My Wealthy Boss Bet I Couldn’t Survive Three Minutes On His Worst Horse — What Followed Changed Everything
Part 3
Megan Riley did not simply push the unpredictable iron-gray beast to jump the towering boundary wall that Charles Benton had nearly died on.
She rode the massive gelding over the jagged stones like a creature born from the winter wind itself, shattering the ghosts of Charles’s past in a single, terrifying leap.
She cleared the impossible height with inches to spare, the horse’s hooves scraping the ancient, damp lichen as they flew through the freezing air.
When they landed violently on the frozen earth, the impact rattled her bones, but she did not fall.
She had conquered the wall, and in doing so, she had conquered the hardened, cynical heart of the wealthy lord who had wagered against her.
But the victory on the freezing moors had not been won easily, nor had it been born of romantic notions and penny dreadful heroics.
It was a victory forged in weeks of grueling, miserable trench warfare in the freezing mud of the Benton estate.
It was a bond built in blood, bruised muscle, and the desperate grit of a woman who simply refused to yield.
It had all started exactly one month earlier, on a bitterly cold November morning that smelled of manure, wet wool, and cheap gin.
Megan knew she had absolutely no business standing in the private paddock of the sprawling Benton estate.
Her worn leather boots were sinking deeply into the freezing muck, the icy puddle water wicking through the cracks and chilling her toes to the bone.
She was there to stare down a half-mad gelding that had already broken the collarbones of two experienced men.
She didn’t want glory, and she certainly didn’t care about the prestige of working for a lord.
She wanted the fifty pounds that sat heavy and secure in the nobleman’s pocket.
The wager she had heard about in the local taverns was incredibly simple on paper.
Survive three minutes in the saddle of the killer horse, and the money was hers.
Megan intended to do a hell of a lot more than just survive; she intended to conquer.
Calluses snagged roughly against the cheap wool of her pockets as she stood in the sprawling, oppressively quiet courtyard.
The estate was too large, smelling heavily of damp stone, expensive pipe tobacco, and the distinct, cloying scent of generational wealth.
To Megan, it simply smelled like a desperate, necessary way out of her miserable situation.
She shifted her weight, trying to ignore the numbing cold in her feet and the throbbing ache in her lower back.
You didn’t have the luxury of complaining about cold feet when you were three weeks behind on rent.
Her landlord had taken to lingering menacingly by her door at dusk, his shadow a constant threat.
She was entirely out of excuses, and the winter coal was running dangerously low.
Across the frost-covered cobblestones, Dan West, the estate’s seasoned head groom, polished a silver snaffle bit with a rag that was cleaner than Megan’s best shirt.
He didn’t even bother looking up at her as he worked, his hands moving with practiced, mechanical efficiency.
He had already told her she was wasting her precious time, muttering dismissively under his breath.
He informed her that Lord Charles Benton did not hire women, and he certainly did not hire half-starved strays off the Brighton Road.
Megan didn’t leave, nor did she flinch at the casual cruelty of his words.
She stood like a heavy wooden post driven deep into the frozen ground, her shoulders hunched defensively against the biting wind.
She watched the heavy oak doors of the main house, waiting for the man who held her financial salvation.
When Charles Benton finally emerged from the grand house, he didn’t sweep out with the dramatic flair one might expect from a lord.
He walked slowly, heavily, like a man who found the entire world incredibly tedious and exhausting.
He was tall, but he slouched slightly, as if the sheer weight of his massive wealth and title physically tired his spine.
He wore a dark charcoal wool coat tailored so perfectly it looked poured over his broad shoulders.
His immaculate, polished boots clicked sharply and authoritatively against the paving stones.
He didn’t notice Megan at first, as she was just a smudge of gray and brown blending into the shadows of the stables.
He paused to pull a silver case from his pocket, the metallic click startling a nearby thoroughbred.
He extracted a cheroot, clamped it between his teeth, and struck a match, the sharp sulfur cutting through the damp air.
As the flame flared brightly, his dark eyes finally caught the subtle movement of Megan stepping out from the overhang.
He paused, the match burning precariously close to his expensive leather gloves, before shaking it out and tossing it into a puddle.
He turned to his groom, his voice a low, rough rumble, and asked why there was a child lingering in his yard.
Megan’s voice cracked horribly when she spoke, as she hadn’t spoken a single word since dawn.
