Page 15 of Savage Reins
There's something hypnotic about watching him labor. Here, away from the threats and ultimatums, he looks almost normal. Almost like a man who might belong on a ranch instead of one sent to destroy it. And I could almost get lost in the beauty of God's creation when looking at him, but that single thought—that he could end my life with a blink of an eye—reins in my heart.
His crew—Anton, Boris, and Ivan—work around him with varying degrees of competence. They're city muscle trying to play at ranch work, and it shows in every clumsy movement. Anton attacks the fence posts like they've personally offended him. Boris never stops talking, his voice carrying across the paddock in an endless stream of complaints about the dust, the heat, the horses. Ivan treats the whole thing as a joke, doing more leaning on his shovel than actual digging.
"Think they know what they're doing out there?"Batyaasks, following my gaze.
"Post holes aren't complicated." I grab another bag of sweet feed, grain shifting inside with a whisper. "Even city boys can figure it out eventually."
But I keep watching anyway. Renat commands attention without trying, and I hate that I notice, hate that my eyes find him automatically when I look out that door. He's dangerous in ways I'm only beginning to understand—not just because of what he's capable of, but because of what he makes me feel when I'm not careful enough to look away.
The sound of Ivan's laughter cuts through the air, followed by his voice, loud and crude enough to carry. "Christ, wouldyou look at that ass bouncing around in there. Bet she'd bounce better on my lap than in that feed shed."
Heat floods my face, embarrassment and anger mixing into something that makes my hands shake. I set down the grain bag harder than necessary, the impact sending up a small cloud of dust.Batya's entire body goes rigid beside me, his weathered hands clenching into fists.
"Batya, no." I catch his arm before he can take a step toward the door. "We can't afford to make this worse."
"That bastard has no right?—"
"He has every right." The words taste bitter in my mouth, but they're true. "This is their land now, remember? We're just borrowing it."
Batya's jaw works, but he doesn't argue. We both know the score. We both know how precarious our position is. One wrong move, one moment of pride we can't afford, and everything ends.
But Renat has gone completely still out in the paddock. The post-hole digger drops from his hands, hitting the ground with a metallic clang that seems to echo in the sudden quiet. When he turns toward Ivan, there's murder written in every line of his body.
He doesn't say a word, doesn't announce his intentions or offer warnings. He just walks toward Ivan with that same controlled movement I've been watching, and when Ivan looks up with a stupid grin still plastered on his face, Renat's fist connects with his jaw.
The sound is sickening—bone meeting bone with the wet crack of cartilage breaking. Ivan drops like a stone, sprawling in the dust with his arms flung wide and blood streaming from his nose. He blinks up at the darkening sky with the dazed expression of a man who just learned the difference between joking and consequences.
"Watch your mouth," Renat growls, "or I'll do more than watch it for you."
I press my lips together to keep from making a sound—part laughter, part something darker that I don't want to examine too closely. Satisfaction, maybe. Or vindication. Ivan got exactly what he deserved, and watching it happen sends a thrill through me that I probably shouldn't enjoy as much as I do.
When I look up, Renat's eyes find mine across the distance between us. There's something in his gaze that makes my breath catch in my throat—possessive and territorial and raw enough to make my pulse stutter. He's looking at me the way a man looks at something he's claimed, and I'm not sure whether I want to thank him or run from the intensity of it.
Anton and Boris haul Ivan to his feet, brushing mud from his jacket and shooting dark looks at their boss. But they don't argue. They know better than to question Renat when he's made his position this clear.
The storm arrives faster than I expected. In less than forty minutes, the sky has turned the color of old bruises, and fat raindrops spatter against the barn roof in an irregular rhythm that will soon become a deluge. I make my rounds through the stables, checking each horse, ensuring they have enough hay and fresh water to weather the storm in comfort.
The mare in stall twelve paces restlessly, her ears flicking at every rumble of thunder. I stroke her neck, murmuring nonsense until she settles against my palm. The old gelding next door stamps his feet but stays calm—twenty years on this land have taught him that storms pass.
Footsteps echo behind me in the barn aisle, and I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Renat moves with a particular rhythm that I've learned to recognize, and while I sometimes find his presence intimidating or annoying, this time, I'm not so put off. He did defend me to his own men earlier.
"You don't need to be out here," I say without looking back.
"Neither do you."
"This is my job."
"In a thunderstorm?"
I turn to face him then, and the sight of him stops my breath for a moment. Rain has darkened his hair to black, and droplets cling to his thick eyelashes. His shirt is soaked through, clinging to the broad planes of his chest, and there's something about seeing him disheveled that makes my mouth go dry.
"These horses have been through worse storms than this," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, "but they still need checking on."
He nods, understanding flickering in those dark green eyes. "My father kept horses when I was young. Before everything went to hell."
The admission surprises me. I can't picture Renat as a child, can't imagine him small and innocent enough to pet horses and dream of anything other than violence. But there's something in his voice that tells me he's not lying.
"What happened to them?"
