7. Renat
RENAT
T he storm tears across the pasture in sheets of gray fury, turning the dirt to mud and the air to needles of cold rain.
I watch from the barn doorway as Mira races toward the feed shed, her boots sliding in the muck.
The roof groans under the assault—old wood and rusted nails fighting a battle they can't win.
The sharp crack comes suddenly, wood splintering against the roar of thunder. Half the shed roof caves inward, and I'm moving before I think, boots pounding through puddles toward the wreckage.
"Mira!" I shout over the storm.
She's already there, knee-deep in debris, hauling broken beams off sacks of grain. Her father emerges from the main barn, moving slower but determinedly. Water runs down my neck as I grab the other end of a fallen rafter.
"Feed's getting soaked," Yuri calls, his voice thin against the wind. "We lose this, horses don't eat next week."
I heave the beam aside and reach for another.
Mira works across from me. her movements are quick and angry.
I can tell she's using the flurry of her flustered emotions to push her body to its limits, and it's working.
Rain plasters her shirt to her skin, and she mutters under her breath—Russian curses that would make my cousins proud.
"Careful with that one," I warn as she approaches a beam still connected to the sagging roof line. "It's holding up what's left."
She doesn't listen. Instead, she scrambles up onto a pile of debris, reaching for grain sacks trapped under the twisted metal and wood. The beam she's standing on sags under her weight, and I can see the rot eating through its center.
"Mira, get down," I call, but she ignores me, stretching higher to grab another sack. The wood groans. I drop what I'm holding and move toward her. "I said get down."
"Almost got it," she grunts, fingers brushing the corner of a feed sack.
The beam shifts. Just a little, but enough to send my pulse spiking. I reach up and grab her arm, pulling hard. "Down. Now."
She pushes against my grip, gray-blue eyes flashing. "Let go of me."
"Not when you're about to break your neck."
"I know what I'm doing."
"You know how to be stubborn. That's not the same thing."
She wrenches free and climbs higher, ignoring the way the wood bends under her boots. Every muscle in my body coils tightly watching her balance on that rotted beam. I've seen men die for less—miscalculating a jump, trusting bad ground, thinking they were invincible right up until they weren't.
The grain sack comes loose, and she tosses it down to her father. Then another. She moves with the kind of reckless confidence that makes my teeth ache. I stand below her, ready to catch her when the whole thing collapses, but she keeps going, keeps pushing her luck.
"Mira."
"I heard you the first time."
Thunder cracks overhead, and the rain comes harder. My shirt clings to my skin, making me shiver with cold, but I don't move. Can't move. Not when she's up there trying to defy gravity with her own stubborn pride.
She finally climbs down when there's nothing left to save, boots hitting solid ground with a splash. Her father has moved most of the salvageable feed under the remaining section of roof, covering it with tarps. The storm still rages, but we've saved what we could.
"Good work," Yuri says, breathing hard. He wipes water droplets from his forehead and shakes my hand then says, "I'll check the main barn, make sure nothing else is coming down."
He disappears into the rain, leaving Mira and me alone among the wreckage. Her shirt is transparent now, clinging to every curve, and I force myself to look at her face instead as she squeezes the water out of her braids.
"You could have been killed," I say.
She shrugs, flipping her braid over her shoulder. "Well, I wasn't."
"That beam was rotted clean through."
"But it held me up." She snorts, lifting one eyebrow at me in defiance.
"This time."
She starts walking toward the main barn, and I follow. The rain pounds the roof above us as we step inside. Horses shift in their stalls, spooked by the storm. Mira moves toward the tack room, but I step into her path.
"We're not done talking."
Her eyes narrow. "I was saving feed," she snarls, but I can see she's shaking, probably cold from the rain and the rush of adrenaline too.
She could've been in that feed shed when it came down.
That makes my heart pound a little harder too, and not just because our horse trainer may have been taken out.
Mira is more than just an asset to me for some reason.
"You were showing off."
"For who? You?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I don't need to impress anyone, especially not some enforcer who's here to burn my home down."
The words hit deep, but I don't flinch. "You think I wanted to watch you fail?"
"I think you don't care either way."