She cleared her throat, tasting copper and morning breath, and loudly announced she was twenty-four and there for the breaker’s position.
Charles stared at her, his gaze entirely blank, neither calculating nor intrigued.
He took in her battered felt hat, the oversized men’s coat tied at her waist with baling twine, and the thick mud caked to her shins.
He turned his back on her, flatly telling Dan to send her to the kitchens for a bowl of soup and then see her off the grounds.
Megan snapped that she didn’t want his charity soup.
Her hands formed tight, trembling fists inside her pockets, the sudden spike of hot anger warming the freezing blood in her chest.
She told him she had heard he fired his last two breakers and had a stable full of problem horses nobody wanted to touch.
Charles stopped slowly, the cheroot still clamped firmly in his jaw, a faint plume of blue smoke drifting past his exhausted eye.
He turned back, asking where she had heard such rumors.
She told him the taverns talked when men ended up with their arms in slings.
Megan held his intense gaze, her stomach a tight, painful knot of anxiety, but she absolutely refused to blink.
She confidently stated she could back any horse in his yard, boasting softer hands than his heavy-fisted grooms.
Dan scoffed loudly, stepping forward to tell his lord that the girl was touched in the head.
Charles took the cheroot from his mouth, looking Megan up and down with a heavy, suffocating dismissal.
It was the cold look of a man who dealt exclusively with ledgers and logic, seeing only a bad, risky investment standing before him.
He pointed out her slight weight, stating she lacked the leverage to hold a draft cross, let alone sit a bucking thoroughbred.
He ordered her to go home before she got herself killed on his property and left him with the tedious paperwork.
He turned on his heel to leave, the rare opportunity rapidly evaporating into the cold morning air.
Megan shouted after him that she had heard about the massive gray.
Charles stopped instantly, his broad shoulders stiffening beneath the tailored wool coat.
Dan hissed angrily, warning her to shut her mouth and leave the lord be.
Megan stepped forward, her boots squelching loudly in the mud, closing the distance between them.
She told him she heard he paid a fortune for an iron-gray hunter at Tattersalls that had already put three men in the dirt.
She pointed out the embarrassing fact that he hadn’t even been able to put a saddle on the beast in an entire month.
Charles turned back around, his jaw tight, the absolute boredom in his eyes completely vanishing.
It was replaced by a cold, hard, dangerous irritation as he stepped toward her.
Up close, he smelled of cedarwood and sharp tobacco, and she noticed the deep, dark circles under his eyes.
He didn’t look like a pampered, lazy lord; he looked deeply, fundamentally exhausted.
Megan forced her chin up, accusing him of keeping the horse locked in the back stalls, letting him rot out of stubborn pride.
She claimed his men were simply too terrified to open the heavy door.
Charles studied her, the silence stretching heavy and dangerous, the wind rattling the loose shingles on the stable roof.
He asked softly if she truly believed it was a matter of pride.
Megan countered that it was a matter of competence, and named her price of fifty pounds.
She proposed a simple wager: she would ride the gray, and if she sat him, Charles would pay her and give her the job.
Charles let out a short, completely humorless laugh, asking what would happen if the beast caved her ribs in.
Megan replied coldly that he could drag her out to the road and it wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Charles looked at Dan, then back at the fierce, determined woman standing in his muddy yard.
He dropped his cheroot, crushing it slowly and deliberately beneath the heel of his boot.
He agreed to the wager, his words dropping like heavy stones, telling her he wouldn’t stop her from breaking her neck.
The long walk to the isolation stalls felt exactly like a solemn march to the gallows.
Megan followed the wealthy lord and his head groom past the main courtyard, leaving the comparative warmth of the occupied stables behind.
The air grew significantly colder here, trapped deeply between the high stone walls of the older medieval section of the sprawling estate.
Thick, dead weeds choked the cobblestones, a clear sign that no one came back here unless they absolutely had to.
Megan’s bravado began leaking away with every single step, a slight, uncontrollable tremor shaking her tired thighs.
Fifty pounds was an absolute fortune to someone in her desperate position.
It was a warm cottage, a long winter’s worth of coal, and a proper doctor for her father’s failing lungs.
It was pure, undeniable survival.
But as the sour, sharp sting of concentrated ammonia hit her nose, the terrifying reality crashed down on her.
They stopped before a heavy oak door securely bound in black iron.
The top half was shut tight, barring any natural light from entering the dark, damp stall.
