RUN AWAY WITH ME

If anyone were to watch him, if anyone were to ask, then the stallion would simply be patrolling.

He would be doing his duties (like a good boy).

His large frame stalks the borders of the Edge, his nose lowered just below the point of his shoulders, his green eyes wild and searching beneath the shadow of his brow. The motions have become almost methodical by now. A trail of imprints marks where his hooves have stepped time and time again, several trees clawed by the restless rutting of his antlers as the hours have come and gone, stretching and pulling and shredding the time until it is just meaningless. The frustration and anger swell inside of him until he feels as if it will rip him apart from the seams. And still he clutches at it, welcoming the fury with open arms, if only to swallow and smother whatever guilt might dare to rise.

The Warlander thought that he could escape this—he thought that he could run and leave it behind—

—but perhaps it is not them he is trying to hide from.

Clenching his jaws with a stifled cry, the stallion raises his head when he hears the silver’s call. His thick tail lashes irritably around his legs, and abruptly he decides to ignore her invitation (because he cannot be summoned like a little schoolboy), but his initial conclusion is overruled as quickly as it had been decided. He will go. Of course he will go. He won’t allow one woman to affect all aspects of his life—especially not when another, particularly delectable woman waits for him elsewhere.

With a mighty jerk of his head, Rohan charges deeper into the Edge, allowing his stride to lengthen and his body to roll forth with all the grace and power of his Iberian ancestors. He forces his frustrations to leak into the ground, and remain rooted there, left behind where they will hopefully shrivel before finding him again.

It is much easier to do so when the silver warrior comes into view. Pressing through the trees, his eyes are only for her at first, appreciating her nimble curves (now unburdened by pregnancy), and he offers her a crooked grin. “Nyx, sweetheart,” his deep voice rumbles almost playfully, and he reaches out to touch her cheek before settling loosely at her side. Broadening his attention to the other two, the Warlander glances at the other stallion to acknowledge his presence, before focusing on the mare behind him. As much as he would love to admire her figure, his eyes are drawn to the dark vapor seeping from her nostrils. How strange. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he laughs deeply, giving the smoking mare a clever wink.

By all appearances, everything is fine.

Just fine.


“Speech.”