"He's yours," Henry agreed without a second of hesitation. He always was. Basia looked at his mouth.
She didn't want a savior. She had spent her entire life fighting against the heavy hands of men who thought their money bought her obedience. She didn't want a lord, and she certainly didn't believe in fairy tales. But she wanted the man who had knelt in the muck and handed her the tools to survive on her own terms.
She reached up, grabbing the heavy wool lapels of his immaculate coat with her battered, bloodied hands and pulled him down. The kiss was not gentle. It wasn't polite, and it wasn't sweet. It tasted of dirt, adrenaline, and biting winter cold.
Henry wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, pulling her flush against him, kissing her back with a desperate, bruising hunger. It was an anchor dropped in rough seas. They were two highly cynical, severely damaged people who had spent their lives bracing for the fall, finally realizing they had hit solid ground. When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing heavily, Basia rested her forehead against his chest.
The heavy, steady rhythm of his heart thumped loudly against her ear through the wool of his coat. Nearby Ruin snorted violently, tossing his massive head and yanking a mouthful of dead, frozen grass from the ditch, entirely unbothered by the humans. Henry let out a long breath, resting his chin on the top of her head. He looked at the massive gray beast, then down at the ruined, remarkable woman in his arms.
"Tomorrow," Henry said softly, a trace of his dry humor finally returning. "You are going to teach me how to ride him." Basia scoffed. It was a genuine, raspy sound that warmed the freezing air between them.
"Tomorrow," she said, stepping back just enough to look him directly in the eye, her grin sharp and wicked. "We start you on the ponies, Your Grace. I don't need you breaking your neck and leaving me with the paperwork."