Page 26

“ Y o, me and Dante are gonna bounce with our women.”

Emmet saunters up to my corner seat like he didn’t just spend the last hour trying to keep his pregnant mate from hurling a saltshaker at every human woman who looked at her man.

I glance up, a genuine grin tugging at my lips.

Honestly?

I’m a little touched.

I mean, these guys didn’t have to show up tonight.

But they did.

For Arliss.

For me.

And that? That shit means something. I still have to fuck with him though.

“Bounce? Somebody’s been listening to old school rap again,” I joke.

“Fuck you. Rock the Bells Radio is the best damn channel on that satellite shit Max shells out money for every month.”

I silently disagree, being partial to country rock and eighties glam bands myself. Besides there’s no heat in my comment.

Just joviality.

“Okay, well, thanks for coming tonight. I bet Jez is feeling tired these days,” I say, lifting my beer in acknowledgment.

The woman is basically his Wolf Whisperer-slash-Hellhound-handler, and honestly? She deserves a medal.

“You’d think.” Emmet snorts. “She scrubbed the cabin from attic to crawl space this morning. Said she was nesting . I told her we ain't birds. She told me to shut up and move the furniture.”

“You’re still alive, so I’m guessing you listened.”

“You know it.” He grins, but there’s a softness in his eyes that only shows up when he talks about her. “She threatened to stop feeding me and lose all my socks if I didn’t. And I gotta tell you, I believe her. Pregnant women are scary as fuck.”

“What did you say?” Jez shouts from their table.

“I said you’re perfect,” he shouts back, grinning from ear to ear. And I have no doubt he means it. Jez really is perfect for him.

I laugh and shake my head. “Thanks for coming, man. Really.”

And I mean it.

Because this? This is my Crew.

After they leave, the bar quiets just a little, and I let myself lean back and soak it in.

Arliss is behind the counter, all sunshine and sass, moving like she owns the place even though technically it belongs to Bob and his antique register.

But that doesn’t matter.

Because every eye follows her, and not in a creepy way. Well, okay, some in a creepy way. But mostly in a damn, who’s that way.

She has this glow.

This warmth that spreads through a room like wildfire in a dry forest.

And I’ve been watching. Not just her, but how people react to her.

They smile wider.

Laugh louder.

Tip better.

She says she’s nothing special.

She’s so fucking wrong.

Arliss is pure magic.

Of course, some assholes don’t understand boundaries.

Like the string bean motherfucker by the jukebox who’s been ogling her ass like it’s on the specials menu.

I lock eyes with him.

The Bull inside me growls. Loud.

Skinny Fucker freezes, blinks, and pivots on his heel like he suddenly remembered he left the oven on at home.

Good call, bro.

Run.

Humans. Sometimes their self-preservation instincts are blessedly functional.

I’m still eyeing him like he owes me rent when I sense it.

Heat, danger, and a faint smell of brimstone and expensive cologne.

“Yo.”

Zeke slides into a stool two down from mine like he didn’t just trigger every fight or flee instinct I have.

Takes a certain level of Dragon arrogance to stroll into a bar with that much aura and sit like the throne was made for him.

“Hey.” I nod, dipping my chin.

Arliss appears with a grin and a wink, always so fucking glorious, even in jeans and a T-shirt with the bar’s logo stretched lovingly across her tits.

“Hi, Zeke. What can I get you?”

“Beer.”

Classic. One-word Dragon answers.

Gotta love ‘em .

“Sure thing.”

She heads to the cooler, hips swaying in that way that makes my whole body tense with need.

Before she can pop the cap, Bob calls her over.

“Arliss! I need you a sec!”

“Be right there!” she calls back, but not before she leans over the bar, curls brushing my cheek, and plants a soft kiss on my lips.

“Be right back, Baby.”

Baby.

I blink like someone slapped me with a flower-scented frying pan.

“No worries,” I mumble, completely dumbstruck.

My heart is doing that embarrassing, stupid little leap thing, like I didn’t just get kissed by an actual goddess in a dive bar.

Zeke’s beer hits the counter, and he watches Arliss walk away before snorting into his drink.

“Baby?” he repeats, drawling it out, making it sound like it’s a cuss word. “She knows you turn into a one-ton Bull, right?”

“Man, fuck you.”

I don't even look at him. “She can call me Baby, Bubba, Brisket, Burger. I don’t give a damn.”

Zeke smirks. “Brisket, huh? That’s a little dark, considering?—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“Fine. But if she calls you Moochie, I’m taking photos.”

“Don’t you have a fight to start? Or a lava pit to brood in?” I ask Zeke, giving him a sideways look as he sips his beer with the smugness only a fire-breathing apex predator can manage.

He shrugs one massive shoulder.

