11. Renat
RENAT
M y phone buzzes from the wooden crate serving as my nightstand at five-thirty in the morning. Mira stirs beside me, her warm body shifting closer to mine before the sound registers fully in my sleep-fogged mind. I reach for the device before it can ring again, careful not to jar my bandaged ribs.
Vadim's name glows on the screen.
"I have to take this," I whisper, already sliding out from under her arm.
She mumbles something incoherent and burrows deeper into the pillow. I pull on my jeans and step outside onto the small landing at the top of the loft ladder, closing the door quietly behind me.
"Vadim."
"Track line. Twenty minutes." His voice carries the familiar edge that means someone has pushed him past patience. "We need to talk."
The call ends without another word. I stare at the phone for a moment, then slip back inside to finish dressing.
Mira hasn't moved, her dark blonde hair spread across the pillow, face peaceful in sleep.
Part of me wants to wake her, to warn her that the walls are closing in faster than we anticipated.
But what would I say? That her life depends on a horse that might not be ready?
That my family will burn her world down if we fail?
Instead, I pull on my shirt and boots, wincing as the movement pulls at my injured shoulder. The morning air bites at my skin as I descend the stairs, cold enough to see my breath. Frost covers the paddock rails, turning the ranch into something crystalline and fragile.
The track line sits half a mile beyond the Petrov property boundary, where the old racing oval used to run before the family lost the money to maintain it.
Now it's just a dirt path worn into an oval, marked by rotting wooden posts and overgrown with weeds.
But the shape remains, and it's where we've been timing the filly's speed work.
Vadim's black Mercedes idles in the pre-dawn darkness, exhaust visible in the cold air. He stands beside the car, smoking a cigarette and checking his watch with the impatience of a man who doesn't like being awake this early.
"You're late," he says as I approach.
"Traffic was murder," I reply dryly.
He doesn't smile. He drops the cigarette and grinds it under his heel, then turns to face me fully. In the gray light, his face looks older than his forty-five years, lines etched deep by stress and violence.
"The Karpins want a sit-down," he says without preamble.
"When?"
"Today. This afternoon."
My blood chills. Sit-downs with the Karpins never end well for anyone involved. They're not negotiators—they're collectors, and they prefer to collect in blood when money isn't available.
"What do they want?"
"Progress reports. Proof the horse is worth their patience." Vadim lights another cigarette, hands steady despite the early hour. "Dima thinks we're stalling. Thinks maybe we don't have the collateral to cover our debts."
"The horse is improving," I tell him, neglecting to reveal that I've already had a "sit down" with a few Karpins this week.
"How much?"
I think of yesterday's training session, the way the filly responded to pressure in the corners, how her stride has lengthened and smoothed over the past two weeks. "She's shaved three seconds off her time. More consistent through the turns, stronger in the final stretch."
"Three seconds." Vadim takes a long drag, considering. "Is that enough?"
"It's progress."
"Progress doesn't pay debts, Renat. Results do." His voice drops to the tone that makes grown men step backward. "The Karpins want guarantees. They want to know that when race day comes, their investment will be protected."
"She's not ready for guarantees. Horses aren't machines?—"
"I don't care what horses are." He flicks ash onto the frost-covered ground. "I care what happens if this one loses. Because if she does, we forfeit the track rights to the Karpins. The ranch burns. The family dies. All of it."
I've known the stakes from the beginning, but hearing them stated so bluntly makes my chest tight. Mira's face flashes through my mind—the determined focus she has when she's working with Rusalka. The trust in her eyes when she tended my wounds.
"Understood," I say.
"Is it?" Vadim steps closer, close enough that I can smell the tobacco on his breath. "Because from where I stand, it looks like you're getting attached to the locals. And attachment makes men sloppy. I heard about your little stunt with Ivan."
"I'm not attached to anything," I growl, realizing one of my men decided to tell Vadim how I laid Ivan out for what he said about Mira. Dumb fucks are going to pay for that one.
"No?" He smiles, but there's no warmth in it. "Then you won't mind if I order Boris and Anton to speed things along. Maybe light a fire under the trainer, show her what failure costs."
Every muscle in my body coils tightly. "That's not necessary."
"Then make sure it isn't. Push the horse harder. Cut training time. I don't care if you break her in the process—a broken horse is still better than no horse at all."
He drops the cigarette and grinds it out, then walks back to his car. The engine purrs to life, headlights sweeping across the abandoned track as he turns around.
"Eighteen days, Renat," he calls through the open window. "Don't make me regret trusting you with this."
