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Mom’s a fritter. So even when you’re trying to do something fun, she wrecks that pretty much any way she can. She picks at my hair. She suggests that I need to polish my nails. She comments on the clothing I’m wearing and my lack of a boyfriend. Once that feels heavy-handed, she gushes about Mirdza’s new boyfriend. Today, I was prepared for the inevitable questions about Grigoriy’s friend Alexei.

I knew it would be tiring.

But today, when it feels like too much, I suggest something I almost never do, in the name of research. You’d think that someone like my mother would loathe romantic comedies. By all counts, my father was far from perfect, but whatever good qualities he had were eclipsed by the mess he left our family in when he died.

Then along came someone worse than the devil himself. Martinš.

After surviving all that, there’s still no one on earth who loves love stories as much as my mother. So when I suggest we watch a romance, she squeals so loudly that I’m convinced it terrifies the poor horses outside.

I’m determined to figure out whether I’m right to reject every man I meet, or whether I’m insisting on double blankets in snowmageddon like Lucy. Am I harming myself because of an irrational fear? I’m hoping to discover some helpful insight or knowledge from studying the ideas of romance themselves. Mom picks one she’s been wanting to watch for a while that was just dubbed in Latvian.

The men in this one—there are two of them—are best friends. They’re partners in law enforcement, and they’re both unbelievably good looking, just like the Russians who are currently hanging around. They’re both excellent at fighting, which makes sense, because they’re special ops. And. . .

They both like the same little blond girl.

I make a mental note that it’s nice that none of our Russian stallion shifters appear to like the same woman. That’s a major relief. How awkward would it be if Grigoriy and Aleksandr both pursued Kris? But as these two guys are doing ridiculous things—car chases, bugging the girl’s room, and attacking one another—I keep thinking the same thing.

Alexei’s better looking than either of them. He’s also funnier, smarter, and more powerful.

This movie’s not helping with my research at all. It’s just making me sad that he wants someone better than me. Which is stupid. I don’t even want him. I wouldn’t want him even if he did want me. It’s good that he doesn’t want me. I started this research not because of Alexei, but because I wondered whether my basic premise might be flawed.

Right before it ends, I stand up and leave. My mom’s distressed that I left, of course, but she’s hardly surprised. This has been my MO for a decade at least. I shower, and then I toss and turn half the night, dreaming repeatedly of stupid Alexei leaving me in different ways. I hate that this has become my new nightmare.

When I roll over and see 4:30 a.m. blinking on my alarm clock, I groan and stumble out of bed. I have four horses to work before I’m supposed to meet with Alexei, so I’m surprised when I reach the barn around five a.m. that he’s already there.

“Oh.”

His eyes widen.

“Why are you here?” I blink. “Didn’t we say eight-thirty every morning?”

He nods.

“Do you need help with something? Because I have a few horses I need to work, and—”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Oh. “Me either.”

He comes with me, and surprisingly, with no one else around, he’s kind of helpful. He knows how to groom and tack horses. He’s even a decent rider. I guess it makes sense. He was raised royal, and in the early nineteen hundreds, that meant skill with a horse. He cuts my work in half, and we’re tacking down the last two horses I needed to work today by seven thirty.

“I knew how to ride by the time I was three,” he says. “Mounted cavalry was pretty important back then.”

I googled him when I got back home. The first picture that popped up was one of him as a tiny kid on top of a huge horse. But that makes me think of other stuff. “Can I ask you something?” I frown. “This might sound weird, but—”

“You looked me up.”

My face heats immediately. “I mean, it’s not that—”

“I’d have done the same thing.”

“It said you suffered from severe hemophilia.”

His smile’s wry. “Apparently someone didn’t like me.”

“Do you know this Leonid?” It’s not really any of my business, but I can’t help asking. “It feels like maybe you did.”

He grabs both saddles and starts carrying them to the tack room. “We met when I was younger.”