18. Mira
MIRA
T he wash stall dims as evening settles over the ranch, steam rising from Rusalka's warm coat where the water runs off her flanks.
I work the brush through her tail in long, careful strokes, untangling the knots that come from rolling in pasture dirt and rubbing against fence posts.
The mare stands patiently under my hands, occasionally shifting her weight or flicking an ear at a sound I can't hear.
The entire ranch still smells like smoke and ash after the fire a few days ago, but my hands are mostly healed now.
Batya insists that we just leave the mess of charred remains in a pile, that Vadim's people will only come and burn the rest down anyway, but I have a plan to speak to Renat when this is all over, when Rusalka earns the right for us to demand more from the Vetrov family and I can tell them I want the barns rebuilt.
Footsteps approach across the concrete, and I know without looking that it's Renat.
His boots have a particular rhythm—heavy, unhurried, the walk of someone who doesn't need to announce himself to be noticed.
When I glance up, he's carrying two steaming mugs, wisps of vapor curling between his fingers.
"Thought you might want this." He extends one of the mugs toward me, and I catch the scent of strong black tea, though I detect a hint of what I perceive to be vodka.
I take it, wrapping both hands around the ceramic to let the heat seep into my palms. The first sip burns going down, but it's good—better than the watered-down tea we usually manage. "Thank you."
He leans against the wall beside the stall, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cool air. Rusalka turns her head to investigate him, nostrils flaring as she takes in his scent. After a moment, she goes back to dozing, accepting his presence isn't a threat.
"She really does have good bone structure," Renat says, nodding at the mare. "Who was her sire again?"
"Thunder Bay." Setting the tea mug on the fence post, I continue working through her tail, sectioning it carefully.
"Grandfather bought his breeding rights back when we still had money for that kind of investment.
Thunder Bay threw speed, but more than that, he threw heart.
Horses that wouldn't quit even when their bodies wanted to. "
Renat makes a sound of understanding. "I can see it in her. The way she carries herself, even tired."
I pause in my brushing, looking at him over Rusalka's hindquarters. There's something in his voice when he talks about horses that I've never heard when he discusses anything else. Not softer, exactly, but… cleaner. Like he can drop whatever mask he wears for the rest of the world.
"Do you really think she's got what it takes?" he asks, and though I know given enough time, she would, I'm doubtful in the few short days we have left that she can actually pull it off. But I remain hopeful.
"If we had longer, say another six weeks, I'd be one hundred percent confident." I move to Rusalka's other side, continuing the brushing. "But what are we at now, twelve days?"
"Thirteen…"
"And I don't know. I'm hopeful, but I can't guarantee anything." My hand works a steady rhythm as I part the hairs of her tail and work out the tangles. "But even the most tired or inexperienced horse can surprise you."
He nods, sipping his tea. "Sounds familiar."
The comment could mean a dozen things, but I don't push.
Instead, I let the conversation flow where it wants to go.
Renat and I have worked together well, and we've had incredible sex—that much is true.
But we've never stood and talked about life, and the calmness between us makes me wish we would.
So I lead that direction and hope he feels comfortable following.
"I was riding before I could walk properly," I tell him, running my fingers through Rusalka's now-smooth tail. " Batya used to put me up on the gentlest mare we had, hold the lead rope, and walk circles around the ring for hours. Said I cried less in the saddle than anywhere else."
"That doesn't surprise me." There's amusement in his voice, but not the mocking kind. "You move around them like you were born to it."
The compliment shouldn't affect me the way it does, but I feel heat rise in my cheeks anyway.
"The ranch saved us more times than I can count.
When Mother died, when the bank came calling, when he started drinking too much—the horses kept Batya steady.
Gave him something to care for besides his grief. "
Renat is quiet for a long moment, studying the steam rising from his mug. When he finally speaks, his voice has a different quality to it, rougher around the edges.
"I didn't have anything steady growing up.
Not a place, not a family worth trusting.
" He pauses, and I can feel him choosing his words carefully.
