Page 50 of Savage Reins
Rusalka nudges his shoulder, looking for more apples, and he absently offers her the rest. I can see him processing what I've said, turning it over in his mind. For someone who's spent years having his worth measured by his capacity for violence, the idea that he's earned something through gentleness and patience clearly carries weight.
"Partnership," he repeats, as if testing the word.
"Partnership." I nod. "The best riders aren't the ones who dominate their horses—they're the ones who find that perfect balance between leading and following. You've found that with her."
We complete another circuit of the paddock and when Rusalka's breathing has returned to normal and her coat has begun to cool, we head toward the barn to remove her tack and brush her down. The familiar routine of caring for a horse after exercise grounds me, provides structure in a world that seems increasingly uncertain.
As we work, I find myself studying Renat's face in the dim light of the barn. The harsh angles of his features have softened over these past weeks, and there's a calmness about him now that wasn't there when he first arrived. Being around the horses has changed him in ways that go beyond riding technique. They've given him something he didn't know he was looking for—a sense of purpose that doesn't involve destruction.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes the deception I'm already planning feel like a betrayal. I squirm uneasily and sigh, and he looks up at me as he removes Rusalka's bridle. "Why don't you get rest? I'm thinking of turning in soon myself.”
I nod uncomfortably but I have no intention of resting. I'm too antsy, too nervous with anxious energy. "Sure…" I tell him, patting his hand before walking out of the barn toward the house.
An hour later, I'm in the kitchen gathering supplies for what I hope will be a peaceful evening under the stars. The bottle of wine I pull from the cabinet is nothing special—a red blendBatyabought months ago and never opened—but it will serve its purpose. The blanket I retrieve from the linen closet is thick wool, warm enough for a chilly night but not so heavy that it will be awkward to carry.
Batyaappears in the doorway as I'm checking the wine glasses for cracks, his presence announced by the familiar creak of the floorboards under his weight. He's moved more slowly these past weeks, the stress and sleepless nights taking their toll on his already weakened body. When I look up at him, I see new lines around his eyes, deeper grooves bracketing his mouth.
"Going somewhere?" he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
"Just out to the pasture. Thought I'd do some stargazing." I hold up the wine bottle. "Maybe relax for once."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of unspoken questions in his gaze. When he finally speaks, he sounds like he's preparing for me to blow up. "How far are you willing to go with him, Mira?"
I set the wine bottle down on the counter, buying time by checking the cork, examining the label, doing anything to avoid meeting his eyes. I wasn’t even intending to invite Renat out there, but I know whatBatyasaw the other day before he left the porch and Renat had his way with me in the barn.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean." His voice is gentle but insistent. "That boy came here to destroy us. Now you're sharing drinks and taking evening walks and looking at him like he hung the moon. So I'll ask again—how far are you willing to go?"
I busy myself with folding the blanket, creasing the edges with unnecessary care. The truth is, I don't have an answerto his question. Every rational part of my brain knows that Renat is dangerous, potentially catastrophic. His loyalties are divided, his position precarious. Caring about him could destroy everything I've worked to save.
But rationality has very little to do with the way my heart speeds up when he smiles, or the sense of safety I feel when he's near, or the growing certainty that whatever is building between us might be the only thing strong enough to get us through what's coming.
"I don't have an answer," I finally admit, still not looking at him.
"Are you falling for him?"
The direct question cuts through all my careful deflections, demanding honesty I'm not sure I'm ready to give. I pause in my folding, hands stilling on the soft wool. When I speak, my voice comes out small and rigid.
"Maybe." I shrug, the gesture feeling inadequate. "All I know is that we have eight days left. Eight days to make this work, to save the ranch, to keep everything from falling apart. And maybe—maybe whatever this is between us will be strong enough to help us survive it."
Batyais quiet for a long time, absorbing my words. When he finally moves, it's to cross the kitchen and place his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. His touch is warm and familiar, carrying the comfort of a thousand similar moments throughout my childhood.
"You're gambling with more than just money now," he says quietly. "You understand that, don't you? You're gambling with your heart."
"I know." The admission comes out as barely more than a whisper.
He searches my face, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. When he seems satisfied with whatever he findsthere, he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head—the same gesture of affection he's used since I was small enough to sit on his lap.
"Be careful, little star," he murmurs against my hair. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
It's a lie, and we both know it. There's no way to be careful in a situation this volatile, no safe path through the choices ahead of us. But sometimes the people who love us need to hear the comforting fiction more than they need the brutal truth.
He releases me with a sigh, stepping back to let me finish gathering my things. As I head toward the door, wine and blanket in hand, he calls after me.
"Mira?"
