Page 12 of Stolen Empire

Men like the Vetrovs find everything out one way or another.

"Katya Volsky."

"Good. Now you're going to work, Katya."

He turns to the men and gestures toward the stables.

"Put her in the stalls. I want them mucked out by noon."

One of the men comes forward, a wiry guy with a sunburned face and a sneer that doesn't fade when he looks at me.

"You want her doing grunt work?"

He chuckles and raises one corner of his mouth higher.

"I want her doing whatever I tell her to do. If she complains, let me know."

Dimitri doesn't wait for a response.

He walks away, leaving me standing there with the men, and I feel the burden of their attention settle over me.

The wiry one moves closer, jerking his head toward the stables.

"You heard him. Let's go."

I follow him across the yard, and the other men disperse, returning to whatever tasks they were doing before I arrived.

The stables loom ahead, and I can already smell the thick, pungent odor of manure and wet straw.

My stomach turns, but I force myself to keep walking.

Inside, the air is stifling, and the horses shift restlessly in their stalls.

The wiry man stops at the first one and points to a pitchfork leaning against the wall.

"Start here. Muck it out, haul the waste to the pile behind the building, and lay down fresh straw. Don't stop until you're done with all of them."

"How many stalls are there?" I ask, looking up the long aisle toward the other horses.

"Sixteen." He grins, and all I see is his disgusting teeth. "Better get moving."

He leaves me there, and I pick up the pitchfork.

I unlatch the first stall and step inside, and the horse—a chestnut gelding—snorts and sidesteps away from me.

I murmur soothing sounds, though I'm not sure if it's for him or for me, and I start shoveling.

The work is brutal.

Each stall is worse than the last, the floors thick with soiled bedding that has to be scraped and lifted and hauled outside in buckets that are too large and too awkward to carry comfortably.

My arms ache within the first hour, my back screams by the second, and sweat drips into my eyes, blurring my vision.

The men come and go, checking on me periodically, and I know they're waiting for me to try to run.

I want to, don't get me wrong, but I won't leave that pendant in Dimitri Vetrov's possession.

So I have to do whatever it takes to get it back.