CHAPTER 86: THE BLACK KNIGHT

Vivienne stood still.

Her body froze like she had turned to stone, but her eyes stayed locked on the horse. Something in her said to turn around. Walk away. Leave. It’s just a horse, for heaven’s sake. A stupid, breathing, eating, shitting animal. But her feet didn’t listen. They stayed rooted to the ground like the world would collapse if she dared to move.

Her mind screamed, "Turn around, idiot! You’re here to play nice with the duke, not flirt with some horse!"

But her legs said, "Shut up," and carried her closer.

The closer she got, the louder her heart pounded. It wasn’t fear — not really. It was something sharper, something that made her breath come short and her skin prickle. The horse noticed her before she even reached the gate. It neighed, sharp and strong, like a warning. The sound made her stop for a moment, her hands trembling slightly.

She swallowed hard.

"Easy," she whispered softly. Her voice sounded strange, even to her own ears — careful, gentle. She wasn’t even sure why she said it. "Easy, boy. I’m not going to hurt you."

The horse took a step back, then forward again, snorting. It was tall, almost intimidating, with muscles that shifted under its sleek black coat. Its eyes glinted with wildness, the kind that no amount of gold could tame. But it wasn’t angry. It was cautious. Curious.

Vivienne took another step closer, slow and steady. She reached her hand out, her palm open. "It’s all right," she murmured. "See? Nothing to be scared of."

The horse neighed again, softer this time, then leaned forward, sniffing her fingers. She froze as its warm breath brushed against her skin. The air between them felt thick, heavy, like something unseen was watching. Her heart thudded harder.

Then, without knowing why, she laughed quietly.

"Well, aren’t you a wild boy," she said under her breath, her lips curling into a small smile. "Big, strong, terrifying... you’ll fit right in around here."

Her fingers brushed its neck gently, feeling the warmth beneath its skin. The texture was smooth but firm, alive with power. The horse flinched at first, then stilled. Slowly, it began to calm down. Vivienne patted it again, her movements slow and careful, her breath shallow.

"Good boy," she whispered. "That’s it. Calm down. See? I’m not one of the monsters here."

Her touch grew steadier. The rhythm of her hand was slow, deliberate, the way she might handle something breakable—or dangerous. She felt the pulse under her fingertips, strong and steady, and for some reason it sent a strange rush through her veins. Her throat felt dry.

She patted his neck again, then moved her hand up toward the collar around his throat. The leather was thick and smooth, clearly expensive, with a name engraved in delicate gold. She leaned in, squinting to read the letters.

Le Chevalier Noir.

She smiled faintly, whispering the words. "The Black Knight."

Her voice came out like a sigh. "Of course that’s your name. Dramatic, arrogant, and shiny. You really belong to him."

She chuckled softly to herself and ran her fingers over the name again. The horse flicked its ear and lowered its head slightly, almost as if it understood.

Without thinking too much, she reached for the latch and opened the stall gate. The metal creaked softly, echoing through the stable. The sound seemed louder than it should have been, cutting through the silence like a secret being told.

Le Chevalier Noir neighed again but didn’t move away. He just stood there, watching her, his dark eyes wide and alert.

Vivienne stepped inside the stall, her bare feet brushing against the straw. The smell of hay filled her nose — warm, earthy, and strangely comforting. Her hands were shaking a little, but she kept patting him softly.

"Easy," she whispered again, her voice calm but low. "Good boy. There’s nothing to be scared of."

The horse’s breathing steadied. He leaned his head toward her shoulder, brushing against her arm like a cat asking for affection. The soft contact startled her at first, then melted into something else — a strange, quiet thrill that made her chest tighten.

"There we go," she said, her lips tugging up. "You’re not that bad, are you?"

Her voice had that teasing edge again, the one she used when she was half-playing, half-daring. Her hand moved slowly across his neck, her fingers tracing the line of muscle down to his shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his skin through her palm. For a second, she closed her eyes and breathed. It was ridiculous — she was touching a horse, not a man — but there was something alive and magnetic in the moment.

Then, because she had lost her mind or maybe because the world hated her, she thought, Why not?

She placed her hand on the wooden bar and carefully climbed up. The wood pressed cold against her skin, and her dress brushed against his back as she moved. Le Chevalier Noir shifted slightly but didn’t flinch. Her legs tightened instinctively around him, her body tense, her breath catching. The feel of his strength beneath her was almost shocking — heat and muscle and control.

She sat there, still as a statue, afraid to move too fast. There were no reins, no saddle, nothing but her and him.

"Okay," she whispered. "If you throw me off, I swear I’ll haunt your stable."

The horse snorted, like it was laughing at her.

Vivienne couldn’t help but laugh too. Her voice was low, breathy, almost teasing. For a moment, she actually forgot who she was, where she was, or why she was even here. All she felt was the strange thrill of sitting on something wild, something untamed. The air felt fresher, lighter. Her blood felt alive again. The world didn’t seem so heavy anymore.

The soft brush of wind from the stable door stirred her hair, and a loose strand slid over her lips. She didn’t notice that someone else was watching.

Outside the stables, André stood in silence.

His eyes were fixed on her. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He just stared.

Philippe, the old stable master, stood beside him. The man’s beard was gray, his hands rough from years of work. He followed André’s gaze and frowned, squinting toward the stables.

"This is quite strange, Your Grace," Philippe said after a while.

André didn’t answer. His throat felt dry. His lips were slightly parted, but no words came out. He could see Vivienne clearly now, through the open doorway — her sitting gracefully on Le Chevalier Noir, her hair loose and shining in the dim light, her lips curled into a soft smile that almost looked dangerous.

It was a rare sight. A dangerous one.

Philippe spoke again, his voice low. "That horse... he never lets anyone near him. No one."

André finally turned his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on her. "No one?" he asked quietly.

Philippe shook his head. "Never, Your Grace. The only person he ever allowed close was Her Grace." He hesitated, his voice lowering even more. "It has never happened before. Not once since..."

He stopped, not daring to finish the sentence.

André’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounded louder than the wind. The words cut deeper than they should have. His eyes darkened as memories flickered somewhere behind them, quiet and painful.

"She must remind him of her," Philippe said softly, trying to sound light. "That must be it. He must like her."

André didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His lips pressed into a thin line, his chest rising slowly.

He kept watching Vivienne as she leaned forward, her fingers brushing Le Chevalier Noir’s neck again. She looked... calm. Steady. And the sight of it stirred something deep and unwanted inside him.

Philippe cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your Grace, what should I do? It seems like the lady wants to ride him. Should I prepa—"

"Go in," André said suddenly. His voice was firm, low, but calm.

Philippe blinked. "Pardon?"

André didn’t look away from Vivienne. "Go in," he repeated, his tone quiet but commanding. "You know how Le Chevalier Noir can be. Make sure she doesn’t get hurt. Prepare him for her."

"Yes, Your Grace," Philippe said immediately, bowing his head before hurrying toward the stable doors.

André stayed still. The air around him felt heavy, thick with something he couldn’t name. His face was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on her with quiet fire — not desire, but something older, sharper, and buried deep beneath the surface.

He watched her laugh softly as Philippe approached. She looked almost innocent in that moment. Her smile wasn’t fake. Her laughter wasn’t rehearsed. It was real. And it hurt for reasons he didn’t speak of.