Page 36 of Savage Reins
"Ready for the first burst," I call.
He raises the stopwatch. "Go."
I cue Rusalka into a full gallop, her hooves drumming against packed earth. The first marker comes up fast—thirty seconds of sustained speed. She hits it smoothly, breathing controlled, stride even. I bring her back to a trot, then a walk, monitoring her recovery.
"Time?"
"Twenty-eight point four. Clean breathing throughout."
Good. Better than good.
We run the circuit six more times, varying the distances and recovery periods. Rusalka handles each burst with increasing confidence, her times staying consistent, her form holdingstrong. By the end of the session, she's tired but not exhausted, responsive but not stressed.
I'm walking her through the final cooldown when Renat appears at the fence line. He doesn't announce himself. He simply falls into step beside me as I lead Rusalka around the perimeter. I don't acknowledge him, don't change my pace or pattern. But I don't tell him to leave, either.
He notices the pole configuration I've set up for tomorrow's session—a complex pattern designed to test agility and speed simultaneously. Without asking, he adjusts the spacing on two of them, making the angles more challenging but still achievable.
"Tighter turns build confidence," he says, his voice low and matter-of-fact.
I glance at the poles, then at him. He's right. The adjustment improves the setup. But I don't thank him for it.
We work around each other for the next twenty minutes, testing Rusalka's responses and pushing her. The space between us stays charged with unfinished conversations and unresolved tension, but we manage to function, to cooperate without communicating.
Batyawatches from the fence, but I never get a good read on what he's thinking. He's like that—masking his thoughts behind a poker face most of the time. When we finish, Rusalka is cooled down and settled, the training area is organized for tomorrow, and Renat is heading back toward the bunkhouse without another word.
"That man is complicated,"Batyasays after Renat disappears from view.
I don't respond. Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
Night falls with the promise of frost. I pace my bedroom, wearing a path in the carpet between the window and the door. The light in the bunkhouse loft glows yellow and warm, and Iknow Renat is up there, probably reading or cleaning weapons or doing whatever enforcers do in their downtime.
Fifteen days. The number circles in my mind, relentless and unforgiving. Rusalka is good—better than good—but she's not ready for a race of this caliber. Not yet. She needs more time, more conditioning, more fine-tuning of speed and stamina.
Sixty days would be ideal. Forty-five at minimum. Time to build her confidence gradually, to push her limits without breaking her spirit. Time to turn potential into guaranteed victory.
But time is the one commodity I don't have. Unless I can convince Renat to ask for it.
The plan forms slowly, methodically. Keep him interested. Keep him engaged. Use whatever connection exists between us to buy more preparation time. If I have to sleep with him to save the ranch, then that's what I'll do. It wouldn't be the first sacrifice I've made for this place.
I change clothes—jeans that fit well, a sweater that shows the right amount of skin without being obvious about it. Nothing too calculated, nothing that screams seduction. Just enough to remind him that I'm a woman as well as a trainer.
The kitchen is dark when I slip downstairs. Through the window, I can seeBatyaon the back porch, the red glow of his cigar tip moving in slow arcs. He does this sometimes when he can't sleep, sits outside and smokes and thinks about whatever ghosts haunt him from the day.
I'll have to go the long way around. Through the old hay barn, past the equipment shed, then across the yard to the barn. It adds ten minutes to the walk, but it keeps me out ofBatya's line of sight.
The hay barn smells musty and old, filled with the accumulated scent of decades’ worth of storage. Moonlightfilters through the high windows, creating geometric patterns on the floor. I'm halfway through when I smell smoke.
Not cigar smoke. Not the comfortable smell of tobacco and evening air. This is sharper, more acrid. The smell of accelerant and burning wood.
I freeze, listening. Voices drift from the far end of the barn, low and urgent. Two men, maybe three. The words aren't clear, but the tone is unmistakable—they're working, focused, completing a task.
I edge closer, staying in the shadows between the hay bales. The voices become clearer as I approach.
"—should be enough to make the point?—"
"—Lev wants the whole place to go?—"
"—not yet, just a warning?—"
