Page 18

W orking myself into a lather is exactly what I need.

Because the second Max and Zeke finally let me up, after physically holding me back from chasing Arliss down like some feral bull on a rampage, I was this close to shifting, charging down the drive, and begging her not to look at me like I’m a monster.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I did something useful.

I mean, I still shifted into my Bull.

But not to hunt my woman. Instead, I let Jed, our resident goat-whisperer and all around handyman with too many opinions and not enough shirts , strap an old-fashioned plow to my back.

Yeah. A real one.

Iron and leather. Rustic as hell.

Why? Because sometimes a man needs something to tether him to reality.

The moment the straps tightened, something in me settled.

Because this is honest work. And I need that to ground me.

Everything I’m doing, I do for her whether or not she knows it.

I should leave her alone. But I know I won’t.

In the end, I might wind up ruining us both. But I still can’t stop myself from wanting her, from pining for her.

The sharp bite of soil giving way beneath my hooves brings me back from my downward spiral.

The rhythmic creak of leather.

The raw pull of muscle with every step as I carved deep, even lines into the field.

It’s not just tradition.

It’s necessity.

And I’m inclined to enjoy it—all of it.

The simple purpose of prepping the earth, tearing it open to make room for something new, something that might live, well, that just speaks to me.

And the soil here in New Jersey? It’s no joke.

Rich, dark, thick with minerals, and damp from a week of good spring rain.

They don’t call it the Garden State for nothing.

I’ve already handled the big fields—the greenhouse produce, the sod, the cash crops like spinach, corn, blueberries, and those tomatoes that practically sell themselves at the co-ops and markets.

But this field?

This one’s mine.

Tucked behind the dairy barn, near the slope where the morning sun hits just right—this is my secret little project.

Bulbs. Herbs. Spice crops.

Garlic. Onions. Basil. Cilantro. Dill. Thyme.

All the good stuff.

That’s what I’m doing with this field. The south corner is where I already planted the bulbs.

This section here is for the more delicate herbs that need the warmer weather.

When Max offered each of us a corner of the ranch to call our own, I didn’t waste time.

I asked him straight up.

“Hey, Boss. What do you think about starting a boutique herb line? Organic. Small-batch. Sell to local restaurants, maybe even bottle blends for home chefs.”

Max said go for it.

So I am.

And I’m busting my ass to make it happen.

The air is thick with that loamy, earthy smell that comes after a rain.

It fills my nostrils as I plow, but even that rich scent can’t overpower her.

Arliss.

Mo Chroí.

She’s close.

So close I can taste her scent.

Warm, soft, laced with a fresh, springtime brightness and something wilder, dancing on the breeze like a fucking promise.

My Bull snorts, head lifting, ears twitching toward her like a compass drawn north.

Even without the supernatural tether between us, I’d still feel her.

My skin tingles beneath my hide.

My hooves slow.

She’s at Max’s place. I already know.

Max told me Avery wrangled her up for lunch.

Apparently, the girls—Avery, Jezebel, and Penny—have lured her into some kind of book-boyfriend-read-a-thon thing.

I don’t know what the fuck a book boyfriend is, but it took ten long minutes before I stopped seeing red.

He said it was a Girl Club Meeting slash Book Club slash Goddess-only-knows-what and men were not permitted on the premises.

Even Rosie Posie was in on it and Mrs. O’Hare, Max’s old nanny turned housekeeper.

I have no idea what they’re doing.

And yeah, I’m grateful she’s not alone, that she’s surrounded by people who’ll protect her if she needs it.

But that doesn’t stop the fear clawing at my insides.

Because those women don’t hold back.

They’re honest. Brutally so.

And if they tell her everything, every last bit of the chaos she’s stepped into, well then, my girl might come to her senses and run.

She might leave this ranch. Leave me. Hell, she might even leave town.

And worse?

She might curse my name on the way out.

And I wouldn’t blame her.

But the thought of losing her?

It guts me.

So I keep working.

Muscles straining.

Ground breaking.

Trying to plant something that’ll grow, even as everything inside me feels like it’s about to break.

