Page 12 of Savage Reins
"I don't know. She was moving well, then suddenly exploded."
"Pain response?"
"Maybe. Or she saw something that frightened her."
Renat's eyes narrow as he scans the arena perimeter. "What kind of something?"
"Could be anything. A bird, a shadow, movement in the barn. Young horses spook easily."
But even as I say the words, I know they sound hollow. Rusalka isn't a spooky horse. In all the months I've worked with her, she's never reacted violently to external stimuli. This was different—more visceral, more desperate.
"We need to examine her thoroughly," I say. "If she's injured, we need to know now."
"Agreed."
Renat releases my arms but stays close as we walk toward the barn. I'm grateful for his presence, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because he helped me when I fell. Maybe it's becausehe showed genuine concern for my welfare. Or maybe it's because I'm starting to see cracks in the armor he wears around his emotions.
Whatever the reason, something has shifted between us in the space of a few minutes. The man who pulled me to my feet might be the same one who's been ordered to kill me, but in that moment of vulnerability, I saw something else. Something I might be able to use if I read the situation correctly.
Papa has Rusalka cross-tied in the barn aisle when we arrive. The mare stands quietly now, but I can see white around her eyes and feel the tension radiating from her body. She's scared, and scared horses make poor racehorses.
"Let me check her legs," I say, running my hands along her cannon bones and fetlocks. "That bucking fit was too violent to be random."
Papa holds her head while I examine each leg systematically. Everything feels normal until I reach her left hind hoof. When I pick it up and apply pressure to the sole, Rusalka flinches and tries to pull away.
"Here." I point to a dark spot near the heel of her hoof. "Stone bruise. Deep one, by the way she's reacting."
Renat leans in to examine the area. His knowledge of horses shows in the way he assesses the problem, noting the extent of the bruising and its likely impact on her performance.
"Treatable?" he asks.
"Easily. Soaking, padding, anti-inflammatory treatment. A few days of rest and she'll be sound again."
"How many days?"
The question carries weight beyond its simple words. Every day we lose to injury or equipment problems brings us closer to the deadline that will end with our deaths.
"Three days minimum. Maybe five if we want to be completely safe."
Renat processes this information without visible emotion, but I can see him calculating the impact on our timeline. Twenty-six days has just become twenty-one, maybe nineteen. The margin for error continues to shrink.
"Fix it," he says finally. "Whatever it takes."
I nod and begin gathering supplies for Rusalka's treatment. As I work, I'm aware of Renat watching every movement, cataloging every detail. But his attention doesn't feel predatory anymore. Instead, it feels protective, as if he's genuinely invested in our success.
The realization opens possibilities I hadn't considered before. If Renat cares about more than just following orders, if he's capable of seeing me as something other than an obstacle to be removed, then maybe I have more leverage than I thought.
Maybe the man who saved my life is also the one I can bend to my will, if I play this right.
5
RENAT
The darkness before dawn feels as heavy as concrete when I wake. My watch reads four thirty, but sleep won't return. Too many thoughts crowd my head—Vadim's threats, the dwindling timeline, the way Mira felt in my hands when I pulled her from the dirt two days ago. I dress and step outside, where the cold air cuts through my jacket and settles into my bones.
Movement near the round pen catches my attention. A shadow leads another shadow in slow circles, their forms barely visible against the gray pre-dawn sky. I know without looking closer that it's Mira walking Rusalka. The woman never stops. Even when her body should be demanding rest, she's out here working, pushing herself past reasonable limits because unreasonable limits are all she has left.
I approach quietly, my boots silent on the frost-covered ground. Mira doesn't acknowledge my presence, but I know she's aware of me. Her shoulders carry the kind of tension that comes from constant vigilance, the knowledge that death walks three steps behind her at all times.
