17. Renat
RENAT
T he sun hasn't cleared the horizon when I lead Rusalka into the main arena. The mare tosses her head, eager to move after being cooped up in the paddock overnight. Steam rises from her nostrils in the cool morning air, and her muscles ripple beneath her dark coat as she prances beside me.
I start her at a walk around the perimeter, then push her into a trot. She responds to the pressure on the lunge line, but her movements feel choppy, uneven. I increase the pace and guide her toward the inside corners, trying to get her to bend through the turns the way I've watched Mira do it.
Rusalka fights me, tossing her head and pulling against the line. I lean into the resistance, using my weight to keep her on track. She needs to learn these tighter corners if she's going to have any chance on race day.
"You're pushing too hard."
I turn to see Mira approaching the arena fence. Her hands are still bandaged from last night, but she strides with purpose, her gray-blue eyes already assessing Rusalka's form.
"She needs the speed," I call back, not breaking rhythm with the horse.
"Speed without control is chaos." She climbs through the fence rails with practiced ease. "Bring her down to a walk."
I want to argue, but the horse is already breathing hard, sweat darkening her neck. Mira's right—I've been driving her too fast, expecting immediate results.
I slow Rusalka to a walk, then bring her to the center of the arena where Mira waits. The mare's sides heave, but her eyes are alert, focused on Mira rather than me.
"Watch," Mira says, taking the lunge line from my hands. "It's not about the speed of your feet or the strength of your arms. It's about reading her body, matching her energy."
She steps back and sends Rusalka into a slow circle around us. But where I used force, Mira uses intention. Her posture shifts subtly—shoulders square, chin lifted—and the horse responds immediately. Rusalka's stride lengthens, becomes fluid.
"See how she's carrying herself now?" Mira's voice stays calm, conversational, even as she guides the horse through figure-eights around the arena. "She's using her hindquarters to push rather than her front legs to pull. That's where the real power comes from."
Rusalka moves into a trot without being asked, her hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the packed earth. This time, her movements flow together, each stride building on the last.
"How do you do that?" I watch Mira's hands on the line, but they barely move. The communication happens through her stance, the angle of her body.
"Years of practice. And understanding that horses are prey animals—they respond to confidence, not aggression." She brings Rusalka back to a walk, then hands me the line. "Your turn."
I take the rope, feeling clumsy compared to her natural grace. "What if she doesn't listen?"
"She will. You just have to speak her language."
Mira steps behind me, close enough that I can smell the faint scents of hay and soap that always cling to her skin. "Square your shoulders. Good. Now think about where you want her to go before you ask her to move."
I focus on the far corner of the arena, picturing Rusalka moving smoothly through the turn. When I send her forward, she responds differently from before—less resistance, more cooperation.
"Better," Mira murmurs. "Now ask her to trot, but don't pull. Think of it as an invitation, not a command."
I shift my weight forward slightly, the way I watched her do, and click my tongue. Rusalka transitions into a trot that feels more balanced than anything I managed alone.
"She's listening to you now," Mira says, pride evident in her voice. "Keep that energy steady."
We work for the next hour, with Mira coaching me through every adjustment.
When to give Rusalka more line, when to bring her in closer.
How to read the tension in her neck, the rhythm of her breathing.
Gradually, I begin to understand the conversation happening between human and horse—subtle, constant, built on trust rather than force.
When Rusalka finally settles into a smooth canter around the arena, responding to my cues without hesitation, Mira breaks into a smile that transforms her entire face.
"That's it," she says. "That's what we need."
I bring the mare back to the center and reward her with a pat on her neck. She's breathing hard but not labored, her ears forward and alert. For the first time since I arrived at this ranch, I feel hope beginning to take root.
Mira produces apple slices and carrot chunks from her pockets, feeding them to Rusalka while murmuring praise. The horse crunches the treats contentedly, nudging Mira's shoulder for more.
I lean against the arena rail, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. The morning sun has climbed higher, warming the air and burning off the last of the dew.
"She's got good bloodlines," I say, watching Rusalka demolish another apple slice.
"Her grandfather won the Russian Derby twice." Mira's voice carries a note of pride. "Before everything fell apart here, we bred champions."
"What happened?"
She shrugs, but I catch the tightness around her eyes. "Life. Bad decisions. The economy. Take your pick."
I want to ask more, but she's already moving on, offering Rusalka another piece of carrot. The mare takes it delicately, then immediately sneezes, spraying orange pulp across my shirt.
Mira laughs—a real laugh, unguarded and bright. "She likes you."
"Charming way of showing it." I look down at the carrot pieces decorating my chest.
"Here." Without thinking, Mira reaches out and brushes the pulp away with her bandaged hand. The gesture is automatic, intimate, and it stops us both short.
Her fingers linger against my shirt for a heartbeat longer than necessary. When she realizes what she's doing, color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't pull away immediately.
"Thanks," I whisper, and I manage a smile.
The moment lingers between us, charged but different from the desperate hunger of last night. This feels warmer, more settled. The sizzling tension that's been crackling between us since I arrived has softened into something deeper.
"Tell me about the first horse you ever trained," I say, needing to break the tension before I do something foolish in broad daylight.
Mira steps back, but her expression stays open. "Her name was Zvezda. Star. I was eight when Dad bought her, barely weaned and wild as anything."
She settles against the rail beside me, her shoulder brushing mine.
"Took me months to get close enough to put a halter on her.
But once she trusted me…" Mira shakes her head, smiling at the memory.
"She'd break out of every paddock on the ranch to follow me around.
Dad would find us in the vegetable garden or by the pond, her grazing while I read under the trees. "
"What happened to her?"
"Sold her when I turned sixteen. We needed the money for feed." The sadness in her voice is old, worn smooth by time. "I cried for a week."
I can picture it—a young Mira, all stubborn determination and hidden softness, crying over a horse she loved more than most people love family.
"I always preferred animals to people. They're honest about what they want."
"And what do they want?"
"Food. Shelter. Not to be hurt." I meet her eyes. "Simple things."
Mira nods, understanding passing between us without words. We've both learned to read intentions, to spot danger before it strikes. The difference is she learned it from horses. I learned it from humans.
Rusalka wanders closer, nudging my shoulder with her nose. I reach up to scratch behind her ears, and she leans into the contact.
"She really does like you," Mira observes.
"The feeling's mutual."
We fall into comfortable silence, watching the mare explore the arena. The sun climbs higher, promising another hot day. In a few hours, the real work will begin—long training sessions, pushing Rusalka harder as race day approaches.
"Do you think Vadim will keep his word?" Mira asks quietly. "If she wins, I mean."
The question I've been dreading. The truth is, I don't know. Vadim operates by his own logic, and that logic doesn't always include mercy. But looking at Mira, seeing the hope she's trying so hard to hide, I can't give her anything but certainty.
"He will," I say firmly. "I'm sure of it."
The lie comes easily, but the conviction behind it is real. Because I've drawn a line in my mind now, one that has nothing to do with Vadim's word or the Vetrov family's honor. If Rusalka wins and Vadim goes back on the deal, he'll have to go through me first.
And I have no intention of letting that happen.
Nothing will come between me and protecting what's mine. Not Vadim, not the Karpins, not the entire Bratva if it comes to that.
Mira is mine now. This ranch is mine to defend. And I'll burn the world down before I let anyone take them away.
"Good," she says, leaning into my shoulder. "Because I'm starting to believe we might actually pull this off."
I wrap my arm around her, careful of her bandaged hands, and feel her settle against my side. For the first time since I arrived here, the future doesn't feel predetermined.
It feels possible.