Page 33 of Savage Reins
We sit in silence for a moment, watching Renat work Rusalka harder than he should be. That hitch is gone, but I know she's not fully healed.
"Do you remember when you were nine?"Batya's voice is softer now, tinged with memory. "When Firecracker colicked?"
My chest aches at the mention of our prize colt. He'd been my favorite, a bay with white markings who would nicker whenever he saw me coming. The night he colicked, nothing the veterinarian did could save him.
"You wanted to sleep in the barn that night,"Batyacontinues. "Said you needed to be there in case he came back."
I remember. The way the empty stall felt like a wound in the barn's heart. The way I'd stood there with a brush in my hands, running the bristles along the walls where Firecracker used to stand. As if the motion could somehow call him back from wherever horses go when their bodies fail them.
"You stayed up all night brushing those stall walls," he says quietly. "Like you could brush the emptiness away. Like if you just worked hard enough, cared deep enough, you could fix what was already gone."
The memory burns in my chest. I'd been so certain that love and effort could overcome death, that wanting something badly enough would make it true.
"I was a child," I whisper.
"Were you? Or were you just doing what you always do—trying to save something that might be beyond saving?"
His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and steady through my flannel shirt. The gesture is achingly familiar, the same comfort he offered that night nine years ago when I finally accepted that Firecracker wasn't coming back.
"I'm proud of you, Mira," he says quietly. "Proud of the woman you've become, the way you fight for what's right. But Iwon't watch you trade your future for a man who might be gone by month's end."
The words settle in my stomach with the weight of truth I don't want to acknowledge. I lean into his side for a moment, drawing comfort from his solidity the way I did as a child when the world felt too big and harsh.
"He's not—" I start, then stop. Because what can I say? That Renat is different? That he cares about more than just his orders? The evidence suggests otherwise, especially after this morning's confrontation.
"Just remember what I said,"Batyamurmurs against my hair.
I straighten and climb down from the fence, brushing dirt from my jeans. "I should get to work. Rusalka needs training."
"Does she? Or do you need the distraction?"
The question hits too close to home. I've always used horses as my escape, losing myself in their training when human relationships became too complicated or painful. But this time feels different. This time, the complications follow me even into the round pen.
"Both, probably," I admit.
Batyanods, understanding. "Just be careful,malen'kaya. With the horse and with yourself."
I head back toward the barn, needing something to occupy my hands, even if there’s nothing left this morning to fix. The sun’s higher now, burning off the chill from the grass. My boots leave wet prints on the stable floor as I step inside.
I hang the coil of fencingBatyaleft behind and wipe my hands on a rag, but I don’t go far. The tools don’t need sorting. The feed’s already measured. The only thing left is silence—and that doesn’t settle easily in my chest.
But it doesn’t last long.
Rusalka’s hooves clatter on the hard-packed earth outside, followed by the even pace of Renat’s boots. I move to the edge of the aisle just in time to see him leading her in, lathered from a full workout. Her chest rises fast, flanks damp, ears twitching as she glances toward me, then back to him.
Renat doesn’t say a word. He ties her off in the cross-ties, checks her legs, and reaches for a sweat scraper. His motions are efficient but not rushed, and even with the hitch gone from her gait, I can see how tight she still is through the back. She’s holding tension she didn’t have two days ago.
He drags the scraper down her side, and she flinches. He pauses, adjusts his grip, and keeps going.
I stay where I am, half in shadow, arms crossed under my ribs.
He knows I’m watching. That much is clear in the way his shoulders shift, the way his head stays down as he works. But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to explain himself or justify the morning. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he doesn’t care.
My jaw locks tight as I watch him move around the mare, drying her coat with methodical strokes. There’s blood on his shirt sleeve again—old or new, I can’t tell—but it’s a reminder of last night and of everythingBatyasaid afterward.
Don’t trade your future for a man who might be gone by month’s end.
Renat unclips the cross-ties and walks Rusalka down the aisle toward her stall. As he passes, the distance between us narrows to just a few feet. He doesn’t glance my way, but I feel the tension in his body, feel the weight of everything that should be said but won’t be.
