Page 69 of Savage Reins
Relief and guilt war in my chest as I outline the plan. A small electrical fire in one of the transport trailers—something that would look accidental but create enough smoke and confusion to divert attention. He knows people who work the loading crews, people who might be willing to help for the right price.
"It has to happen during the registration check," I emphasize. "Right when they're verifying identification tags. The timing has to be perfect… I have to do it myself."
"And if it goes wrong? If they figure out what we've done?"
I don't answer immediately, because the truth is too dark to speak aloud. If we're caught, if our deception is discovered, wewon't live long enough to face trial. Vadim Vetrov doesn't forgive failure, and he certainly doesn't forgive fraud that embarrasses his family in front of the entire racing community.
"Then we run," I lie. "As far and fast as we can."
Batyasees through the deception, but he doesn't call me on it. Instead, he pulls me into a hug that smells like sawdust and old tobacco and twenty years of broken dreams.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against my hair. "I'm sorry I failed you so badly that this is where we've ended up."
"You didn't fail me,Batya. The world failed us." I hug him back, memorizing the feeling of his arms around me. "But we're going to win anyway. We're going to take everything they tried to destroy and make it ours."
When we break apart, his eyes are bright with tears he refuses to shed. "Your mother would be proud of you. Terrified, but proud."
The mention of Mama conjures grief I haven't felt in years, and for a moment I can almost smell her perfume, hear her laugh echoing through the barn. She would've hated what I've become, what I'm about to do. But she would've understood why.
"She would have told us to fight," I say. "To never let them break us completely."
"Then we fight."
Outside, a vehicle passes—probably Renat leaving for whatever pre-race preparations his family demands. The sound of the engine fading into distance reminds me that time is running out, that in a few hours all our careful planning will either save us or destroy us completely.
I look around the barn one more time, taking in details that might be lost to fire by evening—the way morning light filters through dusty windows, the patient breathing of horseswho trust us to protect them, the smells of hay and leather and everything that makes this place home.
Then I square my shoulders and walk toward Rusalka's stall, ready to prepare her for the most important race of both our lives. Ready to bet everything on speed and luck and the desperate hope that sometimes the underdog actually wins.
Today, we find out if love and determination can overcome breeding and money and all the advantages that have always belonged to people who aren't us.
Today, we discover whether criminals and outcasts can steal victory from those who think they own it by right.
Today, everything changes.
27
RENAT
The is a concrete necropolis where dreams come to rot. Blood has soaked these grounds for decades—not always human blood, but blood, nonetheless. Horses with shattered legs dragged behind barriers while crowds cheer. Jockeys crushed beneath hooves, their bones ground into the dirt that spectators walk across without thought. The stench of death permeates this place, masked by expensive cologne and fresh paint but never truly gone.
I pull my collar higher against the October wind that carries whispers of the dead. Every face in this crowd belongs to a vulture waiting to feast on failure. They smile with teeth stained by other people's misery, their laughter sharp as breaking glass. The betting windows devour hopes and spit out despair, an endless cycle of consumption that feeds on human weakness.
Today, I walk among them as both predator and prey, knowing that before the sun sets, my blood might join the catalog of violence written in this earth.
The stable complex looms ahead, a labyrinth of concrete and steel where thoroughbreds wait to be sacrificed on the altar of entertainment. The air tastes of fear—animal and humanmingled into something toxic. Officials scurry between stalls with clipboards and nervous energy, their bright yellow vests making them look like warning signs.
Danger.
Caution.
Death ahead.
Security guards lean against walls, assault rifles visible beneath their jackets. They watch everything with the dead eyes of men who have killed before and will kill again without hesitation. Their presence transforms this place from a sporting venue into a battlefield, where the wrong word or gesture can end in bullets and screaming. It's not always like this, but today's stakes have raised the warning flags.
I've been in war zones that felt safer.
Thunder's Shadow occupies the prime stall, his coat gleaming obsidian in the artificial light. This animal was engineered for destruction—not malicious destruction, but the annihilation of competition. Every line of his body speaks of generations spent breeding out weakness, breeding in the kind of supernatural speed that turns horse racing from sport into slaughter. His handlers watch him with the reverence reserved for weapons of mass destruction.