Deep, uneven gouges heavily scarred the wood on the outside, as if a monster had desperately tried to kick its way through the solid oak.
Charles stood a few paces back, his hands clasped firmly behind him as he watched her face for the inevitable hesitation.
He told her the horse’s name was Titan, a massive Irish draft cross standing sixteen hands high, made of pure malice.
Megan stared at the heavy door, her stomach turning over as she heard a low, guttural sigh from the darkness.
It was followed immediately by the heavy, rhythmic thud of a massive hoof furiously pacing against the rotting straw.
It didn’t sound like a horse; it sounded exactly like a caged, furious tiger.
She asked quietly why he had bought such a dangerous, unpredictable beast.
Charles replied dryly that the horse had cleared a massive six-foot ditch in the hunting field without breaking stride.
He explained he wanted a horse that could jump the stone boundary wall on the south estate, a feat no horse had ever accomplished.
However, the day after he paid for Titan, the beast realized he didn’t have to tolerate a rider if he simply crushed them against a wall.
Charles gestured to the heavy door, explicitly warning her that no one would help her, and if she cried out, the wager was forfeit.
Megan licked her lips, tasting only cold salt and dry dirt.
She looked at Dan, who held a heavy leather halter and a lead rope with a mix of pity and grim expectation.
She took the stiff, cold leather from him without a word.
Charles asked if she was backing out, his tone not triumphant, but simply resigned and tired.
Megan looked into his eyes, seeing the absolute certainty that she was going to fail, just as everyone else had failed him.
He lived in an insulated world where problems could be bought, sold, or locked conveniently behind heavy oak doors.
She lived in a brutal reality where you either faced the sharp teeth or you simply starved to death.
She turned to Dan, demanding a bucket of oats and ordering him to open the top door to let the light in.
Dan hesitated, looking at his lord for permission, but Charles gave a curt, silent nod.
The groom unlatched the top half of the heavy door and swung it fully open.
Thick dust motes danced furiously in the sudden, sharp shaft of gray daylight.
Instantly, a massive, terrifying head lunged violently into the opening.
Megan flinched instinctively, taking a quick step backward.
Titan was enormous, his dark, bruised iron-gray coat thick with dried mud and sweat because no groom had dared to brush him.
His ears were pinned completely flat against his skull, disappearing entirely into his thick mane.
His wide eyes were rimmed with frantic, rolling white as he snapped his massive teeth at the empty air.
The sound was like a heavy steel trap clamping shut, followed by a dull thud as he threw his head against the wooden frame.
He didn’t care about the pain; he was consumed by pure, blind rage and desperate panic.
Megan stared at him, her heart hammering violently against her ribs like a frantic bird trapped in her chest.
She was terrified, a raw, primal fear urging her to drop the leather halter and run far away.
But beneath the paralyzing fear, as she watched the horse pace frantically in the small square of light, she saw something else entirely.
The whites of his rolling eyes weren’t just angry; they were wide with the exact same desperate, trapped energy she felt every day.
He was completely isolated in the dark, cornered and misunderstood by the men who only knew how to use force.
She told Charles, her voice shaking slightly, that she needed three minutes in the saddle, if she could get the halter on.
Charles murmured his agreement, watching her closely.
Megan took the wooden bucket of oats from Dan and slid the heavy iron bolt back on the bottom door.
Dan muttered softly for her not to do it, but she pushed the heavy door open and stepped bravely into the gloom.
The smell inside the stall was immediately overwhelming.
It was a potent mix of decaying straw, rank urine, and the hot, metallic scent of an incredibly angry animal.
As soon as she closed the lower door firmly behind her, the light shifted, making the stall feel no larger than a wooden coffin.
In the dark corner, Titan stopped pacing and turned his massive, muscular bulk toward her.
The sheer, undeniable size of him stole the breath directly from her lungs.
His broad chest was a solid wall of muscle, and his thick neck was crusted and scarred with old bite marks from herd scuffles.
He lowered his heavy head, making no sound, no whinny, no snort, just radiating a deadly, silent focus.
Megan froze in place, intentionally not making soothing noises or holding her hand out for him to sniff, knowing she’d lose fingers.
She kept her hands low, the halter in one, the wooden bucket securely in the other.
She whispered to the beast, her voice remarkably steady despite her violently shaking hands, telling him she knew he hated them.
Titan lunged.
It was horrifyingly fast, a massive ton of pure muscle exploding forward in the confined space.