“I was helping Mrs. O’Hare stock Max’s kitchen, but she kicked me out for reorganizing her spice rack alphabetically. Apparently, cumin is not supposed to be next to cinnamon.”

I stare at him like he just confessed to eating crayons.

“You’re a menace.”

He just grins and leans back, that slow Dragon-lounge posture like he’s perched on a pile of treasure somewhere.

“What? I think spices deserve respect. They have ambition, you know. Histories. Dreams of being the key ingredient to some superb insta-famous recipe.”

I snort and shake my head.

Here I am. A Bull Shifter. Sitting in a bar. Talking about freaking spice hierarchy with a six-foot-five Dragon in a leather jacket.

How is this even my life?

I glance toward the end of the bar, eyes finding Arliss immediately.

She’s still talking to Bob, head tilted slightly, one hand on her hip. She’s all curves and sass, and my heart clenches tight at the sight of her.

Mine.

I turn back to Zeke. He’s now balancing his beer on two fingers like he’s practicing some kind of circus trick.

“You entering the rodeo this weekend?” I ask, partly to distract myself, partly to see if he’s got enough ego left to humiliate himself in front of an audience.

“Nah.” He exhales. “Boss has me training him to rope cattle.”

My eyes widen.

“Max? Max as in Jersey Devil, former city slicker, millionaire Max? Alpha Max? He thinks he can rope cattle from atop a horse?” I blink. “That Max?”

Zeke nods like it’s nothing.

“He said it’s for Crew bonding and so we’ll know how hard he’s trying to make the ranch work. But I think Penny told him he needed a hobby and to get out of her face since he’s been hovering around her and the twins like twenty-four-seven.”

“Uh, so, how’s that going?”

Zeke grins, all teeth and secrets.

“He’s got the dismount down. But every time he throws the loop, he curses in about six languages and the calf turns around and gives him the evil eye. I swear one of them tried to bite him yesterday.”

I burst out laughing.

“Okay, now I need to see this.”

We get into it then, a solid fifteen-minute breakdown on loop styles and catch techniques.

I’ve been cowboying since I was old enough to hold a lasso, so I talk to him about the basic throw mechanics. Like building your loop, swing arc, wrist control, keeping the tip low and the rope flat.

We talk hondo knots, tiedowns, and even slick horn versus dally roping.

He listens, surprisingly focused, asking good questions between snarky remarks about how he once fire-breathed a hay bale on accident.

I get it, because working with Max can be frustrating. He’s got this huge aura about him, but what he doesn’t know about ranches and farms could fill a library.

Still, our Alpha is good. And the Motley Crewd Ranch is definitely worth a few rope burns.

We’re mid-convo about flank straps when my skin tightens.

A ripple across my senses.

Like static in the air right before a storm.

I glance toward the bar again.

Arliss has been away from the front bar for a while.

My breath catches in my throat.

Okay, she’s been heading to the back off and on all night. Restocking the beer, checking the kegs.

But this feels different.

Maybe because Bob’s gone too.

The register’s unmanned.

There’s a line of customers waiting and no one pouring.

Zeke must sense the shift in me because he sits up straight.

“Dude?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

My jaw tightens.

“Something’s wrong.”

I don’t walk.

I leap over the bar, my boots hitting the ground with a thud that rattles the glasses on the shelves.

“Fuck,” I hear Zeke mutter behind me as he moves to follow.

But I’m already gone, charging toward the back like the Bull inside me is on fire.

I don’t knock. I shove the stockroom door open so hard it bounces off the wall.

And in one heartbeat, I see everything.

The air is heavy with the scent of feline.

Musky. Predatory.

Not the cute barn kind either.

Big cat.

Dangerous.

Those fucking cowboys who tried messing with my girl before.

Anger ripples through me, but I bite down on it because I need to concentrate.

I see Bob. He is down, slumped by the back wall, blood dripping down his temple, fresh claw marks slashed across his face.

But the thing that has my beast snorting and stomping inside me is my worst fucking fear.

Arliss is gone.

Everything inside me snaps.

My vision tunnels, the edges going black as the Bull takes over.

I roar, the sound blasting out of my throat with a guttural fury that shakes the walls.

It’s not human.

Not even close.

The customers in the bar will hear it and run. I don’t give a fuck.

Zeke skids in behind me, takes one look at the scene, and his eyes go full Dragon, purple and glowing with rage.

“Call the Crew!” I shout, my voice shredded with panic and power.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Arliss. They have her. She’s gone.”

I don’t wait for his response.

I turn and charge out the back door, fists clenched, heart thundering like hooves.

Nothing will stop me.

Not the night.

Not blood.

Not the motherfucking Rut.

Because my mate has been taken.

And the last thing those bastards will ever see is a Bull on a warpath.