Page 3 of Savage Reins
2
MIRA
Renat's fingers close around my wrist and drag me from the stall. His grip burns through my jacket sleeve, but I don't resist. Fighting him now would be suicide.
"Talk," he says, releasing me.
I rub circulation back into my arm and meet his eyes. Dark green, calculating. This man kills for a living, and right now, I'm his assignment.
"You want to know why you shouldn't finish this tonight instead of waiting two days."
"That's right."
"Because murder doesn't solve your real problem. The Karpins still want their money. Burning down the ranch doesn't pay them back—it just makes the Vetrovs look weak."
His expression doesn't change, but he's listening.
"Your boss wants our land for the racetrack expansion," I continue. "But land covered in blood raises questions. The racing commission investigates. Other families start wondering if the Vetrovs can handle business without resorting to arson."
"And you think one horse changes that?"
"I think a winning horse changes everything."
I move toward the barn's rear exit. His footsteps follow behind me on the wooden floor. At the door, I pause.
"The injury to Vetrova's Fire wasn't negligence. Your jockey caused it. Leonid Vasiliev pushed the horse past its limits and ignored every warning sign."
"Vasiliev's ridden professionally for fifteen years."
"Vasiliev's been breaking horses for fifteen years. There's a difference." I glare at him, and he scowls.
Renat's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. Maybe he knows I'm right. Maybe he's seen Vasiliev work before.
"I told him three times during training that the horse was favoring his left foreleg," I say. "He called me paranoid. Said I didn't understand racing."
"Why didn't you refuse to continue?"
"With what leverage? Your family holds half our debt papers. We needed that training contract to keep the electricity on."
I push through the door into the afternoon sun. The back pasture spreads before us, brown grass bending in the wind. Near the far fence, a dark bay mare grazes alone.
"There…" I point toward the horse. "That's Rusalka."
"Water spirit horse. Poetic."
"She's fast in shallow water and deadly in the deep."
We cross the field, and I watch Renat study the mare. His eyes move from her hooves to her shoulders to the way she carries her head. He knows horses—that's good. It means he'll understand what I'm about to tell him.
"Three years old," I say as we approach the fence. "Sired by Northern Storm out of Midnight's Daughter. Both parents were winners. Northern Storm took the Moscow Derby in 2019."
"Training history?"
"Basic groundwork. Halter, lead, light lunging. She's never carried a rider, but she's ready. I've worked with her since she was six months old."
Rusalka lifts her head as we reach the fence, dark bay coat with white markings on her face and legs. When she approaches, I see intelligence in her brown eyes. This horse wants to run—she's waiting for someone to give her the chance.
"Small," Renat observes.
