The people of Ravelle had no idea who the fuck they were.
To the crowd, they looked like a dream—two perfect lovers on shining horses, moving through the streets as if painted by God himself. A man with silver eyes and a smile that could melt glass, and a woman with wild curls and a waist too small for her attitude. Every passing face turned to stare, to whisper, to envy.
They looked like a fairytale.
But Vivienne knew better.
It was a fucking nightmare on horseback.
The morning sun was soft, gold spreading across rooftops as they left the city. André rode ahead, his posture annoyingly straight, his hand loose on the reins. His coat flapped slightly with the wind, and his hair, that stupid expensive hair, gleamed under the sun. Vivienne followed behind him, her own horse snorting with irritation, just like her.
Her thoughts were not romantic.
They were violent.