Megan didn’t think; she reacted on pure, ingrained instinct.
She threw her body violently to the side, slamming her shoulder painfully hard against the rough stone wall of the stall.
Searing pain flared down her collarbone as the horse’s teeth snapped empty air right where her fragile face had been.
His massive shoulder aggressively brushed her coat as he spun, fully intending to deliver a lethal cow kick.
Megan shoved the heavy wooden bucket of oats directly at his hindquarters.
The bucket struck his hock, startling Titan, who kicked out blindly in defense.
His heavy iron hoof completely shattered the bucket, exploding oats in a beige cloud that rained down on the filthy straw.
Megan absolutely refused to retreat to the door, knowing that stepping back made her prey.
She pushed aggressively forward, stepping directly into his personal space, grabbing a massive handful of his thick, tangled mane near the withers.
Titan threw his heavy head up, dragging her entirely off her feet for a terrifying second.
Her boots scrambled desperately in the muck, her bruised shoulder screaming in agony, but she held on, twisting her fist deeply into the coarse hair.
She barked a sharp, authoritative command from the pit of her stomach, refusing to offer a sweet whisper.
It was a firm demand for respect, and the massive horse unexpectedly froze.
He trembled violently, his skin twitching nervously under her white knuckles.
He was bracing himself for the crack of the whip, the heavy boots, and the yelling men with sharp pitchforks.
Instead, Megan just stood there, breathing heavily, anchoring him solely with her firm grip on his mane.
They stood frozen in the semi-darkness for a long, tense minute.
The only sound was the harsh, rasping breath of the horse and Megan’s own ragged, exhausted panting.
Cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck, icy in the damp, unforgiving air.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she slid her right hand up the thick muscle of his neck.
Titan flinched sharply, his ears pinning back again, his head tossing in agitation.
She firmly told him no, keeping her hand there, applying a heavy, warm, unmoving pressure that demanded his attention.
Through the open top door, she could vaguely hear Dan muttering something to the Duke, but she ignored the outside world completely.
It took ten agonizing minutes of patience and stubborn will to get the stiff halter over his ears.
Every time she moved the leather, he jerked away, pulling her with him, scraping her knuckles raw against the stone wall.
She bled onto the leather, but she simply didn’t care about the pain.
When the brass buckle finally clicked securely into place, she dropped her exhausted forehead against the thick muscle of his shoulder.
She took a deep breath, gripping the lead rope, and turned to kick the lower latch fully open.
When Megan finally stepped out into the gray light of the courtyard, she looked exactly like she had been in a brutal tavern brawl.
There was a dark smear of dirt and fresh blood across her pale cheek from her torn knuckles.
Her oversized coat was heavily covered in pale oats and foul filth, and she limped slightly from her collision with the wall.
But immediately behind her, at the end of the taut lead rope, came the beast.
Titan stepped out of the isolation stall, the light hitting his iron-gray coat, highlighting the massive, coiled tension in his muscles.
He tossed his head with a violent snap that lifted Megan onto her toes, but she absolutely refused to let go.
She jerked the rope back hard, commanding him to walk.
The horse snorted a wet, rattling sound, but he obeyed, taking a heavy step forward into the yard.
Charles Benton stood exactly where she had left him, the aristocratic boredom entirely gone from his face.
His dark eyes carefully tracked her slow, limping progress across the cobblestones, noting the blood and the wild eyes of the horse.
Megan called out, her voice raspy but ringing clear, demanding Dan fetch a saddle and ensure the girth wasn’t rotten.
Charles’s jaw worked, a faint, dangerous smirk finally pulling at the corner of his mouth as he ordered Dan to bring the McClellan saddle.
He stepped closer, his boots immaculate against the muck, his eyes firmly locked onto Megan, waiting to see if she could keep her seat.
Dan dumped the absurdly heavy saddle onto the top rung of the paddock fence with a dead, heavy thud.
It was a monstrosity of thick, unyielding leather and brass hardware, built for a cavalryman who expected to ride through active artillery fire.
Megan securely tied Titan to the heavy iron ring on the oak post, leaving him no slack to turn and bite her.
The horse stood with his legs splayed aggressively, muscles twitching under his filthy coat like flayed nerves, sweating despite the biting cold.
A thick white lather was already building rapidly between his hind legs and along his muscular neck.
Dan warned her she would need a leg up, keeping a very careful distance as he held the girth strap like a live snake.
