20. Mira #2
Batya is quiet for a long time, absorbing my words. When he finally moves, it's to cross the kitchen and place his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. His touch is warm and familiar, carrying the comfort of a thousand similar moments throughout my childhood.
"You're gambling with more than just money now," he says quietly. "You understand that, don't you? You're gambling with your heart."
"I know." The admission comes out as barely more than a whisper.
He searches my face, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. When he seems satisfied with whatever he finds there, he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head—the same gesture of affection he's used since I was small enough to sit on his lap.
"Be careful, little star," he murmurs against my hair. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
It's a lie, and we both know it. There's no way to be careful in a situation this volatile, no safe path through the choices ahead of us. But sometimes the people who love us need to hear the comforting fiction more than they need the brutal truth.
He releases me with a sigh, stepping back to let me finish gathering my things. As I head toward the door, wine and blanket in hand, he calls after me.
"Mira?"
I pause in the doorway, looking back at him.
"Whatever happens," he says, "remember that you're stronger than you know. Stronger than any of them realize."
The words follow me out into the cooling night, mixing with the sound of crickets and the distant whinny of horses settling in for sleep. I make my way across the yard toward the pasture, guided by moonlight and the warm glow spilling from the bunkhouse windows.
I find Renat already in the pasture, leaning against a fence post with his jacket slung over one shoulder.
It's like he read my mind earlier, like he's been waiting for me.
And he's chosen a spot with a clear view of the sky, away from the yard lights that would interfere with stargazing.
When he hears my footsteps in the grass, he turns toward me with a smile that transforms his entire face.
"Beat me to it," I say, spreading the blanket on a relatively flat patch of ground.
"Couldn't sleep." He helps me smooth out the corners, his hands brushing mine in the process. "Figured I'd come out here and think for a while."
"Dangerous habit, thinking." I settle onto the blanket and pat the space beside me. "What were you thinking about?"
He joins me on the wool surface, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cooling air. For a moment he doesn't answer, just stares up at the star-scattered sky above us. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a thoughtfulness I've rarely heard from him.
"Today. The ride. How different it felt."
I uncork the wine and pocket the cork before having a long drink. The liquid catches the moonlight, appearing almost black in the darkness. "Different how?"
"Control." He accepts the bottle, taking a small sip. "Not fighting for it, not forcing it. Just… having it. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense." I settle back against the blanket, using my elbow to prop myself up. "That's what real horsemanship looks like. When you stop trying to dominate the horse and start working with them instead."
"Rusalka's getting stronger," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Faster too. Her times have improved by almost two seconds over the past week."
I nod, taking the bottle back to sip the wine. The alcohol burns slightly going down, but it's good—rich and full-bodied with hints of cherry and oak. "She's responding to the training. Building muscle, improving her cardiovascular fitness. The work is paying off."
"Will it be enough?"
The question I've been dreading, delivered in a tone of casual curiosity that doesn't fool me for a second.
Renat is asking what I've been asking myself every day—whether our progress will be sufficient to win the race that will determine everything.
Whether the gamble we're making will pay off or whether it will destroy us all.
I consider lying. Consider offering false reassurance, empty platitudes about believing in ourselves and trusting the process. But he deserves better than that. He deserves honesty, even if I can't give him the whole truth.
"I don't know," I admit. "She's improved, but so have the other horses we'll be racing against. The competition will be fierce—established bloodlines, professional trainers, owners with money to spend on the best equipment and care."
Renat goes quiet beside me, processing this admission. Above us, the stars wheel in their ancient patterns, indifferent to our human concerns. A barn owl calls from somewhere in the darkness, its voice lonely and haunting.
"There's Thunder's Shadow," I continue, pointing to a cluster of stars near the horizon. "The horse I mentioned before. He's the current favorite to win. Strong bloodline, experienced jockey, track record of success in similar races."
What I don't tell him is that Thunder's Shadow looks almost identical to Rusalka from a distance—same height, same build, same dark bay coloring.
What I don't mention is that I've been studying the entry procedures, learning how the numbering system works, figuring out what would be required to make a switch.
