Page 35 of Savage Reins
She doesn't look at me. Not once. She focuses on Rusalka's bridle, and the distance between us feels wider than the barn, deeper than the silence that's been growing for days.
I know I should say something. Tell her what I saw. Warn her that time is running out faster than we thought. But the words stick in my throat. Every conversation we've had lately ends with her pulling further away, and I can't risk losing what little ground I have left.
So I watch her lead Rusalka to the stall, run her hands along the horse's legs, check for heat or swelling. I watch her fill the water bucket and measure out grain with the same careful attention she gives everything else. I watch her build walls between us with every small, deliberate action.
She belongs to me.
The thought comes unbidden, territorial and fierce. But belonging goes both ways. And right now, I belong to a family that wants to burn down everything she loves.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Boris, one of Vadim's men. Three words that make my blood turn cold.
Boss wants meeting.
I stare at the message, knowing what it means. Vadim isn't just angry about the Karpins anymore. He's angry about me. About the delays. About the way I've been handling this job.
I need to go. I need to face whatever fury is waiting for me in the city. But first, I need to see her face. I need to know if there's any hope left in those gray-blue eyes or if she's already written me off as the enemy.
Mira closes Rusalka's stall door with a soft click. She turns toward the tack room, and for a moment—just a moment—our eyes meet across the barn.
There's no warmth in her gaze. No recognition of what we shared two nights ago. She looks at me the way she'd look at any stranger who happened to be standing in her barn. Polite. Distant. Careful.
It cuts deeper than any blade.
She disappears into the tack room, and I'm left standing in the main aisle, surrounded by the smells of hay and horse and the weight of my own failures. I came here to destroy her world, and instead she's destroying mine. One look at a time.
I head for my truck, the gravel crunching under my boots. The drive into the city will give me time to think, to prepare for whatever Vadim has planned. But thinking is dangerous. Every mile that passes reminds me how far I've strayed from the original plan.
Burn the ranch. Eliminate the problem. Move on to the next job.
Now the only thing I want to eliminate is anyone who tries to hurt her. Even if it means going to war with my own family.
14
MIRA
The training schedule needs restructuring. I spread the papers across the kitchen table, calculating timing and recovery periods with a mechanical pencil and too much coffee. Rusalka needs more intensive work—mid-gate bursts, stamina circuits, controlled speed intervals—but I have to balance intensity against burnout. Push too hard and her spirit breaks. Not hard enough and we lose the race.
Neither option works.
I tap the pencil against the table edge, studying the numbers I've written and rewritten a dozen times. Fifteen days until race day. Fifteen days to turn potential into victory. The math doesn't lie, but it doesn't comfort me either.
"Batya," I call toward the living room where the television drones with morning news. "Can you help me today? I need someone with a stopwatch."
His footsteps shuffle across the hardwood. He appears in the doorway, gray hair uncombed, yesterday's shirt wrinkled. The past few weeks have aged him, carved deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. But his hands are still steady when they need to be.
"What do you need?"
"Timing drills. Recovery circuits. I want to see how she handles sustained speed over different distances."
He nods, understanding immediately. This is the language we both speak—horses, training, the pursuit of that perfect combination of power and endurance that separates winners from also-rans.
"When do we start?"
"Now," I tell him, standing up.
The round pen feels smaller today, or maybe Rusalka feels bigger. She moves through her warm-up with controlled energy, her muscles loose and ready. I guide her through basic paces first—walk, trot, controlled canter—letting her body prepare for the harder stuff to come.
Batyastands by the gate with a stopwatch and clipboard, his expression focused. We've done this dance before, he and I, countless times over the years. But today carries a different weight. Today determines whether we keep the ranch or watch it burn.
