Page 73 of Savage Reins
Batyasqueezes my hand tighter. "She knows what she's born for."
The horses load into the starting gate one by one. Each slam of metal against metal sends electricity through the air. The crowd falls into that peculiar hush that comes before the excitement—breath held, hearts racing, everything balanced on a knife's edge.
Gate handlers move efficiently around the horses, checking equipment, calming nervous animals. Steam rises from the thoroughbreds' nostrils in the cooler morning air. Muscles bunch and release beneath their glossy coats as they settle into position.
I scan the stands until I find Renat again. Even from this distance, I can see the tension radiating from their cluster. Vadim gestures toward the horses, pointing specifically at the one he believes is Thunder's Shadow. It makes my stomach churn.
The announcer's voice crackles over the speaker system. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have all horses loaded and ready."
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. Nine horses loaded, including the two that will determine whether I live or die. The announcer's voice builds to a crescendo, but the words blur together. All I hear is my own shallow, quick breathing.
"And they're off!"
The gates explode open and the horses surge forward in a thunder of hooves against dirt. The pack stretches out immediately, some horses shooting to the front while others settle into trailing positions.
Thunder's Shadow takes the early lead, exactly as expected. Her jockey keeps her wide around the first turn, avoiding the crush of bodies fighting for position along the rail. The crowd erupts as she pulls ahead by two lengths—it makes my heart sink to see Renat look excited. She's wearing Rusalka's number, so it looks like Rusalka is winning.
My eyes track a different horse entirely.
Rusalka—wearing the wrong number—runs in fourth position, tucked behind the leaders with room to move. Her jockey keeps her collected, not asking for speed yet. Waiting. She moves with deadly grace through the pack, picking her spots, conserving energy for the stretch run.
The first quarter-mile goes in fast time. Several horses already show signs of strain, their smooth gaits becoming labored. But the leaders press on, none willing to give an inch.
"She's too far back,"Batyamutters quietly.
"No." I shake my head, never taking my eyes off her. "She's exactly where she needs to be."
The field rounds the clubhouse turn as a single organism, hooves drumming against the track in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. Dust kicks up in brown clouds, obscuring the backrunners. The announcer calls positions, but his voice fades into background noise.
As they approach the backstretch, Thunder's Shadow maintains her advantage, but it's shrinking. Her jockey glances back, assessing the threats behind him. The gesture shows uncertainty, doubt creeping in as the race unfolds.
Rusalka moves closer to the leaders. Still patient, still waiting, but ready to strike when the moment comes. Her jockey's hands remain quiet on the reins, letting her find her rhythm naturally.
The field rounds the far turn as the pace quickens again. Jockeys begin making their moves, asking their mounts for the speed they've been saving. The crowd noise swells as horses bunch together in the stretch.
And then my blood runs cold as Rusalka shifts to the outside. Her jockey's hands move against her neck, asking for more. She responds immediately, lengthening her stride, closing ground fast. Fourth becomes third. Third becomes second.
The crowd noise swells to a roar, but I can barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. She's moving perfectly, timing her run to perfection. This is what she was born for and I underestimated her.
Thunder's Shadow fights to maintain the lead as the field bears down on her. Her jockey goes to the whip early, asking for everything the horse has left. But the favorite is tiring, her smooth stride beginning to shorten. I feel my heart swelling as pride in my horse surges, and panic floods me at the same time.
Rusalka is going to win this. Actually win. And she's wearing the wrong fucking number.
The favorite's jockey goes to the whip again. Thunder's Shadow responds gamely, fighting to maintain his advantage. But Rusalka runs with cold fury. She knows she belongs here.She knows she's faster, stronger, better than every horse on this track.
With a hundred yards to go, she takes the lead.
The crowd explodes. People leap from their seats, programs flying through the air, voices raised in savage celebration. The noise becomes deafening, a wall of sound that seems to push the horses toward the finish line.
But their cheers feel hollow in my chest because they're cheering for the wrong reason. They think they're watching Thunder's Shadow pull away to victory. They have no idea they're watching my mare destroy their expectations under a stolen name.
She hits the wire three lengths clear of the field. Victory carved in copper and sweat, running under a number that doesn't belong to her.
My knees buckle.Batyacatches my arm, steadying me against the rail, but I can barely feel his touch. The world tilts sideways as the implications crash over me in waves.
Rusalka won. But Thunder's Shadow—the real Thunder's Shadow—finished third.
Which means the horse running under Renat's number just lost.
