Page 2 of Rekindled (The MacTavish Heirs #5)
In which we meet Lucas and an infuriated diva of a race horse.
Lucas…
The stallion’s hooves slam against the fence after he’s led into the paddock, cracking one of the boards and sending the stable hands scattering in every direction.
“That’s no way to behave,” I murmur, climbing up on the rail and running my hand along his neck. “You’re my good Molniya, aye? Braw, ye are. Bloody brilliant.” He settles a bit with a huff.
At twenty hands high and 600 kg, the racehorse, the most prized in the Morozov stables, is pitch black and temperamental, a bit of a gallus . We’re moving him tomorrow and he knows it, watching with an angry eye as his custom horse trailer is getting prepped.
“No paleerie, no tantrums, my lad.” Moving my hand over his glossy neck, soothing him until the stable hands approach him cautiously.
“How’s he doing today?” Denis says, eyeing Molniya cautiously. “He dislocated Akim’s shoulder last night.”
“I’m guessing Akim approached him from his left side? Ye know he hates that.”
“Yes, probably.” Denis looks morose as he reaches us, moving painfully slow as he reaches for the reins. I’m smoothing my hand over and over Molniya’s flank, murmuring soft nonsense as he yanks his head away, nickering angrily.
“None of that, lad. None of that now,” I whisper in his twitching ear. He looks at me resentfully, but he allows Denis to lead him toward the stable.
“One day, I want the story of how you ended up here in the ass end of Siberia.” Rurik Morozov steps onto the rail on the fence with me. He’s Yuri’s son, and his father is the Sovietnik of the Morozov Bratva.
“I’m thinking the question is, why are ye here?” I watch the stable hand gingerly lead Molniya to his stall. He needs to show strength. That horse can smell fear. “Ye being the first son and all that. Why did your Da send ye to the stables?”
He pushes his blond hair out of his eyes. “ Otets decided I needed humbling.”
Stifling a chuckle, I nod gravely. “Aye. You’re in the right place for that, then.”
This is correct. The Morozov holdings in Siberia are vast and varied, but when it comes to utterly bleak, there’s nothing like Konnosportivnyy Nauchnyy Tsentr.
The grandly named Equestrian Science Facility does handle DNA research and breeding some of the finest race horses in the world, but that’s the least of what happens here.
The Pakhan of the Morozov Bratva has his fingers in a dozen illicit industries. Since the ranch is close to the port city of Vladivostok, smuggling desired items in and out under less scrutiny one would find in other Russian cities, makes it ideally suited for his plans.
The ranch is also a frozen fecking stretch of Hell seventy-five percent of the year and the most exciting thing that happens here is the new delivery of hay and vodka every month.
After three years of guarding his race horses and more ignominiously, their sperm, I would be acutely grateful to work with smuggling weapons, illegal mining, anything but spoiled equestrians.
You broke the first rule of guarding an asset…
I tell my inner voice to shut the feck up and pay attention to Rurik.
“Humbling because…?”
He looks away, mouth twisting in fury. “Let’s just say that a project I’d been overseeing to create a new revenue stream ran into some difficulties. ”
I dinnae laugh, but it’s taking some effort. “Let me guess. Running stolen sports cars? Peddling a new designer drug?”
Rurik clears his throat. “The second.” He brightens a bit. “Though the first sounds intriguing.”
“Maybe serve your time here before coming up with something new to enrage your Da, aye?” I slap him on the shoulder and head for my cabin.
Most of the men - and the few women here - stay in the main house, but I prefer my privacy. An icy surge of wind nearly knocks me off my feet, slamming my front door open. It’s June, high summer here and a balmy ten degrees Celsius.
My phone buzzes as I get my door shut and turn on an old lamp.
“Stewart here.”
“Lucas. It’s Cormac.”
My grip tightens on my phone and the screen cracks. “Aye, Chieftain.”
Fecking Chieftain Cormac MacTavish shouldn't be calling me. He made it clear I was dead to the clan.
“Catriona, she’s-” His authoritative voice deserts him for a moment before he regains his composure. “She’s been taken. We’ve got nothing. No sign. No trail to follow. ”
“I’ll charter a jet and be there within twelve hours.”
“I’m sending my personal jet for ye,” he says.
“Takes too long.” My sentences shorten when emotion clogs my throat. “I’ll be there.”
Then the Chieftain - who nearly shot me when I visited him that day three years ago - says something shocking.
“Thank ye, Lucas. I… we need ye.”
***
Molniya - Russian for Thunderbolt
Gallus - Scottish slang for cheeky, arrogant and pretentious
Braw - Scottish slang for fine or attractive
Paleerie - Scottish slang for a tantrum
Sovietnik - the second in command in a Russian Bratva
Otets - Russian for father