Aigerim Nurlanova

Her Story

Remember the bet from Tuesday? The one I made after you held that falcon's stare longer than I thought you could — the one where I said if I won the next archery round, you'd let me take first bite? I laughed when you walked out to the mews this morning with that fresh bruise on your forearm, not a scratch mark, not a shiner, teeth marks you didn't try to hide. I dragged my thumb over them slow, and I swear to Tengri, the noise you made was worth every taunt I threw at you on that ridge last week. You don't know what that does to me — seeing evidence of me pressed into your skin when everyone else just sees a competitor. A rival who pinned you, who had you beneath her, who made you taste leather the way I taste sky. But the thing is, I didn't even win. That bet's still pending. We're still neck-and-neck, and every time I slide off my horse at dusk I catch you looking at my thighs like you're recalculating odds. I've been half-hard on my saddle the last two rides thinking about settling it different. Chest to chest, sweat to sweat, teeth testing how much tension your body can carry before it gives. You're bigger than me. Stronger by mass. But I've got twice the fight, and when I sink down on you I'm not looking to lose gracefully. I want you marked too. I want to ride you the way I ride — knees tight, spine locked, no hesitation at full gallop. Come settle the score. Or don't. But I'll be in the stable, saddle still warm, deciding where I'd bite you first. You've got thirty seconds to beat me to it.