The stallion explodes out of the stable like a bullet from a gun. After the gloom of the stable, the sunlight blinds me for a split second. When I blink it clear, I see that we’re thundering down a dirt path between the vines. The wind is whipping my hair into a frenzy and Lukas’s arm is an iron band across my stomach.
It’s kind of exhilarating at first. The speed, the power. Lukas rides like he does everything else—with total, terrifying control.
But then he urges the horse faster.
The path curves sharply ahead, and instead of slowing, he digs his heels in harder. The stallion’s hooves churn up clouds of dust. We take the corner at a speed that makes my stomach fly into my throat, the horse’s body tilting at an angle that feels catastrophically wrong. I could swear I feel my cheek graz
