6. Mira
MIRA
T he feed shed holds twenty years of memories soaked into its wooden walls.
I hoist another fifty-pound bag onto my shoulder, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles that comes with this daily ritual.
Batya works beside me, his movements slower than they used to be but still steady, still proud.
We move in the rhythm we've perfected over the years—him stacking, me loading, both of us lost in the comfort of routine.
Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, and I glance through the open doorway at the darkening sky. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, purple-black and heavy with rain. The air carries that electric charge that makes my skin prickle and sends the horses into restless pacing.
"Weather's turning," Batya says, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"We'll finish before it hits." I've been reading these skies my whole life. We have maybe an hour before the real downpour starts.
Outside in the south paddock, Renat works with his crew to replace the rotted fence posts that have been leaning at dangerous angles for months.
I find myself watching him more than I should, drawn to the way he moves—controlled and economical, every motion serving a purpose.
His thick frame bends and straightens as he works the post-hole digger, tribal ink shifting across his forearms with each movement.
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?" Batya asks, 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, would you 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?"
"Same thing that happens to everything good." His mouth twists into something that might have been a smile once. "Men with guns took them away."
We move through the barn together, and I'm acutely aware of his presence beside me.
He doesn't try to help, doesn't get in my way, just follows at a distance that feels both respectful and protective.
When I check water buckets, he watches. When I refill hay nets, he stands guard.
It should annoy me, this silent surveillance, but instead it feels strangely comforting.
"Thank you," I say as we reach the last stall. "For what you did to Ivan."
Renat's expression doesn't change. "You don't need to thank me for that."
"Yes, I do. You didn't have to defend me."
"You shouldn't have to hear that garbage on your own land."
The way he says it—your own land—makes my chest tight. As if he actually believes this place still belongs to me, even though we both know better.
"Is it?" I ask. "My land?"
He's quiet for a long moment, rain drumming against the roof above us. "It should be."
The simple words make me stop to think, not because they offer false hope but because they're honest. Because for just a moment, Renat Vetrov sounds less like an enforcer and more like a man who understands what it means to lose everything you've ever cared about.
Lightning flickers through the high windows, followed by thunder that makes the building shake. The young mare in the corner stall whinnies nervously, and I move to calm her, my boots slipping on the wet concrete just outside her door.
My arms windmill uselessly as I lose my balance, and I brace for the impact of the cold, unforgiving floor.
Instead, strong hands catch my waist, pulling me back against a chest that feels carved from granite.
Renat's fingers press into my ribs, steadying me, and I can feel the heat of his body through both our soaked shirts.
"Easy," he murmurs, his voice rough and low.
I should step away, should put distance between us before this moment becomes something I can't take back. But I don't move. I stay pressed against him, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his hands span my waist with casual possession.
"You're shaking," he says.
I am. But not from the cold or the near fall. From his proximity, from the way his thumbs trace small circles against my hipbones, from the knowledge that I'm standing in the arms of a man who could destroy me in more ways than one.
"The storm," I whisper.
"Liar."
He turns me around slowly, his hands never leaving my waist, until I'm facing him in the dim light of the barn. Rain streams down the windows, and lightning flickers across his face, illuminating the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the intensity in his dark green eyes.
"Mira." My name sounds different in his mouth. Rougher. More intimate.
"What are you doing?" I ask him, but I don't move away from him, don't try to escape the cage of his arms.
"I can't seem to keep you off my mind." His voice is gravelly and low, a hint of hunger in the tone.
"Renat," I say, slowly backing away, pressing my hands to his chest. But the heat through his wet shirt thrums against my palms and I remember that soft spot he has for me.
I told myself I could use this weakness against him—the desire he has that every man has.
"This is a mistake," I tell him, but it's playacting.
Yes, it's a huge fucking mistake and if Batya saw me, he'd tear my head off, but if I can worm my way into this man's thoughts, it may just work to our advantage.
He may be the one who turns on his own family to defend us.
"Probably." His hands slide up from my waist to frame my face, callused thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "But I've been making mistakes my whole life. One more won't kill me." The ferocity in Renat's eyes unhinges me. No one has ever looked at me that way.
When he kisses me, it's not gentle. There's nothing tentative or questioning about the way his mouth claims mine, nothing polite about the way he backs me against the stall door until I'm trapped between wood and muscle and heat.
He kisses me the way men like him do everything—with complete commitment, as if this moment might be the last thing he ever gets to choose for himself.
For a heartbeat, I kiss him back. My body responds before my brain can catch up, leaning into his heat, my hands fisting in the front of his wet shirt.
He tastes like rain and a hint of salt from his sweat, and I let those flavors linger on my tongue while I remember the look in his eyes as he punched Ivan for saying those crude things about me.
Then reality crashes back in with the force of another thunder crack. This is Renat Vetrov. The man sent to take everything from me. The enforcer who holds my family's fate in his scarred hands.
I wrench myself away from him, stumbling backward until my shoulders hit the stall door behind me.
My lips feel swollen, tingling, and I can still taste him on my tongue.
The heat in my cheeks spreads down my neck, and I'm grateful for the dim lighting that might hide the evidence of what his kiss did to me.
Renat watches me with a predator's eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily. Rain drips from his dark hair, and there's something wild in his expression that makes my pulse stutter with fear and something else I refuse to name.
"I can't," I whisper.
"Can't what?"
"This. You. Any of it." I gesture helplessly between us. "You're here to destroy my life."
"Maybe." His voice is rough, raw. "But right now, I'm here in this barn with you, and that's all I can think about."
The honesty in his words terrifies me. Threats I know how to handle. This, whatever this is between us, I have no defense against.
I push past him, heading for the barn door even though the storm is still raging outside.
I need air, need space, need to get away from the suffocating intensity of whatever just happened between us.
Because as much as I want to twist that lust and use it, there is something inside my chest that just knotted up and I have to figure out what it is.
"Mira—"
But I'm already gone, plunging into the downpour without looking back. The cold rain hits my overheated skin with shocking intensity, soaking through my clothes in seconds. I run across the muddy yard toward the feed shed, my boots splashing through puddles, my heart hammering against my ribs.