Page 72 of Savage Reins
"Twenty minutes. Maybe less if they finish the documentation review quickly."
Twenty minutes to live or die. Twenty minutes for Mira's deception to hold or crumble. Twenty minutes for the Karpins to decide whether they prefer bullets or betting slips.
The crowd builds toward fever pitch, their voices rising to a roar that makes rational thought nearly impossible. They sense blood coming, sense that today's entertainment will exceed their darkest expectations. Their excitement feeds on itself, growing stronger, more ravenous, until the entire complex vibrates with barely contained bloodlust.
This place transforms people into monsters. Turns civilized human beings into creatures that thirst for suffering, for the kind of spectacular destruction that makes headlines and haunts dreams.
But some of us were monsters long before we arrived here.
And sometimes, monsters fall in love.
"Whatever happens," I tell Vadim, my voice barely audible above the crowd noise, "I'm not letting you kill her.”
"Even if it means I kill you?" he asks, and I see the murder in his expression.
The staging area buzzes with final preparations as horses and riders make their way toward the track. Officials check and recheck equipment, documentation, medications. Security personnel maintain their positions, weapons ready, eyes scanning for threats that multiply with each passing minute.
And somewhere in that maze of concrete and steel and human ambition, Mira prepares to risk everything on a gamble that shouldn't work against opponents who were born to win.
Today, we discover whether love can triumph over breeding, money, and all the advantages that have always belonged to people who aren't us.
Today, everything dies.
28
MIRA
Istand at the rail near the track, watching as the horses are led onto the track. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready to snap. Spectators fill the concrete stands, and sweat pools at the base of my neck—nerves frazzled and ready for this race to be over.
Rusalka moves among the field of thoroughbreds, her chestnut coat gleaming under the harsh light. The blaze down her face mirrors Thunder's Shadow almost perfectly—white against rich copper, identical in every way that counts. My throat burns as I watch the race official approach her, clipboard in hand. He checks the number pinned to her blanket. Nods. Marks his sheet.
The number that should belong to Thunder's Shadow.
"Breathe,zvezdochka."Batya's voice comes from beside me, as rough and strained as I feel. His hand finds mine on the rail and give it a pat, though his hand shakes too. "It will work."
But his words carry no conviction. His face has gone gray, aged a decade in the past week. The barn fire took more than wood and hay—it carved hollows beneath his eyes, turned hishair whiter at the temples. He knows what we've done. What we're risking.
Bodies press against the rail on either side of us, voices raised in anticipation. The smell of cigarettes mingles with horse sweat and track dust. Greasy foods served at the concessions stand tempt my stomach, but I can't think of eating. Money changes hands as last-minute bets are placed. And everywhere I look, women in fancy hats have smiling faces.
"Track clear!" The announcer's voice booms across the grounds, distorted by static. "Jockeys up!"
My pulse hammers against my ribs. Across the staging area, I catch sight of Renat leaning against a concrete pillar. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and those deep green eyes scan the horses methodically. When his gaze lands on the horse wearing his number—Thunder's Shadow in Rusalka's place—his jaw tightens.
He doesn't know, though. Can't know.Batyaand I were careful, and Renat doesn't know horses well enough to be able to spot the differences.
Vadim stands beside him, mouth moving in conversation I can't hear. Two other men flank them—broad shoulders, expensive suits, calculated violence in their postures. One checks his watch repeatedly. The other keeps scanning the crowd, hand resting inside his jacket.
The jockeys mount their horses, but my chest tightens watching the rider settle onto Rusalka's back. He's small and wiry, face hidden beneath goggles and a helmet, but his hands are steady on the reins. I don’t know who chose him, but I pray he knows what he's doing.
"And they're approaching the gate!" the announcer's voice booms.
The horses parade past the stands in single file. Thunder's Shadow—the real Thunder's Shadow—carries herself witharrogant confidence, head high, neck arched. She's been the favorite since the line was posted, odds stacked heavily in her favor. But no one cheers for her, because she wears a number not her own. The crowd only sees a new mare with a new number.
The horse bearing her number follows several positions back. The crowd roars approval as "she" passes. But no one knows that's my girl. "Udachi tebe," I whisper to her, and from the corner of her eye I see recognition. She'll need more than luck to win this, though.
She moves differently than the others. Less flash, more substance. Her gait flows like water over stone, powerful hindquarters driving her forward with controlled fury. But the crowd doesn't notice. They're too busy cheering for the horse they think she is.
"Look at her," I whisper, more to myself thanBatya. "Look how she carries herself."