What I don't admit is that I'm already planning the deception that might save us all.
The thought sits heavily in my chest, a secret that grows more burdensome with each passing day. But I can't tell him. Not yet. He has enough pressure already without knowing about the desperate backup plan forming in my mind.
"We'll do our best," I say instead. "Whatever happens, we'll know we gave it everything we had."
"And if our best isn't enough?"
I take another sip of wine, using the motion to buy time while I consider my answer.
"Then we deal with the consequences." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Together."
The word surprises me as it leaves my lips. When did "I" become "we"? When did this stop being my fight alone and start being something shared? The shift has happened gradually, so subtly that I'm only now recognizing it. But it's there, undeniable and frightening and oddly comforting all at once.
Renat turns to look at me, something unreadable in his expression. "Together."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "Together."
We lie on our backs, sharing the wine and watching the stars emerge more fully as the last traces of daylight fade from the western horizon.
The alcohol warms my blood, loosening the tension I carry in my shoulders and neck.
For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to simply exist in this moment—not worrying about tomorrow's training or next week's race or the deception I'm already planning.
When I set the bottle down in the grass, Renat shifts beside me. I feel his hand touch my face, fingers tracing the line of my cheek with surprising gentleness. When I turn toward him, he's close enough that I can see the starlight reflected in his dark eyes.
He kisses me slowly, thoroughly, as if we have all the time in the world instead of eight days before everything changes.
His lips are warm and taste of wine and possibility.
I kiss him back, allowing myself to sink into the sensation, to forget about consequences and complications for just a few precious moments.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing harder than I should be. The wine and the late hour and the emotional intensity of the day have left me feeling unsteady, exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical tiredness. My eyelids feel heavy, and I have to fight to keep them open.
"Tired?" Renat's voice is soft, concerned.
"Exhausted," I admit, not bothering to hide it. "It's been a long day."
I try to sit up straighter, to shake off the drowsiness that's settling over me like a blanket. But the wine and the warmth of Renat's presence and the emotional weight of everything we've discussed have combined to leave me feeling boneless, unable to summon the energy to move.
My head falls back against his shoulder, and I feel him go still beneath me. When I don't pull away, his arm comes around me, holding me steady. The gesture is protective rather than possessive, offering comfort without demanding anything in return.
"Maybe we should head back," he suggests quietly.
"In a minute." But even as I say it, I can feel myself losing the battle against sleep. My eyelids drift closed despite my best efforts, and the sounds of the night—crickets, distant horses, Renat's steady breathing—fade into a peaceful hum.
I'm dimly aware of being lifted, of strong arms sliding beneath my knees and shoulders, and it lulls me deeper into drowsiness. I curl against Renat's chest, feeling safe and warm and utterly protected.
The walk back to the bunkhouse passes in a dream-like haze. I'm vaguely conscious of doors opening, of gentle movement as he carries me inside. When he lays me down on something soft—his narrow bed, I realize—I barely stir.
"Mira?" His voice comes from very far away.
I make some sound of acknowledgment, but I'm already more asleep than awake. I feel him remove my boots then my jeans, feel a blanket settle over me. The mattress dips as he lies down beside me, careful not to disturb my position.
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me back against the solid warmth of his body. I should probably protest, should maintain some pretense of propriety. Instead, I sink deeper into his embrace, finally allowing myself to rest completely.
Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new pressures, new reasons to worry. But tonight, wrapped in Renat's arms and surrounded by the peaceful sounds of the ranch settling into sleep, I allow myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—we might actually survive what's coming.
Even if it requires deception. Even if it means betraying the trust I can feel building between us. Even if it destroys the fragile partnership we've built over these past weeks.
Some sacrifices are worth making. Some lies are necessary. And some gambles are worth taking, even when the stakes include everything you've ever cared about.
The last thing I remember before sleep claims me completely is the steady rhythm of Renat's breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against my back. It's a sound I could get used to, a comfort I never expected to find.
But morning will come, and with it the harsh realities we've been holding at bay.
Eight days before I potentially destroy everything we've built with the deception I'm already committed to carrying out.