The realization hit Henry like a physical blow. He had spent his entire life surrounded by people who yielded to him, who yielded to money, to titles, to difficulty. He had built a cynical armored shell around himself convinced that everyone had a breaking point that was easily reached. Basia Kelly was shattering that shell with every jarring impact of hooves on mud.
Ruin was tiring. The explosive energy was draining out of him replaced by a heavy sullen exhaustion. His coat was black with sweat. He dragged his hooves, head hanging low, blowing thick ropes of spit from his lips.
He came to a shuddering halt in the dead center of the yard. He stood there, feet planted wide, completely spent. His massive sides heaved violently. Basia didn't move.
She couldn't. Her fingers were locked in his mane in a death grip. Her muscles had cramped so hard they felt like petrified wood. Her chest rose and fell in jagged gasping breaths that sounded loud in the sudden eerie silence of the courtyard.
"Time," Henry said. His voice was hoarse. He snapped the gold watch shut. The click echoed.
"That's three minutes." Basia slowly turned her head. Her hair was plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. She looked at the Duke, her eyes completely glazed, her mouth hanging open as she fought for air. Slowly, painfully, she unwrapped her bleeding fingers from the horse's mane.
She kicked her left foot free of the stirrup, leaned her weight over the horse's sweating shoulder, and simply slid off. She hit the mud and her legs instantly buckled. She didn't fall entirely, catching herself on her hands and knees in the freezing muck. The cold water soaked through her trousers instantly, but she couldn't find the strength to stand.