"Then you're wrong."
She stares at me, rain still dripping from her hair. We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the pulse beating in her throat, the way her eyes flick down to where my lips are parted. Lips that still feel the heat of kissing her moments ago.
"Why?" she asks quietly.
I don't have an answer, can't explain why watching her risk her neck made my chest tight, why the thought of her broken and bleeding in the mud made me want to put my fist through a wall.
I've watched men die. I've killed men. I should be able to watch one stubborn woman take a stupid risk without feeling my heart try to climb out of my throat.
"Because for some damn reason, I don't want to see you get hurt," I say finally.
My admission makes her pause mid-breath. Her lips part slightly, and I can see the confusion in her eyes. She doesn't understand it any more than I do.
"I don't need protection," she whispers.
"You're getting it anyway."
She shakes her head, but she doesn't step away. "This is insane."
"Yeah. It is," I tell her, stepping closer.
The space between us shrinks. I can feel the heat coming off her body despite the cold rain soaking through our clothes.
Her breathing has changed, gone shallow and quick.
Mine has too. It's insane because letting my dick lead will only cause problems down the road, but here I am wanting her anyway.
"Renat…"
I don't let her finish. I lean down and cover her mouth with mine, claiming a kiss again.
She goes rigid against my body, much like she did moments ago, and her hands press against my chest, but then she melts into me.
Her mouth opens under mine, and she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own.
This time, I don't let her walk away. My hands tangle in her wet hair, pulling her closer. She makes a soft sound against my mouth, part protest, part surrender. Her fingers grip my shirt, and I can feel the tremor in her hands.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark. She looks at me like I'm a problem she can't solve.
"This is a mistake," she breathes. "Your boss won't like it."
"Probably."
But I kiss her again, anyway, backing her against the wall of hay bales. She doesn't resist. Instead, she pulls me closer, her mouth fierce and demanding against mine. Every rational thought I have dissolves under the heat of her response.
Her back hits the hay bales, and I cage her in, one hand braced beside her head. She’s breathing fast, rainwater still dripping from her lashes. Her fingers press against my chest like she means to push me away—but they stay there, trembling.
“This is a mistake,” she says again, quieter now.
I lean in until our foreheads touch, until all she can see is me. “Then tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t. Her eyes flick to my mouth. Her silence says everything.
I kiss her again—rougher this time, dragging her bottom lip between my teeth until she gasps. Her hands slide up into my hair before she catches herself and yanks them back down, curling her fists at her sides.
“You don’t understand,” she breathes.
“I understand perfectly.” My mouth grazes her jaw, her throat, the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. “You’re scared… of what happens after.”
Her breath hitches. “Your family?—”
“Isn’t here.”
Her lips part, and I take her mouth again, tasting every bit of the doubt she tries to hold on to. Then I grab her hips and lift her. She clutches my shoulders instinctively, locking her legs around me as I carry her across the barn.
The storm howls behind us, wind rattling the walls of the barn. My boots hit the iron stairs one at a time, each step louder than the last. She’s whispering something against my neck—I can’t tell if it’s resistance or confession—but I don’t stop, and I don’t let her talk herself out of it.
The loft door slams shut. I set her down beside the bed and start peeling her wet shirt away, slowly at first, then rougher when it clings too tightly. She doesn’t help, but she doesn’t stop me either.
“You gonna run again?” I ask, dragging the fabric over her head.
She swallows hard but she doesn't respond. I watch her hands shake and see the hunger in her eyes.
I drop the shirt and reach behind her for the clasp of her bra. “Tell me to stop.”
Her hands fist in the hem of my soaked button down. “I can’t.”
Her bra hits the floor. She stands there in nothing but her jeans, arms folded over her chest like it’ll protect her from what’s coming. Like she doesn’t already know she’s mine. But her breathing gives her away—shaky, shallow, her pupils blown wide.
I step in close again, letting her feel it—the heat coming off me, the want. My hand brushes her cheek, then trails down her throat, her chest, her bare stomach. She doesn’t move.
“Look at you,” I murmur, my voice low. “You’re shaking, but you’re still standing there like you’re not the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her breath catches.