Because I’ve already started building a life here. And now I can’t imagine any of it without her.

“That about does it, Kian,” Jed says, voice gravel-thick and raspy, like he’s been yelling at goats or smoking fence posts.

Probably both.

I blink and stare because what the actual hell?

Dolly Lee, his latest little goat kid, is perched square on his chest, lounging like she owns him. Which granted, she kind of does.

And the best part?

She’s in a Baby Bjorn.

A. Baby. Fucking. Bjorn.

He’s got her strapped to him like she’s a six-pound fashion accessory with hooves.

I don’t say a word. Just raise a brow.

Jed chews on a piece of straw and grins around it like this is completely normal ranch attire.

I’d call him out if I was in my human skin and if I had the energy or if the image of him burping a goat baby wasn’t the only thing keeping my soul from cracking apart at the seams.

He moves behind me and starts unstrapping the plow from my back, his motions efficient, practiced.

The harness comes off with a few sharp tugs, and the iron weight lifts from my big bovine back and shoulders like it never belonged there in the first place.

Too bad I can’t say the same for the weight in my chest.

I step away and shift back to skin, bones creaking, air slapping cool against my sweat-slicked body as my bullish hide gives way to flesh.

“Just checked the seedlings in the greenhouse,” Jed says, tossing me a towel without looking. “We can get ‘em in the ground this weekend if the weather holds.”

I nod, too breathless from the exertion and everything else to answer. I wipe the sweat and grime from my face, then wrap the towel low around my hips.

No point in traumatizing anyone.

Used to be, back in the early days of the ranch, we Shifters didn’t give a single fuck about modesty.

Never have.

You just shift, you walk around bare-assed.

That was the way of things.

Simple. Natural. Raw.

But now? Now there are mates here. Women.

Soft, beautiful, mated women.

And if even one pair of dainty eyes dares glance at the full glory of my post-shift equipment, I’d have a jealous Crew member huffing down my neck like I’d offered to massage their soulmate’s thighs.

It’s not worth it.

Even if I am hung like a, well, you know— like a Bull .

Normally that’d make me smirk, toss out some cocky quip, maybe tease Jed about whether that Baby Bjorn comes in extra-large sizes for more adult purposes.

But not today.

Not when my chest is splitting open from the inside.

Not when every thought circles back to her.

Arliss.

My mate.

The woman I claimed.

And maybe the woman I never should’ve touched.

Because I don’t know what she’s thinking now. I don’t know what those women told her at Max’s house, what truths they dropped into her lap like hand grenades disguised in casseroles and herbal tea.

She’s probably scared.

She probably should be.

Because I’m scared too, and I’m the one with horns.

I rake a hand through my damp hair and stare at the dirt I just worked with my own goddamn body, wondering what the hell any of it matters if she walks away from me.

The Rut is a fucking curse.

A ticking time bomb lodged in my DNA, waiting to detonate and strip away every last shred of my will.

I know what comes next.

I’ve read the legends. Heard the whispers.

Lose control. Lose your mind. Lose her.

And if that happens. If I become that creature? That beast that takes and can’t stop taking?

Then I’m no better than my sire.

I hate myself for even thinking it, but the words echo anyway.

Maybe I’m not good for her.

Maybe I never was.

My Bull bellows inside me, a deep, guttural cry of anguish that ripples through my bones and rattles my soul.

He mourns the very thought of losing her.

And gods, I feel it too.

Because all I want is her.

Not sex. Not a body. Not even the comfort of her scent in my bed.

I want her laugh.

Her spark.

Her stubborn, brilliant light.

And I am the last fucking thing in the world that’s good for it.

And still? I’d burn down the whole damn ranch just to be near her one more night.

“Boss says to go get washed and dressed,” Jed calls out as I walk away from him.

“What for?”

“Y’all are having dinner at his place. He says wear a button down shirt.”

I frown. Max might come from a rich fancy ass family, but the only button down shirts I own are flannel.

Oh well. It will have to do because once summoned by the Alpha, there was no backing down.

Besides, if Arliss is there, it is exactly where I want to be.