Page 31 of Savage Reins
"Morning," she says without looking up. "How are your ribs?"
"Fine."
She glances at me then, eyebrows raised. "That's not what you said when you tried to roll over an hour ago."
Heat creeps up my neck. Even injured and half-asleep, I'd reached for her, pulled her against me like she belonged there. "I said I'm fine."
"Right." She straightens, dusting her hands on her jeans. "She looks good this morning. Her cannon bones are cool, no swelling in the tendons. I think we can start adding distance to her workouts next week."
"We need to push harder than that," I say, and my words are edged with the frustration of Vadim's ultimatum. Mira stops mid-motion, her hand frozen on the stall door latch.
"What do you mean?"
"We have to cut the conditioning phase short and move to race preparation."
She turns to face me fully, gray-blue eyes searching my face. "Renat, that's not how training works. You can't just skip steps because you're impatient."
"I'm not impatient. I'm realistic."
"You're something, but it's not realistic." She opens the stall door and leads Rusalka out. "This horse has been out of training for months. Her fitness base isn't solid enough for intensive work."
"She looks fine to me," I tell her, following. Vadim's pressure won't let up.
"She looks fine because I've been building her up slowly. Properly." Mira cross-ties the horse in the aisle and reaches for her saddle. "Push too hard, too fast, and she'll break down. Bow a tendon, chip a bone, strain something that won't heal in time for the race."
The logic is sound, but logic doesn't change Vadim's deadline, doesn't alter the fact that the Karpins want progress they can see and measure. I watch Mira settle the saddle pad on Rusalka's back like she's done this a million times. She lifts the saddle, settling it carefully on the horse's back. "You can't force ahorse to be ready any more than you can force trust. They work on their own timeline, not yours."
I hear the double meaning in them, see the way her eyes flick to mine as she speaks. She's not just talking about the horse. She's talking about us. About the way she's handled me from the beginning—patient, steady, building trust one careful step at a time. She's talking about how her own mind is warring over her desire for me when she knows how volatile my life is.
"Mind your lane," I snap, harsher than necessary. "Just train the horse."
Her hands freeze on the girth buckle. For a moment, the barn falls silent except for Rusalka’s breathing and the distant sound of someone working in the feed shed. When Mira looks up, her face has gone carefully blank.
"My lane?" Her voice is quiet, dangerous. "This is my ranch. My horse. My lane is whatever I say it is."
"Not anymore," I grumble, not at all intending to anger her, but the inky way she stares up at me is nothing short of visceral rage.
She stares at me for a long moment, then drops the saddle blanket onto the ground and walks away. Her boots scrape against the concrete floor, and she doesn't look back.
I stand alone in the barn aisle, watching her disappear through the door. Rusalka turns her head to look at me, ears pricked forward with curiosity. Her dark eyes are calm, trusting. She doesn't understand that her life—and Mira's—depends on how fast she can run in three weeks' time.
The silence lingers until I can't stand it anymore. I follow Mira outside, but she's already halfway to the house, shoulders rigid with anger. Part of me wants to call after her, to explain about Vadim and the Karpins and the impossible position we're in. But explanations won't change the timeline, won't make the training go faster or the horse stronger.
Instead, I return to the barn and begin saddling the horse myself. She stands patiently while I work, occasionally turning to sniff at my hands or nudge my shoulder. The leather is familiar under my fingers, the routine of preparing for a ride soothing despite everything else.
But as I tighten the girth, I can't shake the image of Mira's face when I told her to mind her lane. The hurt that flickered through her eyes before she shuttered her expression. The careful way she dropped the saddle blanket instead of throwing it, maintaining control even in anger.
I lead Rusalka out of the barn and toward the paddock. The morning sun has burned off the frost, leaving the air crisp and clear. Perfect weather for riding. Perfect weather for pushing boundaries and testing limits.
But as I swing up into the saddle, all I can think about is the excruciating ache building in my chest. The knowledge that if this fails—if the horse isn't ready, if the race goes wrong, if Vadim decides I've become a liability—I'll lose more than just a job.
I'll lose her. And I may lose my own life too.
12
MIRA
Istride out of the barn with my hands clenched into fists, Renat's words still ringing in my ears.Mind your lane. The phrase burns in my chest, leaving me hot and bitter. I make it halfway across the yard before I have to stop and breathe. Anger makes my vision blur at the edges.
