Page 62 of Savage Reins
"I'm guaranteeing it anyway."
Vadim's expression shifts from anger to something darker. Something calculating. "What makes you so certain?" He straightens his tie and narrows his eyes at me.
"Because I've seen her run. Because she's faster than anything the competition can field. Because losing isn't an option."
"And if you're wrong?" Vadim's not asking about the horse anymore. He's asking about consequences. About what happens when guarantees fail and promises turn to ash.
"I'm not wrong," I say.
"But if you are?"
I meet his eyes and give him the only answer I have. "Then you do what you have to do."
Vadim nods slowly, as if I've confirmed something he already knew. "The race is in four days."
"I know."
"Four days to produce a miracle."
"I know," I repeat, and it's like signing my death warrant.
"And if that miracle doesn't happen, the Karpins get their pound of flesh. Starting with you."
I don't flinch, don't look away. "I understand."
"Do you? Because I'm not talking about exile or demotion or some other slap on the wrist. I'm talking about a bullet in your skull and a shallow grave next to your new friends, the Petrovs."
The threat is designed to terrify me and make me run away scared, plead for my life, cower before him like a sniveling baby, and it doesn't.
Instead, it crystallizes something I've been avoiding since this whole mess began.
"Fine," I say.
"Fine?"
"Four days. The horse wins, or we all die together."
Vadim blinks, as if he expected me to crack under pressure. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
"This is about the girl."
It's not a question, so I don't answer. But something in my expression must confirm his suspicion, because his mouth twists into a bitter smile.
"Christ, Renat. I always knew you were a romantic under all that muscle, but I never thought you'd be stupid enough to die for it."
"Maybe I won't have to."
"Maybe you will."
He walks to the windows again, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the first hints of dusk are creeping across the horizon, painting the empty track in shades of gold and amber.
"Four days," he says without turning around.
"Four days," I agree.
"And if the horse loses, I personally put the bullet in your brain."