"Moved around a lot when I was young. Different relatives, different arrangements, none of them particularly interested in keeping a kid around longer than they had to. "
My hands still on Rusalka's coat. I want to say something, but I sense that interrupting would break whatever fragile trust is building between us.
"Being around horses settles something in me," he continues. "They don't care about your name or who you owe money to or what you did last week. They just want consistent hands and a calm voice. Simple wants, quiet strength. There's… peace in that."
I turn to face him fully now, the brush forgotten in my hand. This is the most he's ever told me about himself, and I can see the effort it takes. The way his jaw tightens, the careful control in his posture.
"Peace is hard to come by," I say quietly.
"It is." He meets my eyes. "Especially when you've spent most of your life being anything but peaceful."
I think about what peace means to each of us. For me, it's the rhythm of hoofbeats and the smell of hay and knowing exactly what needs to be done each day. For him, it seems to be something he's still learning to recognize.
"Well," I say, forcing lightness into my voice, "at least stall mucking beats killing people."
The words are out before I can stop them, and for a moment I think I've said too much, pushed too far.
But then Renat's mouth quirks up at one corner, and he lets out a short laugh that transforms his entire face into a bright smile that causes crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
A hearty belly laugh erupts from his gut, shaking his shoulders.
"By a significant margin," he agrees, and there's something almost boyish in the way he grins.
I laugh too, surprised by my own boldness and by his reaction. It occurs to me that I've never heard him laugh before—not really laugh, with genuine amusement instead of bitter irony. The sound does something dangerous to my chest, makes my heart speed up in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
Rusalka, perhaps sensing the shift in mood, pushes her nose between us, investigating Renat's sleeve with obvious curiosity. She finds the cuff of his shirt interesting enough to start chewing on it, her teeth working at the fabric with determination.
"I think she likes you," I say, grinning as he tries to extract his sleeve from her mouth without being too forceful about it.
"Or she's trying to eat me alive, one piece at a time."
"No, she'd start with something more tender if she wanted to eat you. Your sleeve is just convenient." I walk around the back end of Rusalka and drop the brush in the bucket and lean over the fence next to Renat, forearms bracing on the wood rail.
He stops tugging and looks at me, eyebrow raised. "Are you saying I'm tender?"
There's something in his expression—vulnerable beneath the teasing—that makes me want to be honest. "I'm saying you're softer than you want people to think."
"Maybe." His voice drops lower. "Not with everyone."
The admission hits me square in the chest, and suddenly, I can't pretend this is still about horses or ranch work or anything else that exists in the safe territory of practical conversation.
This is about us, about whatever has been building between us through weeks of shared labor and stolen moments.
"With me…" I say. It's not a question.
"Yes." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tip my head back to keep eye contact. "Definitely with you."
When he kisses my neck, I'm not prepared for the softness of it, the way his lips brush against my skin like a question being asked. I close my eyes and let myself feel it—the warmth of his mouth, the scratch of his stubble, the way my pulse jumps under his touch.
I should step away when I remember that Batya is watching from the porch.
Renat came here with orders to destroy everything I love, and getting involved with him is the kind of mistake that will ruin my life.
But I tilt my head to give him better access, and when he presses another kiss to the hollow beneath my ear, I don't pull away.
Because somewhere between his arrival and now, I've fallen for him. Completely, dangerously, impossibly fallen for the man who was supposed to be my enemy. And I'm not sure I care about the consequences anymore.
My eyes flick open to see that Batya is no longer on the porch with stern eyes staring at me, and Renat lets his teeth sink into the soft flesh below my ear.
When his hand slides up my back, fingers lacing in my hair, and he fists it tightly to tip my head backward, I let him, but a gasp escapes my throat as warmth floods my core.
"I want you," he growls against my skin, and it makes me shudder.
"Men like you take what they want, don't they?"
His grip in my hair tightens, his mouth at my ear. “Yes, 'men like me' take what we want,” he says, and then he’s pulling me with him, backing us out through the stall gate.