Page 6 of Stolen Empire

The girl is locked in the tack shed now after having a go at her for more than an hour in my office.

She's wedged between shelves of bridles and feed buckets with no window and no way out unless I decide to open it.

She didn't fight when I shoved her inside, which tells me she's smarter than most thieves I've dealt with.

Smart enough to know when resistance will only make things worse.

I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time. 1:14 a.m.

The next guard shift starts at two, and I need to make my rounds before then.

The theft attempt has my nerves raw, and I can't afford to leave any part of the operation unchecked.

The Radich crew has been probing for weaknesses for months now, testing our defenses, waiting for us to slip, and my older brothers have already had their run-ins.

The girl showing up tonight feels too convenient, too targeted, and I'm not naive enough to believe in coincidences.

I guess it's possible that she moved in on one of our horses alone, but it's not likely.

Something tells me after Sonya Radich spilled her blood on this ground, her family has decided to escalate things, and the war started under my brothers' watch is going to be mine to inherit.

I walk back toward the main stable block, where the horses have settled after the disturbance, their breathing quiet in the darkness.

Rusalka is back in her stall, penned and locked down, and I pause outside her door to make sure she's calm.

She turns her head toward me, ears flicking forward, and I reach through the bars to run my hand along her neck.

Her coat is warm and smooth, and she leans into the touch.

"You're fine," I tell her. "Nobody's taking you anywhere."

She huffs once and turns back toward her hay net, dismissing me.

I move on, checking each stall as I pass, counting heads and looking for anything out of place.

The operation's been compromised for weeks now, small things going wrong in ways that add up—guard schedules messed with, things left unsecured.

Doors that should be locked found open at odd hours, leaving us vulnerable.

Someone on my staff is feeding information to people who want to see me fail or be exposed, and I haven't been able to isolate them.

The girl could be part of it.

She could be a distraction, sent in to draw my attention while a stronger play happens elsewhere.

Or she could be exactly what she claims to be, a lone thief who got unlucky.

Either way, I'm keeping her close until I know for certain.

I reach the end of the aisle and push through the doors into the training yard.

The air outside is cooler than in the barn, sharp against my skin, and I breathe it in deep.

The yard is empty at this hour, the dirt raked smooth and the equipment stored away.

Floodlights mounted on tall poles throw long shadows across the ground, and I scan the perimeter out of habit, looking for movement that shouldn't be there.

Everything is still—except for my pulse.