Page 49 of Savage Reins
And that’s the problem.
If Rusalka loses, I lose everything—Mira, this place, whatever fragile peace I’ve found here. Vadim will take it all back with interest, and the Karpins will get their pound of flesh. The girl I’ve been warming my bed with will be nothing but another casualty in a long list of names, and I’ll be the one who handed her over.
The thought sits heavily in my chest as I head toward the barn. The air inside is cooler, thick with the smell of hay and the low rustle of horses shifting in their stalls. My boots scuff against the packed dirt, a steady rhythm that feels too loud in the hush.
When I reach Rusalka’s stall, she lifts her head from the feed bin and lets out a soft whicker. It’s a sound that shouldn’t mean anything, but it hits me all the same—like she recognizes me, like she’s glad I’m here. Her ears flick forward, eyes dark and steady, watching me with that quiet, unshakable focus horses seem to have.
I rest my arms on the top rail, studying her. She looks strong—sleek muscle under a clean coat, the proud set of her head, the way she plants her weight evenly. But I’ve been around long enough to know looks don’t win races. Heart does. And heart isn’t something you can always train into them.
If she loses, Vadim will see it as betrayal. The Karpins will see it as an insult. And me? I’ll see it as the moment I failed to protect the only thing in my life worth protecting.
I reach over the rail, running a hand down her neck. She leans into the touch, warm and solid beneath my palm. She trusts me. That might be the worst part—because I don’t know if I can keep that trust. Not without doing something that might damn us both.
Everything comes down to her. One race. One shot to prove I’m still the man Vadim thinks he owns. And if she’s not ready… I’m going to have to decide just how far I’ll go to make sure she crosses that finish line first.
20
MIRA
The evening air carries the scents of cooling earth and distant rain as I watch Renat work Rusalka through another practice start in the paddock. The mare's coat gleams copper in the fading light, her muscles bunching and releasing as she responds to his cues. What strikes me most is how different he looks now compared to those first awkward attempts weeks ago.
His hands are steady on the reins, no longer fighting her mouth or second-guessing every movement. When Rusalka shifts her weight, preparing to bolt forward, he reads the subtle change in her posture and adjusts his seat accordingly. The connection between them has become fluid, natural—the kind of partnership that can't be forced or faked.
"Easy," he murmurs as she prances sideways, eager to run. "Wait for it."
Rusalka's ears flick back toward his voice, and she settles into position. Her hindquarters coil beneath her, ready to explode forward the moment he gives the signal. The tension builds between them—horse and rider both wound tight, waiting for that perfect moment of release.
When Renat clicks his tongue and shifts his weight forward, Rusalka launches herself into a full gallop. Her hooves pound against the packed dirt, throwing up small clouds of dust as she stretches into her stride. Renat moves with her, his body following the rhythm of her gait instead of fighting it. They flow together around the paddock, a single unit of power and purpose.
I lean against the fence rail, watching them complete the circuit. The improvement is undeniable. Three weeks ago, Renat could barely stay in the saddle during a controlled walk. Now he's handling a thoroughbred at full speed with the confidence of someone who belongs there. The transformation should please me—it's what we've been working toward all this time.
Instead, it fills me with a complex mix of pride and dread. Every day that Renat gets better, every small victory in his horsemanship, brings us closer to the race that will determine everything. Eight days left. Eight days to perfect what we've built, to hope it's enough, to pray that the gamble I'm already planning won't destroy us all.
Renat slows Rusalka to a trot, then a walk, letting her breathing return to normal as they circle the paddock. When he guides her toward the gate where I'm standing, both horse and rider are breathing hard but satisfied. Sweat darkens Renat's shirt along his spine, and Rusalka's neck gleams with moisture.
"Better?" he asks, dismounting with more grace than he possessed a month ago.
"Much better." I unlatch the gate and step into the paddock. "She's not fighting you anymore. See how her ears stayed forward the whole time? That means she trusts you to make the decisions."
Renat runs his hand along Rusalka's neck, and she leans into the touch. "She's a good teacher. Patient with my mistakes."
"Horses usually are, if you listen to them." I reach up to check the mare's breathing, counting her respirations as they slow. "She's recovering faster too. Her conditioning is coming along."
We begin the cooldown walk, leading Rusalka around the paddock at a leisurely pace. The evening settles around us, bringing with it the peaceful rhythm that I've come to associate with these moments—the soft thud of hooves on dirt, the creak of saddle leather, the quiet satisfaction of work well done.
From my jacket pocket, I produce a red apple I'd saved from lunch. Rusalka's nostrils flare as she catches the scent, and her step quickens with anticipation. I slice the fruit in half with my pocket knife, offering one piece to her while handing the other to Renat.
"Spoiled," he says, but there's affection in his voice as Rusalka crunches her treat.
"She's earned it." I watch the mare chew, juice dripping from her lips. "A good horse deserves good treatment."
Renat takes a bite of his half, and for a moment we stand in comfortable silence. The sun has nearly disappeared behind the tree line, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Soon it will be full dark, and the ranch will settle into the quiet rhythms of night.
"You know," I say, choosing my words carefully, "she trusts you now. Really trusts you. That's not something you can fake or force—it has to be earned."
He goes very still beside me, the apple forgotten in his hand. When I glance at him, I see something raw cross his features, quickly suppressed but not quickly enough. The comment has hit deeper than I intended, touching on something vulnerable that he keeps carefully buried.
I keep my voice gentle. "Trust is the foundation of everything we do with horses. Without it, you're just a passenger hoping not to get thrown. With it, you become partners."