The Mercedes disappears into the gray dawn, leaving me alone beside the ghost of a racing oval. I stand there for a long time, watching the sun climb over the horizon and burn away the frost. By the time I start walking back to the ranch, my decision is made.
The barn smells like horse shit—an indication we need to do some mucking. I find Mira in Rusalka's stall, running her hands down the horse's legs, checking for heat or swelling. She's dressed in her worn jeans and a flannel shirt, hair braided back and tucked under her baseball cap.
"Morning," she says without looking up. "How are your ribs?"
"Fine."
She glances at me then, eyebrows raised. "That's not what you said when you tried to roll over an hour ago."
Heat creeps up my neck. Even injured and half-asleep, I'd reached for her, pulled her against me like she belonged there. "I said I'm fine."
"Right." She straightens, dusting her hands on her jeans. "She looks good this morning. Her cannon bones are cool, no swelling in the tendons. I think we can start adding distance to her workouts next week."
"We need to push harder than that," I say, and my words are edged with the frustration of Vadim's ultimatum. Mira stops mid-motion, her hand frozen on the stall door latch.
"What do you mean?"
"We have to cut the conditioning phase short and move to race preparation."
She turns to face me fully, gray-blue eyes searching my face. "Renat, that's not how training works. You can't just skip steps because you're impatient."
"I'm not impatient. I'm realistic."
"You're something, but it's not realistic." She opens the stall door and leads Rusalka out. "This horse has been out of training for months. Her fitness base isn't solid enough for intensive work."
"She looks fine to me," I tell her, following. Vadim's pressure won't let up.
"She looks fine because I've been building her up slowly. Properly." Mira cross-ties the horse in the aisle and reaches for her saddle. "Push too hard, too fast, and she'll break down. Bow a tendon, chip a bone, strain something that won't heal in time for the race."
The logic is sound, but logic doesn't change Vadim's deadline, doesn't alter the fact that the Karpins want progress they can see and measure.
I watch Mira settle the saddle pad on Rusalka's back like she's done this a million times.
She lifts the saddle, settling it carefully on the horse's back.
"You can't force a horse to be ready any more than you can force trust. They work on their own timeline, not yours. "
I hear the double meaning in them, see the way her eyes flick to mine as she speaks.
She's not just talking about the horse. She's talking about us.
About the way she's handled me from the beginning—patient, steady, building trust one careful step at a time.
She's talking about how her own mind is warring over her desire for me when she knows how volatile my life is.
"Mind your lane," I snap, harsher than necessary. "Just train the horse."
Her hands freeze on the girth buckle. For a moment, the barn falls silent except for Rusalka’s breathing and the distant sound of someone working in the feed shed. When Mira looks up, her face has gone carefully blank.
"My lane?" Her voice is quiet, dangerous. "This is my ranch. My horse. My lane is whatever I say it is."
"Not anymore," I grumble, not at all intending to anger her, but the inky way she stares up at me is nothing short of visceral rage.
She stares at me for a long moment, then drops the saddle blanket onto the ground and walks away. Her boots scrape against the concrete floor, and she doesn't look back.
I stand alone in the barn aisle, watching her disappear through the door. Rusalka turns her head to look at me, ears pricked forward with curiosity. Her dark eyes are calm, trusting. She doesn't understand that her life—and Mira's—depends on how fast she can run in three weeks' time.
The silence lingers until I can't stand it anymore.
I follow Mira outside, but she's already halfway to the house, shoulders rigid with anger.
Part of me wants to call after her, to explain about Vadim and the Karpins and the impossible position we're in.
But explanations won't change the timeline, won't make the training go faster or the horse stronger.
Instead, I return to the barn and begin saddling the horse myself. She stands patiently while I work, occasionally turning to sniff at my hands or nudge my shoulder. The leather is familiar under my fingers, the routine of preparing for a ride soothing despite everything else.
But as I tighten the girth, I can't shake the image of Mira's face when I told her to mind her lane. The hurt that flickered through her eyes before she shuttered her expression. The careful way she dropped the saddle blanket instead of throwing it, maintaining control even in anger.
I lead Rusalka out of the barn and toward the paddock. The morning sun has burned off the frost, leaving the air crisp and clear. Perfect weather for riding. Perfect weather for pushing boundaries and testing limits.
But as I swing up into the saddle, all I can think about is the excruciating ache building in my chest. The knowledge that if this fails—if the horse isn't ready, if the race goes wrong, if Vadim decides I've become a liability—I'll lose more than just a job.
I'll lose her. And I may lose my own life too.