Page 24 of Savage Reins
"Let's see how tough you are without your crew to back you up."
He swings first—a lazy right hook aimed at my jaw. I duck under it and drive my elbow into his ribs. He doubles over, gasping, and I bring my knee up into his face. Blood sprays from his nose as he staggers backward.
The scarred man comes at me from behind with a crowbar, but I hear his footsteps and spin away. The metal catches my shoulder instead of my skull, sending fire down my arm. I grab his wrist and twist until he drops the weapon, then headbutt him in the mouth. His teeth cut my forehead, but he goes down hard.
Gold-tooth has a knife now, the blade gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the barn door. He holds it low, professional grip, moving in a crouch. I back toward the mare's stall, looking for room to maneuver.
"You should have stayed out of family business," he snarls.
"Should have minded your own."
He lunges forward, knife aimed at my ribs. I twist away and grab his knife hand, slamming it against the stall door. The blade skitters across the concrete and before he can recover, I drive my fist into his kidney. He screams and drops to his knees.
The tall one has recovered enough to charge me, blood streaming from his broken nose. He tackles me around the waist, driving me backward into the barn wall. My head snaps back against the wood, stars exploding across my vision, and his hands find my throat.
I hook my fingers into his eye sockets and squeeze. He releases my throat with a howl of pain, stumbling away withhands pressed to his face. I push off the wall and catch him with an uppercut that lifts him off his feet. He hits the ground and doesn't get up.
The scarred man has found the crowbar again. He swings it at my head, but I duck and the metal crashes into the wall where my skull was a moment before. Splinters of wood fly. I grab a pitchfork from a nail on the wall and thrust the tines toward his chest. He jumps back, but not fast enough. The points tear through his jacket and into the meat of his shoulder.
He screams and drops the crowbar, clutching the wounds. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and thick. I pull the pitchfork free and advance on him, tines aimed at his throat.
"Tell Dima if he wants collateral, he can come get it himself."
The man nods frantically, backing toward the door. The other two are stirring—gold-tooth spitting blood, the tall one groaning and rolling onto his side. All three of them are marked now, faces and bodies carrying evidence of what happens when Karpins trespass on Vetrov business.
"This isn't over," gold-tooth wheezes, struggling to his feet.
"Yes, it is. Unless you want to leave here in pieces."
The scarred man helps his companions stand. They lean on each other, moving slowly toward the door. Blood drips from their wounds onto the barn floor, leaving a trail of red spots on the concrete.
"Dima will hear about this," the tall one mutters through swollen lips.
"Tell him I'm ready for whatever he sends my way, but he'll be sorry."
They stumble out of the barn and pile into their truck. The engine roars to life, and they tear out of the yard, throwing gravel and dust. I watch until their taillights disappear down the drive.
The mare stands pressed against the back of her stall, eyes rolled white with fear. I move slowly toward her, hands extended, voice low and soothing.
"Easy, girl. It's over."
Rusalka calms gradually, nostrils still flaring but no longer pressed against the wall. I check her for injuries, running my hands down her legs and across her flanks. She's unharmed, but the terror lingers in her movements.
My shoulder throbs where the crowbar caught me, and blood drips from the cut on my forehead. The taste of copper fills my mouth, and when I breathe too deeply, my ribs protest with sharp stabs of pain. But I'm alive, and the mare is safe.
"Renat!"
Mira's voice cuts through the barn from somewhere behind me. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, face pale with shock. Her eyes take in the blood on the floor, the overturned bucket, the pitchfork still clutched in my hand.
"What happened? I heard shouting and—" She stops, seeing the blood on my face and shirt. "Oh, God, you're hurt."
I set the pitchfork against the wall and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The cut isn't deep, but head wounds bleed freely. My shirt is soaked through with sweat and blood.
"Karpins," I say simply.
Her gaze moves to the red spots on the concrete floor, the dent in the wall where the crowbar hit. "How many?"
"Three."
