Page 2 of Savage Reins
"That won't be necessary."
The Karpins file out of the barn, leaving me with nothing left to do but await orders. Lev pauses at the entrance, looking back at Yuri with undisguised contempt.
"Thirty days, old man. After that, you're on your own."
The barn falls quiet except for the soft shuffling of horses in their stalls. Yuri slumps against a support beam, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-plus years. The fight's gone out of him completely.
Vadim adjusts his cufflinks, a gesture I've seen a thousand times before. It means he's about to deliver bad news.
"You heard them," he tells Yuri. "Thirty days."
"I can find another horse," Yuri says desperately. "Give me a chance to make this right. I've got connections, people who owe me favors?—"
"You've got nothing," Vadim interrupts. "Look around, Petrov. This place is dead on its feet. The only reason we kept you alive this long was the horse, and now that's gone too."
"Please. My family's worked this land for three generations. My daughter?—"
"Your daughter is part of the problem. The Karpins want blood, and frankly, so do I. You've cost us money, reputation, and credibility. That requires consequences."
Vadim turns to me, and I know what's coming before he opens his mouth. I've been the Vetrovs’ enforcer for eight years. I know all his expressions, all his tells. This one means someone's about to die.
"Renat, you'll handle this. Clean it up. All of it."
The words settle into my chest, heavy and cold. "All of it" means the ranch burns. "All of it" means Yuri Petrov doesn't walk away. "All of it" means I come back here tomorrow night with gasoline and matches.
"Understood," I say.
"Good. Give it a day or two. Let the old man think about his choices. Then finish it."
Vadim heads toward the barn entrance, pausing only to straighten his tie. "And Renat? Make sure it looks accidental. The last thing we need is more attention from the authorities."
His footsteps fade into the distance, leaving me alone with Yuri Petrov and the smell of defeat. The old man stares at the ground, his shoulders shaking. He's crying, though he's trying to hide it.
I should leave. The job's clear, the timeline's set, and standing here won't change anything. But something keeps my feet planted on the dusty floor. Maybe it's the way the afternoon light filters through the gaps in the barn walls, casting everything in golden shadows. Maybe it's the soft nickering of horses who don't understand that their world is about to end.
Or maybe it's something else entirely.
A sound catches my attention—a soft scraping from one of the empty stalls near the back of the barn. I freeze, listening. There it is again. Deliberate movement where there shouldn't be any.
My hand moves automatically to the gun under my jacket as I cross the barn floor. The stall door stands slightly ajar, though I'm certain it was closed when we arrived. I push it open with my boot and step inside.
Gray-blue eyes meet mine from the shadows. She's crouched behind a pile of old hay bales, her long blonde braid tucked under a baseball cap, her face streaked with dust and tears. But her gaze is steady, unflinching, and filled with a fury that takes me completely off guard.
Mira Petrov rises slowly, her hands empty but ready. She's smaller than I expected, maybe five-foot-six in her boots, but there's nothing fragile about the way she carries herself. This is someone who's spent her life in barns and pastures, someone who's earned every muscle in her lean frame.
"How long have you been listening?" I ask.
"Long enough."
Her voice is low and controlled, but I can hear the rage underneath. She heard everything. The threats, the timeline, the order to burn her life to the ground.
"You should run," I tell her.
"Should I?"
She steps out of the shadows, and I get my first real look at her. Sun-kissed skin, callused hands, clothes that have seen honest work. Beautiful in the way that working ranch women are beautiful—all strength and competence and zero pretense.
But it's her eyes that stop me cold. They're the color of storm clouds, and they're studying me with an intelligence that makes my skin crawl. She's not looking at me as a victim looks at her executioner. She's looking at me as an equal looks at an adversary. That’s her first mistake.
