Chapter 5 Vera
VERA
Iarrive at the stables forty minutes before my official shift begins, hoping the extra work might distract me from thoughts that have circled my mind since last night.
Sleep proved impossible after our evening at Medved—every time I closed my eyes, I felt Misha's hand at my back during our dance, heard his voice murmuring instructions against my ear.
The memory makes my pulse quicken even now in the cold morning air.
But he's here, standing beside the feed room entrance, checking his watch as if he has legitimate business at just past six in the morning. He wears an expensive-looking charcoal wool coat, his dark hair perfectly arranged. The sight of him stops me mid-stride, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You're early," he says, pushing away from the wall. His smile carries warmth that seems genuine, but there's something else underneath—calculation, perhaps, or satisfaction at having anticipated my schedule correctly.
"So are you." I try to match his casual tone, but my voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. "Checking on your horses?"
"Storm's End had some swelling yesterday. I wanted to see how he's responding to treatment."
The explanation sounds reasonable, though most owners would delegate such concerns to their trainers or vets rather than arriving at dawn to investigate personally.
But Misha doesn't strike me as most owners.
Everything about him suggests hands-on involvement, attention to detail that makes successful men successful.
"I can show you to his stall," I offer, fumbling with my keys to unlock the feed room door.
"I'd appreciate that."
He falls into step beside me as we walk deeper into the stable complex, his longer stride forcing me to walk faster than usual. The adjustment feels natural rather than annoying—he moves with authority that makes following his pace seem logical rather than submissive.
"How's your brother this morning?" The question comes as we pass empty stalls, his voice pitched low enough that it feels intimate.
"Good… He actually ate breakfast without throwing up, which is progress."
"Medical advances are remarkable these days. Treatments that were impossible five years ago are now routine."
"Expensive routine," I say, then immediately regret the admission. My financial struggles aren't appropriate conversation topics with someone whose coat costs more than my rent.
"The best treatments usually are. Insurance companies profit by denying coverage for anything innovative or experimental."
His matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the system's brutality surprises me. Most wealthy people I've encountered prefer to pretend poverty results from poor choices rather than structural inequalities beyond individual control. I find it refreshing.
We reach Storm's End's stall, where the chestnut gelding greets us with alert curiosity. Misha examines the horse's front legs with competent hands, checking for heat and swelling.
"Looks good," he says, straightening. "Whatever the veterinarian recommended is working."
"Yeah, the doc knows his business. He's been treating horses here for fifteen years."
"Experience matters in any profession. Younger men may have enthusiasm, but veterans understand nuances that can make the difference between success and disaster."
The comment carries implications beyond veterinary medicine, though I'm not sure what point he's making. Misha speaks in layers, his words containing meanings I sense but can't quite decode.
"I should start feeding," I say, suddenly aware that other stable hands will arrive soon and find us together. "The horses get restless if their schedule changes."
"Of course. Don't let me interfere with your work."
But he doesn't leave. Instead, he follows me back toward the feed room, maintaining a respectful distance while staying close enough that his presence feels protective rather than intrusive.
I'm hyperaware of his attention as I measure grain and supplements, my normally automatic motions becoming self-conscious under his scrutiny.
"You handle this well," he observes as I prepare the morning rations. "Most people your age would find the responsibility overwhelming."
"Most people my age haven't had to grow up fast."
The response slips out before I can censor it, revealing too much about my circumstances. Misha's expression shifts, becoming more focused, as if I've confirmed suspicions he's been harboring.
"Circumstances force maturity on some people earlier than others. Not everyone has the luxury of extended adolescence."
His understanding feels genuine, not the patronizing sympathy I usually receive when people learn about my family's situation. He speaks as someone familiar with responsibility and difficult choices, not as an observer making judgments from a comfortable distance.
I'm loading feed buckets onto a cart when Sonya appears in the doorway. She moves with her usual predatory grace, scanning the room until her gaze settles on Misha. Her expression doesn't change, but I feel the temperature drop several degrees. I look past him and he follows my line of sight.
"Excuse me for a moment," I tell him, and I leave him by the cart to walk up to her. I feel his eyes burning on me as I greet her with a plastic smile and she leads me around the corner where he can't see us.
"Vera," she says, extending a folded piece of paper. "Today's requirements."
I take her orders and slip them into my pocket, but this time, it feels wrong.
Too dirty. The difference between Sonya and Misha is striking.
She has an inky black heart, while his soul is wrapped in velvet and layered in depth.
I almost feel like I'm staining him simply by knowing him and her at the same time.
"Same timeline as yesterday," Sonya continues. "The opportunities are time-sensitive."
"Understood."
"And your friend… Don’t tell him." She lifts one eyebrow, and I glance over my shoulder where I hear movement. When I look back, she's walking away.
She leaves with her heels clicking against concrete as she disappears back into the stable's maze of corridors. But her message was clear—I belong to her operation, not to whatever other interests might complicate my priorities.
When I return, Misha straightens from examining a horse's bridle, his movements unhurried despite the tension crackling in Sonya's wake. "Friend of yours?"
"Business associate. She helps coordinate some of my side work."
The lie sounds weak even to me, but I can't explain Sonya's role without revealing truths that would incriminate me and stop the flow of precious money I need for Elvin's treatment.