Megan tightly replied that if anyone touched her, the horse would explode.
She hoisted the incredibly heavy saddle herself, gritting her teeth against the sharp, bright pain shooting down her bruised collarbone.
She dropped it gently into place, causing the horse to flinch violently and scoot sideways, striking sparks against the cobblestones.
Megan stayed pressed firmly against his shoulder, absorbing a vicious cow kick with her elbow before securing the girth strap.
Titan bloated his stomach to keep the strap loose, an old trick she countered by jamming her knee sharply into his belly.
As he exhaled with an indignant grunt, she hauled the leather strap up three notches, securely locking it in place.
She backed away slowly, leaving the horse looking exactly like a powder keg waiting for a spark.
She turned to Charles, demanding he fetch his pocket watch, her chest heaving, the blood on her face making her look wild and feral.
Charles pulled out a gold hunter watch, his voice dropping its cynical edge as he seriously advised her to roll toward the fence if she fell.
Megan didn’t answer; she simply hauled herself onto the bottom rail of the fence and swung her right leg over the saddle.
For one terrifying heartbeat, the world was perfectly still, the wind seemingly stopping as Charles clicked the watch open.
Then, the earth violently exploded beneath her.
Titan didn’t rear for show; he dropped his head and launched his massive body entirely off the frozen ground.
The brutal impact of his hooves shattered the silence, the jarring force shooting straight up her spine and punching the breath from her lungs.
He twisted violently in midair, aiming to snap her balance, causing her to instantly lose her right stirrup.
Panic flooded her veins, but she clamped her aching thighs against the stiff flaps and buried her bleeding hands deep into his tangled mane.
She threw away all technique, becoming a desperate parasite determined entirely to survive.
Dan yelled that one minute had passed as Titan charged blindly across the muddy yard, slipping and bucking with terrifying force.
Her battered hat flew off, the freezing wind whipping her hair into her stinging eyes as the heavy oak fence rushed toward her.
The beast was heading straight for the timber, fully intending to violently scrape her off his back.
Charles shouted for her to pull his head up, his detached composure shattered, but she lacked the leverage to fight a ton of rage.
Instead, she shoved her boot hard against the passing fence rail, the violent friction tearing her leather sole but shoving his shoulders away.
They careened off the fence with a screeching tear of brass on timber, sending Titan into a series of tight, dizzying spins.
Centrifugal force tore at her grip, her bleeding knuckles smearing red across his gray neck, but the thought of fifty pounds kept her locked in.
She hauled back on the left rein, breaking his spin and forcing him into a stiff, jarring crow hop around the perimeter.
She simply outlasted his explosive energy with pure, miserable endurance.
Titan finally dragged his hooves to a shuddering halt in the dead center of the yard, completely spent and blowing thick ropes of spit.
Charles snapped his watch shut, his voice remarkably hoarse as he declared the three minutes were up.
Megan slid off the saddle, her legs instantly buckling, dropping her to her hands and knees in the freezing muck.
Charles walked slowly toward her, kneeling in the wet earth, ruining his bespoke trousers to press a heavy leather purse into her trembling hand.
He quietly offered her the breaker’s position, his dark eyes revealing a profound crack in his polished armor.
The following morning tasted exactly like old copper and deeply bruised bone.
Megan woke before the sun, her entire body locked up, her right shoulder screaming with a sharp, tearing heat.
She wrapped clean linen around her bleeding knuckles and walked the three freezing miles back to Ashbourne Hall in the dark.
Breaking a horse like Titan was not a romantic notion; it was a grueling trench war fought in inches in the freezing mud day after day.
She spent the first week doing nothing but demanding groundwork, standing in the round pen with a lunge line, forcing him to respect her space.
It was brutal, exhausting work that layered new calluses over her torn blisters and left her smelling permanently of horse sweat.
On the eighth day, Charles finally came down to the pens, abandoning his ledgers to watch the half-starved woman fight a war in the mud.
He approached the fence as she brought Titan to a halt, wrapped heavily in a charcoal topcoat against the wind.
He noted her pragmatic nature, engaging in a quiet battle of wits over her financial planning and his absolute disbelief in her persistence.
He then surprised her by offering a small glass jar of arnica and camphor, his grandmother’s vile-smelling recipe.
He smoothly claimed a crippled breaker was of no use to him, but his guarded mask couldn’t hide his deep investment in seeing her win.
