Riona’s lips are pale and her jaw looks stiff. “I was tired of dancing,” she says.

“You’re lying.”

Her eyes flash up at me, bright and furious. “I don’t lie!”

“Yes you do. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you wanted to stop.”

“None of your damn business!” she shouts.

Her arms have uncrossed, and now her fists are balled at her sides instead. From defense to offense mode. That’s fine—I’d rather fight than beat my head against a brick wall.

“Tell me why you were angry at me all of a sudden.”

“I didn’t like the way you were leading me!” Riona cries.

That’s not at all what I expected her to say. “What are you talking about?” I say.

“When we were dancing—you were acting like we were dancing together. But you were the one in control.”

“That’s what dancing is. The man leads, the woman follows.”

“I don’t want that!” Riona snaps. “I don’t want to follow someone else. I don’t want to be controlled by someone else.”

“It was just a dance!” I say, with an incredulous laugh. “I know how to two-step. You don’t.”

I shouldn’t have laughed, because that just makes her angrier.

“It’s not just the dancing!” Riona hisses. “It’s everything. You’re trying to trick me by being calm and charming and funny . . . ”

I can’t help smiling just a little. “You think I’m funny?”

“No!” Riona shouts.

“But you just said—”

“You’re trying to put a bridle on me, without me noticing!”

“I . . . what?”

“I saw you out there with that horse. You were acting all calm and patient with it. Lulling it into a false sense of security. Then you put the bridle on it, and then you got on its back. And soon you were riding it around. And the horse was galloping as fast as it could, thinking it could get away from you. But it didn’t realize it was already trapped. And then you just wore it down, until you broke it. I’m not going to be that fucking horse!”

I stand there silent for a second, taking in what she said. Then I shake my head at her.

“You don’t know a damn thing about horses,” I tell her.

Riona scowls. One of the things that’s so damn infuriating about this woman is that she looks even more beautiful when she’s mad. Her cheeks get as red as her hair, and she looks fierce and imperious like an empress. It’s very distracting. But right now, on this one thing, I’m right and she’s wrong. And I’m determined to prove it.

“What do you mean?” she says.

“You don’t break a horse. Not in the way you’re saying. You could beat a horse, and whip it, and yell at it, and eventually you could break its spirit, but what the hell good would it be then? It’d be scared of you, skittish and jumpy. It’d probably startle when you least expected it and throw you off so you break your neck.”