CHAPTER 88: THE TALE OF THE PAST

Vivienne rode until she caught up with André. He was ahead of her, moving slowly, his posture straight but his mind clearly somewhere else. His white horse walked with calm, even steps, while the black one under her seemed alive — restless, its muscles rippling beneath her legs with quiet power. Every stride felt like it had a heartbeat of its own. The reins slid between her fingers, smooth and warm, and she could feel the animal’s pulse thrumming faintly against her palms.

She watched André silently for a moment, her gaze tracing the way his shoulders moved beneath his coat. There was a strange grace in the way he rode — firm, measured, too perfect. The reins barely moved in his hands, his fingers resting on them like he was touching something delicate. His whole body looked controlled, like every inch of him was carved from patience. But she could tell his mind wasn’t there. His eyes were fixed on the road, yet somewhere far beyond it.

She tilted her head, studying him. His coat brushed faintly against the saddle with each step, the breeze lifting a strand of his pale hair. He looked almost unreal, like something pulled out of a painting — calm, handsome, and infuriatingly mysterious.

She sighed loudly enough for the wind to carry it. What a crazy lunatic.

The man had everything — a palace, servants, fine clothes, and eyes that could probably make widows faint. But he walked around like someone had replaced his soul with smoke. She had met drunk gamblers with more spark in their eyes.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. Now I have to baby him too? Wonderful. Add that to my list of humiliations.

Still, she smiled. That soft, fake, sugary smile she had perfected over the years. The kind of smile that made rich men forget their wives’ names. The kind of smile that had gotten her out of danger more times than she could count.

Her voice came out smooth and sweet, dripping like honey over sharp glass. "André, are you okay?"

He didn’t answer right away. His head turned slightly, but his eyes didn’t meet hers. His face had that stillness again — too calm, too quiet. Then, slowly, something flickered there. A shadow, a memory, maybe pain. His mouth moved as if he wanted to speak, then stopped. For a second, Vivienne almost saw the ghost behind the pretty face.

Then he blinked, and it was gone. He came back to himself, like nothing had happened. "I’m fine," he said simply. His tone was calm, but it carried something heavy — something she couldn’t quite name.

Vivienne raised one eyebrow. Fine, my ass.

She leaned slightly forward in her saddle, pretending to be gentle, her eyes soft but mocking. "It’s your mother’s horse, isn’t it?"

André turned toward her. The light hit his eyes just right — soft gray with a glint that made them almost tender.

She kept her voice quiet, sweet. "We haven’t gone far. I can return it if you don’t want me riding it."

André shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "It’s okay," he said softly. "I don’t have a problem with you riding it. It just... reminded me of my mother."

Vivienne forced herself to smile politely, but inside she was groaning. Oh, wonderful. Here we go. Mommy trauma hour. I swear, if he starts quoting poetry, I’m jumping off this horse.

He continued, completely missing her silent suffering. "The horse was wild when we found it. It had been injured during a hunting trip. My mother and Philippe treated it themselves. It was... difficult at first. Ferocious, actually. It attacked anyone who came close."

Vivienne blinked, feigning fascination. Fascinating. A horse story. Just what every woman dreams of.

André’s tone softened. "But they never gave up. They cared for it until it healed. It took months before the horse began to trust anyone. It would bite, kick, run from every touch. But one day, it just... followed my mother home. It never left her side again."

His voice had gone low, and something about it made the air around them feel thick. He wasn’t just talking about a horse anymore — or maybe she was imagining it. The way his lips moved, slow and thoughtful, sent an odd heat through her chest.

She plastered on a polite smile. "That’s... very kind of her."

Her tone was as smooth as cream, but inside her head she cringed. Kind of her? Who even talks like that? God, I sound like a nun. What’s next, ’Oh, how noble, my lord’? Kill me now.

André looked at her again, and this time he didn’t look away. His eyes were steady, quietly focused on her, and for some reason, she couldn’t look back for long. His next words came out slow, almost thoughtful. "I’m surprised it lets you even touch it. It must like you a lot."

She blinked, caught off guard. Excuse me?

"It must trust you," he added, his voice calm but rich, the words sliding out too softly.

The air shifted. The way he said it — low, quiet, careful — made something spark inside her. It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly, but it felt too intimate, too close. It was as if he wasn’t talking about the horse at all. The way his gaze lingered made her stomach tighten. Her pulse picked up, and she hated it.

Her skin prickled. She could feel the weight of his voice on her like a hand that hadn’t touched her yet. The thought made her throat dry.

She straightened her back quickly, hiding it with a scoff. "Maybe your horse just has bad taste," she muttered under her breath.

André chuckled, and the sound was infuriatingly low. Smooth. Lazy. Like silk brushing against bare skin. It rolled through her chest, deep and steady, and she cursed silently. Why does he sound like that? Is he doing it on purpose?

"Maybe," he said quietly, still watching her.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It hung heavy between them, thick and alive with something neither of them named. The horses’ hooves pressed softly into the ground, rhythmic and slow, and the breeze brushed against her cheek, bringing with it the faint scent of him — clean, faintly musky, warm.

Vivienne pretended not to notice, but her fingers tightened on the reins. Every time he glanced her way, she could feel it like a physical touch. His gaze didn’t wander. It didn’t slide over her body the way other men’s did — it lingered. Calm. Knowing. Annoyingly confident.

She could feel heat rising under her collar. Not blush — she didn’t blush. It was irritation. Definitely irritation.

Stop looking at me like that, you lunatic, she thought sharply, forcing herself to glance at him again.

His expression was unreadable — calm as ever — but his eyes told a different story. They were quiet, dark, and steady, like he could see straight through her, through every mask she wore.

It made her chest tighten, and for a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.

Damn him, she thought, looking away quickly, pretending to fix her glove. He’s supposed to be boring. He’s supposed to be harmless. Not... whatever this is.

The black horse beneath her huffed, its breath mixing with hers, and she swore even the animal could feel the tension she was trying to ignore. The road stretched out before them, golden light falling across his shoulders, his hair, the faint curve of his mouth.

Vivienne rolled her eyes again, trying to shake it off, but her lips betrayed her with the smallest twitch of a smile.