Page 9 of Sin Wager
5
VERA
Iarrive at the stables forty minutes before my official shift begins, hoping the extra work might distract me from thoughts that have circled my mind since last night. Sleep proved impossible after our evening at Medved—every time I closed my eyes, I felt Misha's hand at my back during our dance, heard his voice murmuring instructions against my ear. The memory makes my pulse quicken even now in the cold morning air.
But he's here, standing beside the feed room entrance, checking his watch as if he has legitimate business at just past six in the morning. He wears an expensive-looking charcoal wool coat, his dark hair perfectly arranged. The sight of him stops me mid-stride, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You're early," he says, pushing away from the wall. His smile carries warmth that seems genuine, but there's something else underneath—calculation, perhaps, or satisfaction at having anticipated my schedule correctly.
"So are you." I try to match his casual tone, but my voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. "Checking on your horses?"
"Storm's End had some swelling yesterday. I wanted to see how he's responding to treatment."
The explanation sounds reasonable, though most owners would delegate such concerns to their trainers or vets rather than arriving at dawn to investigate personally. But Misha doesn't strike me as most owners. Everything about him suggests hands-on involvement, attention to detail that makes successful men successful.
"I can show you to his stall," I offer, fumbling with my keys to unlock the feed room door.
"I'd appreciate that."
He falls into step beside me as we walk deeper into the stable complex, his longer stride forcing me to walk faster than usual. The adjustment feels natural rather than annoying—he moves with authority that makes following his pace seem logical rather than submissive.
"How's your brother this morning?" The question comes as we pass empty stalls, his voice pitched low enough that it feels intimate.
"Good… He actually ate breakfast without throwing up, which is progress."
"Medical advances are remarkable these days. Treatments that were impossible five years ago are now routine."
"Expensive routine," I say, then immediately regret the admission. My financial struggles aren't appropriate conversation topics with someone whose coat costs more than my rent.
"The best treatments usually are. Insurance companies profit by denying coverage for anything innovative or experimental."
His matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the system's brutality surprises me. Most wealthy people I've encountered prefer to pretend poverty results from poor choices rather than structural inequalities beyond individual control. I find it refreshing.
We reach Storm's End's stall, where the chestnut gelding greets us with alert curiosity. Misha examines the horse's front legs with competent hands, checking for heat and swelling.
"Looks good," he says, straightening. "Whatever the veterinarian recommended is working."
"Yeah, the doc knows his business. He's been treating horses here for fifteen years."
"Experience matters in any profession. Younger men may have enthusiasm, but veterans understand nuances that can make the difference between success and disaster."
The comment carries implications beyond veterinary medicine, though I'm not sure what point he's making. Misha speaks in layers, his words containing meanings I sense but can't quite decode.
"I should start feeding," I say, suddenly aware that other stable hands will arrive soon and find us together. "The horses get restless if their schedule changes."
"Of course. Don't let me interfere with your work."
But he doesn't leave. Instead, he follows me back toward the feed room, maintaining a respectful distance while staying close enough that his presence feels protective rather than intrusive. I'm hyperaware of his attention as I measure grain and supplements, my normally automatic motions becoming self-conscious under his scrutiny.
"You handle this well," he observes as I prepare the morning rations. "Most people your age would find the responsibility overwhelming."
"Most people my age haven't had to grow up fast."
The response slips out before I can censor it, revealing too much about my circumstances. Misha's expression shifts, becoming more focused, as if I've confirmed suspicions he's been harboring.
"Circumstances force maturity on some people earlier than others. Not everyone has the luxury of extended adolescence."
His understanding feels genuine, not the patronizing sympathy I usually receive when people learn about my family's situation. He speaks as someone familiar with responsibility and difficult choices, not as an observer making judgments from a comfortable distance.