"People will see interactions and make assumptions," Misha says casually, as if discussing weather patterns. "They might think you're tied to the wrong crew, running errands for people who don't have your best interests at heart."
The warning hits like ice water in my veins. If Misha can read the dynamics of my relationship with Sonya after one brief encounter, how long before others reach similar conclusions? How long before the new bookie everyone is whispering about starts asking questions I can't answer?
"I can handle my own business relationships."
"I'm sure you can. It's just… There was a girl, couple years back, at Hippodrome Moscow. Similar situation—young woman, sick family member, good heart but poor judgment about whom to trust. Nobody stepped in when things went wrong."
He lets the statement taint the air between us, and I know what he's saying without his being explicitly threatening. Then he changes the subject so smoothly that I almost miss the transition.
"The bridle work here is excellent. Someone takes real pride in maintaining this equipment."
My hands shake slightly as I continue loading feed buckets, Misha's warning echoing in my mind.
A girl getting in trouble. Nobody stepping in.
The casual way he delivered the information suggests it's meant as education rather than threat, but the effect is the same—sudden awareness of vulnerabilities I've tried to ignore in combination with a pounding heart and a thready pulse.
I push the cart toward the first row of stalls, and Misha follows. Other stable hands begin arriving for the morning shift, greeting me with the casual familiarity of coworkers while nodding politely to the well-dressed stranger who obviously belongs to the owner class.
"I should let you finish your work," Misha says as we reach Koschei's stall. But he doesn't leave immediately. Instead, he steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne and feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"I enjoyed last night more than I've enjoyed anything in months," he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes my skin prickle with awareness. "You're special, Vera. Different from other women I've met."
The compliment makes my cheeks burn. He's close enough to touch, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The position makes me feel small and protected rather than diminished.
"I don't usually spend time with younger women," he continues, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. "They're easily distracted, focused on things that don't matter. But you understand what's important. You know how to prioritize the people you love."
The praise washes over me in liquid warmth, validation I didn't realize I desperately needed. He sees my sacrifices, understands my choices, values the qualities that others take for granted or ignore entirely.
"I want to take care of you," he murmurs, his hand coming to rest lightly against my lower back. The contact is brief but electric, sending heat racing through nerve endings I'd forgotten existed. "You've been carrying everything alone for too long."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can. But you shouldn't have to."
His fingers trace along my spine through my work jacket, the touch so gentle it might be accidental if not for the intensity in his eyes. I'm drowning in sensations—his proximity, his scent, the implicit promise in his words and tone.
"I know someone," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Someone who helps families deal with medical expenses. Legitimate assistance, not charity. People who understand that sometimes, good families face impossible circumstances through no fault of their own."
The offer seems too perfect to be real, too tempting to refuse without consideration. Help with Elvin's treatments that doesn't require compromising my soul or risking my freedom? The possibility makes my chest tight with desperate hope.
"What would someone want in return?"
"Nothing you wouldn't want to give freely. Friendship, loyalty… a relationship that benefits everyone involved."
The answer is carefully vague, leaving room for interpretation while avoiding specific commitments. But the way he's looking at me suggests his personal interest extends far beyond whatever professional assistance he might provide.
"Think about it," he says, stepping back far enough to restore propriety while maintaining the invisible connection that crackles between us. "We could discuss it tonight, if you're available. Somewhere private where we can talk freely."
"Tonight?"
"I know it's short notice, but I have a feeling time might be important for your family's situation."
The urgency in his voice matches the anxiety that's been building since Sonya's very first morning visit.
If Misha can see through my careful facade after two encounters, how long before others reach similar conclusions?
How long before the protection I've built around Elvin and my father crumbles under scrutiny I can't deflect?
"Where?" The question escapes before I can consider the wisdom of agreeing to meet him again so soon.
"My apartment. It's private, comfortable. We can talk without worrying about who might overhear."
The suggestion should alarm me. Private meetings with men I barely know violate every safety rule my father taught me about navigating a world that preys on young women without protection.
But Misha doesn't feel dangerous in the conventional sense.
He feels powerful, controlled, a man who gets what he wants through persuasion rather than force.
"I don't know…"
"No pressure, Vera. But if you decide you'd like to explore possibilities that might help your brother, I'll be waiting. Eight o'clock."
He provides an address in a district I recognize as expensive residential real estate where successful businessmen live with their families. The detail reassures me. Predators don't typically invite victims to locations where neighbors might notice unusual activity.
"I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask."
He leaves me standing beside Koschei's stall with my pulse hammering and my mind racing through possibilities that seem too good to be true.
Help for Elvin that doesn't require continuing my partnership with Sonya.
A relationship with a man who sees value in qualities that others overlook.
The chance to build a life based on something other than desperation and compromise.
The risk of meeting Misha privately pales in comparison to the certain destruction that awaits if I continue my current path.
Sonya's warnings about new management, the mysterious bookie hunting for patterns, the precarious balance that keeps my family safe—all of it could collapse at any moment regardless of how carefully I follow instructions.
But Misha represents possibility, hope, the chance that someone with power might use it to protect rather than exploit. The optimism feels dangerous after months of cynical calculation, but I can't abandon it without at least exploring where it might lead.
Eight o'clock. His apartment. A conversation that might change everything or destroy what little stability I've managed to construct.
I'll be there.