It was a quiet, observant kindness that left Megan with an unfamiliar, tight flutter in her stomach.
December arrived with sharp teeth, freezing the ground solid and turning the paddock into jagged, dangerous ruts.
Titan had accepted the saddle, but he was a tightly coiled spring, desperate for a job and a stretch of open ground.
Megan confronted Charles in the barn, aggressively arguing that the horse needed to run before he reverted to his destructive habits.
Charles noticed the stubborn set of her jaw and finally agreed to ride out with her, saddling his magnificent dark bay thoroughbred.
They rode out into the biting wind, crossing the frost-covered moors toward the southern boundary of the vast estate.
Titan was a nightmare to hold back, jogging in place and fighting for every inch of rein, but Megan sat deep, absorbing his frantic energy.
When they broke through the dead pines, the massive boundary wall loomed ahead, an old medieval remnant of gray fieldstone.
It was over five feet high, entirely solid, and covered in treacherous, frozen moss.
Charles stared at the wall, his eyes hard and distant, as he bitterly recounted his grandfather’s spiteful dispute that birthed the barrier.
He admitted, his voice stripped of all polish, that he had tried to jump it years ago, fueled by pride and gin.
He had hesitated at the last second, pulling the reins, causing his horse to stop and sending him flying into the rocks.
He had shattered his collarbone and lain in the freezing rain for two days, a failure that had haunted him ever since.
He confessed he bought Titan hoping the beast could conquer the wall and erase his own paralyzing fear.
Megan saw the heavy, suffocating chain of his expectations dragging him down, and she fiercely refused to let him drown in it.
She boldly wagered him one hundred pounds that Titan could clear the wall, right then and there.
Charles desperately tried to order her to stop, terrified she would be crushed, but the absolute clarity in her face silenced him.
She wasn’t doing it for the money anymore; she was doing it to completely break the ghost that haunted him.
Megan released the heavy leather reins, and the hurricane was instantly let off the leash.
Titan accelerated with terrifying violence, a predatory thrust that tore up chunks of frost-hardened earth.
The freezing wind tore at Megan’s face, blurring her vision, but she kept her focus locked entirely on the jagged line of gray stone.
The sensory overload was absolute, the sharp smell of crushed winter grass mixing with the hot tang of the horse’s breath.
Charles watched in absolute horror, his gloved hands numb, whispering desperately for her not to pull the reins as he had.
She didn’t pull.
Titan locked onto the jump, his ears pinned, furiously determined to conquer the stones simply because they dared to stand in his way.
Megan stood slightly in the stirrups, throwing her heart over the massive wall and trusting the monster to follow it.
Titan bunched his massive muscles and launched them violently into the winter sky.
Gravity ceased to exist as they cleared the treacherous moss-covered top by mere inches, suspended in an impossible, silent heartbeat.
The ground rushed up, and Titan hit the frozen earth with a catastrophic impact that shot straight up Megan’s spine.
The horse scrambled frantically, slipping dangerously on icy rocks, but Megan hauled him up, demanding he stay on his feet.
He caught his balance, taking three massive, uneven strides before slowing to a heavy, shuddering trot.
Megan slumped forward, laughing and sobbing in raw, ragged relief as they survived.
She turned to face the wall, looking down at Charles, who sat frozen on his bay like a man watching a ghost disappear.
The crushing weight he had carried for a decade shattered cleanly in two, broken by a half-starved woman on a killer horse.
When she rode down to the gate, Charles was waiting, his hands trembling as he caught her falling body.
He pulled her fiercely against his heavy wool coat, his aristocratic polish entirely gone as he rasped that she could have died.
Megan looked up into his frantic, intense eyes, cynically demanding her hundred pounds.
Charles let out a ragged laugh of pure relief, his gloved fingers tangling in her cold hair.
He vowed he would pay her a thousand, firmly stating she was never walking away from his estate, and she was keeping the job.
Megan grabbed his heavy lapels with her bloodied hands and pulled him down into a desperate, bruising kiss.
It tasted of dirt, adrenaline, and winter cold, an anchor finally dropping in rough seas for two heavily damaged people.
When they broke apart, Charles rested his chin on her head, softly promising that tomorrow, she was going to teach him how to ride the beast.
Megan grinned sharply, her raspy voice warning him they would start on the ponies, because she didn’t need him breaking his neck and leaving her with the paperwork.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
