Escaping us was never that easy. There was a reason why her ancestors never fled.
My fingers drummed against my phone. Going against all better judgement, I opened a new message and typed:
Kite007: I’m assuming you haven’t replied because of what happened the other day. But perhaps now you’re ready to talk. You have questions. Lots of questions. What if I told you it would be easier for me to answer this way than any other?
My heart rate spiked, hovering my finger over the send button.
What am I doing?
Not only was it a disaster waiting to happen to write things down for anyone to read, but I had no intention of answering any of the questions she’d asked in the truck.
I always knew Nila would eventually find out that I was Kite. Hell, I wasn’t exactly subtle—but I’d always planned to let the ruse die a death when she did. It wasn’t needed anymore. I’d had enough enlightenment of her thoughts. And having the ability of talking this way only made the connection between us harder to ignore.
It was too dangerous. Secrets were too easily shared when hidden behind closed doors. Things I never intended to say suddenly had the audacity to find their way into a faceless message.
My fingers hovered, tingling with the urge to press send.
Do it.
I did.
“Ready to kit up?” Kes asked, shrugging out of his over-shirt and revealing the team colours below.
My temper flared to think Nila had feelings for him.
Feelings for my damn brother.
Feelings that I’d made happen by letting her chase the wrong path.
“Yes. I’m ready.” Depositing my phone into the saddlebag, I unfolded my matching colours and slipped them on.
Another reason I’d wanted to kill off Kite was to give Nila no choice but to be honest to my face. I didn’t want her running to Kes. I didn’t want him anywhere near her.
She’s mine, goddammit.
With a shaky hand, I tied my cravat and shoved Nila Weaver unsuccessfully from my thoughts.
Game time.
It’s time to win.
There were very few places where I could be completely free.
In fact, I could count three in total.
One, when I went to see Jasmine.
Two, when I took Wings for a gallop away from cameras and family and obligations of being someone I wasn’t.
And three, when I let down every guard on the polo field.
I fed off people’s energy. I drank the players’ nervousness, revelled in their tingling excitement, and for once, I was grateful for the disease I lived with.
We took our positions.
In my hand, I held my reins and a short braided whip. My cream jodhpurs, polished black knee-high boots, and gold velvet waistcoat over the billowing old-world sleeves of my white shirt made me feel like a knight about to joust for some fair maiden’s affection.
Kes grinned, sitting atop Moth and her nineteen hands of elegant muscle. Wings was only eighteen hands high, but he had something Moth didn’t. He had ferocity that rippled around him. Other horses felt it. Their nostrils flared, their eyes tracking him wherever he went.
He was an anomaly.
Just like his owner.
The Hawks were well known for hosting polo matches and commandeering the rules of any game we were invited to. Common rules that we broke were: no horses to be higher than sixteen hands, and multiple mounts per player.
I flatly refused to play on any other horse but Wings. Therefore, the rest of the players were forced to follow my lead.
Another rule we tweaked was to have a longer half-time. Instead of the stupid length of ten-minutes, we stipulated an hour—the horses needed it, seeing as we didn’t change mounts.
And an hour would be perfect for what I had planned.
I had every intention of seeking out Nila and finishing what she started this morning. What I wanted to do to her would be a fuck-load better than any showerhead.
The umpire cantered onto the pitch. The game we were about to play would be fast, brutal, and mentally draining. Men were known to break legs from an incorrectly wielded hook or concussion from falling mid-flight.
The umpire spun his speech while everyone nodded but didn’t listen. We all focused on the hard white ball in his hand.
The moment the ball hit the turf, it would be on.
The horses jostled and pawed, tasting imminent war.
After the umpire had finished his spiel, the other two members of our team came forward. In a close circle, we slapped mallets in a final hurrah before kick-off.
“I got your back,” Kes said, his eyes glowing beneath the shadow of his helmet. His matching waistcoat held the number four. His role was to protect the leader, stop others from scoring, and had no restrictions on where he could go on the field.
I nodded, tugging at my cuffs and curling my gloved fingers firmly around my mallet. “First play is offensive. Steal the ball on the throw-in and slam this chukker so we can crush their hopes.”
I wore the number three on our team. My role was tactical leader and the best player—it wasn’t ego, just simple fact.
My teammates nodded and touched their visors in acknowledgement.
Excitement bubbled in my chest. It was such a foreign elusive emotion that I quickly became drunk on it.
Trotting to our places, I smiled at Kes, “Ready, brother?” Out here there were no his or mine. No firstborn bullshit. No diamond smuggling or family legacy.
Just speed and accuracy.
Kes smirked. “Ready to whoop your ass.”
“We’re on the same team, moron.”
He laughed. “On here we are, but we both know we can still lose even when on the same side.”