted the rush, the fear, the intoxicating knowledge of invincibility. But most of all, I wanted what Jethro had

…

freedom.

I wanted to be as happy as him. To be at peace like him.

I wanted to stare into his eyes while he was truly himself—no games, no lies, no debts.

Kes suddenly stood up in his stirrups, high fiving Jethro for effortlessly scoring another goal.

Jethro smiled. He positively glowed. He was resplendent.

Then the bugle trumpeted and the game began anew.

His happiness turned sharp with aggression. He and Wings moved as one—gliding so smoothly it looked almost telepathic—pirouetting mid-gallop to intercept the ball and steal it. Jethro…or should I say Kite…dominated the entire game.

He truly is one of a kind.

Tears came to my eyes as I finally acknowledged what lived beneath my hate.

My lust was slowly evolving, slowly growing. And I wished I had the power to stop it.

But I had as much power as stopping my heart from tripping into love as I did from tearing myself from the match. I fell into disgrace.

By the end of the first half, my knickers were damp and my heart ached. Every muscle hummed as if I’d been beaten, and I couldn’t stop the small voice repeating over and over:

You’re falling for him.

You’re falling for him.

You’re falling for him.

I wasn’t.

I couldn’t.

I’m not!

But no matter how hard I tried, the words enemy, tormentor, and adversary ceased to have meaning.

Other words came instead: ally, accomplice…friend.

When the bugle blared, signalling half-time, I sagged in relief. I needed to find a cool dark place and glue myself back together. I couldn’t let anyone—especially Jethro—see me in such broken pieces.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wings cantering toward me. Jethro sat proud and regal atop him, his golden eyes blazing with passion and need.

My stomach somersaulted.

He wants you.

I shook my head. He couldn’t touch me. Not when I was so…delicate. There would be no way I could halt the mess inside and find my way back to sanity if he touched me.

Run.

It’s the only way.

Leaving the border of the arena, I darted through the crowds and away from my feelings and the man I couldn’t face.

Ladies giggled as the gates were opened to carry on the time-old tradition of stomping on the divots caused by the horse’s hooves. Music floated across the sun-drenched field from large speakers.

I left it all behind.

Walking briskly past the Hawk’s private gazebo, I caught the eye of Flaw. He crooked his finger, motioning me to go inside. I shook my head and pointed to the perimeter of the grandstand, indicating I needed some space.

He frowned then weaved through customers, who’d no doubt bought a smuggled diamond or two, and made his way toward me.

No, I need time alone.

I broke into a jog.

My ballerina shoes coasted over the thick grass whereas ladies in heels struggled, their pretty shoes sinking into the mud.

Before the match had started, I’d been in my element—drinking in the designs of their gowns and improving on styles that intrigued me. All around, women clustered in beautiful fabrics, laughing beneath hats that dripped with organza and hand-stitched lace flowers.