Page 28

I started out on foot after her.

Didn’t even think. Just ran, fueled by instinct and pure, white-hot panic.

But Zeke pulled up barely three minutes in, his truck skidding into the alley like a dragon-breathed missile, and I leapt in without hesitation.

Now we’re barreling down back country roads, the engine howling beneath us like it’s just as pissed off as I am.

My chest aches, a tight, pulsing rope pulling tighter and tighter with every mile. It’s our matebond stretching, burning, vibrating with her fear like a live wire against my ribs.

“Fuck.”

I can barely breathe. My pulse is a war drum in my ears.

Hold on, Mo Chroí. I’m coming.

“Go faster.” I growl, low and feral.

Zeke doesn’t even flinch. He just floors it, the tires shrieking as we push past seventy. Then eighty. And ninety.

“You sure that’s where she is?” he asks, eyes flicking over.

I nod once, curt and sharp.

“Yeah. I’m fucking sure.”

Because after that bar fight a couple of weeks back— after I rearranged Tim the Asshole’s dental structure —I’d followed my instincts and done some digging.

Tracked property transfers, followed scent trails, mapped their comings and goings like a man obsessed.

Turns out the Orchard Mill Ranch changed hands about a month ago.

Used to belong to a retired cattleman named Tyson Peaks-Mill.

Good guy.

Human.

Liked cigars and college football reruns.

But he sold it off to a group of interested investors.

No names listed, just a shell company, and some encrypted contracts.

But the scent markers left behind didn’t lie.

Asshole Tim and his merry band of feral dickheads? They’re Shifters.

I was right about that.

Wrong about the subspecies.

I’d guessed Cougar. Maybe Jaguar.

Something big. Dangerous.

Something worthy of fear.

I gave them too much credit.

These motherfuckers?

They’re Servals.

Goddamn oversized house cats.

And yet—they’re dangerous in their own way.

Fast. Cunning. Greedy.

Cowards in packs, but deadly when cornered.

And they took my woman.

My mate.

And not just to scare her.

Not just to make a point.

To breed her.

Rage coils low in my gut, a venomous heat that scorches through me, barely leashed.

See, these dickheads are no better than their wild cousins.

They don’t cherish and value their females—mainly cause there aren’t many. So a Serval pride shares one female.

They call her their queen , but she’s more slave than royalty.

Male Servals don’t value females.

They use them up. One at a time.

But they don’t take turns to be polite.

They do it to ensure pregnancy. They claim a female biologically, chemically— brutally .

One after the other.

Vile motherfuckers.

They will kidnap a woman if she is unwilling. Keep her locked inside and breed her until she can’t fucking walk.

They only stop when she conceives one of their young and no one knows who the fuck the father is.

Pieces of shit. Don’t deserve to live.

And they want to do that to Arliss.

My Arliss .

“Are you sure, man?” Zeke asks.

“Yeah, I read the accounts. But I guess I didn’t take them seriously enough. I mean who does that kind of thing in today’s world?”

I fucking hate myself for not running them out of town.

But I guess I thought maybe those were old wives’ tales.

Same as with the Rut.

At least, that was my secret hope.

But I know better now.

“No worries, brother, we will get her back. These Servals messed with the wrong woman. They won’t succeed.”

Zeke’s reassurance is well-meaning, but I’m too fucking enraged, too mad at myself to be comforted.

The roar that rips out of me is barely human.

Even Zeke winces, but he doesn’t say a word. He knows.

He fucking knows.

I won’t let them harm her. Never.

“Over my dead body.”

The words come from both of us, me and my Bull, fused, unified, unstoppable.

When we reach the ranch, I already know it’s the right place.

The entire property is dark, set back from the road behind a rusted wire fence and rows of decaying apple trees.

The sign out front is weather-worn and leaning sideways.

What was once a charming barn-style home now looks like a goddamn crime scene waiting to happen.

“You smell that?” Zeke growls, eyes narrowing, pupils slitting as the Dragon peeks through.

“Feline. And her.”

The scent of Arliss hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Faint but there, woven with the acrid stink of Serval piss, old wood, and damp hay.

I leap out of the truck before it stops moving.

The barn is partially open, its doors cracked just enough for me to slip inside.

What I see sends a jolt of cold fury through every cell in my body.

Inside the barn, it’s fucking gross.

Old stalls lined with soiled hay and rusted chains.

A cot in the corner, mattress bare, stained, and recently used.

Empty cuffs bolted to the wall, one hanging open like it just lost its prisoner.

And blood.

Her blood.

Just a smear.

A drop.

But that’s all it takes.

I fall to my knees, fingers trembling as I touch it.

It’s still warm.

“She was just here.” I rasp.

“She was right fucking here.”

My Bull rears inside me, all hooves and fury, a living freight train of blood and vengeance clawing to be unleashed.

My rage is enough to call my shift, sending muscle and adrenaline bulking through my whole body.

I can feel it about to happen, but I must hold on to my human skin a bit longer. Sharp and ready, I surge to my feet. Every cell is vibrating, crackling with a storm that only ends in destruction.

I zero in on the scents like a predator locking on to its prey. Funny because I’m no predator. But I feel like one.

Right now, I am one. Hunting the bastards who stole my mate.

Three males.

No four.

Two went northeast, dragging her with them.

But it’s her scent that owns me.

Warm and terrified. Faint but fresh.

It dances in the air like a melody I’d recognize in any storm.

And my matebond?

It yanks me forward like a fucking lifeline.

“This way,” I snarl, already breaking into a run, my boots pounding against the forest floor, crushing leaves and dirt underfoot like nothing in this world could slow me down.

The trees stretch wide and dark, full of eyes and secrets, but I don’t stop.

Not when I feel her close. So close.

Then I see it.

A clearing.

And in it, there’s a fire burning.

Burning hot and bright, throwing grotesque shadows over a makeshift altar of rock and splintered wood.

And Arliss.

My mate.

She’s bound, wrists tied and spread, her ankles lashed tight with coarse rope.

A rag gag is stuffed between her lips, and her eyes, fuck , her eyes are wild and glistening, staring up at the moon like she’s trying to scream without making a sound.

There’s blood on her face.

A thin trickle from one nostril dried on her lip.

And I snap.

The semicircle of Servals surrounding her are dressed in ceremonial bullshit. Bones, beads, paint smeared across their foreheads like they think it makes them powerful.

It doesn’t.

It makes them fucking targets.

Tim, that flea-bitten fuckstick, is standing at the head of the altar, arms raised, holding some nasty-ass rope like it’s a holy relic.

“Tonight, under the full moon, we summon the blessings of our ancestors as we claim our new queen and beg them to bless us with many young?—”

“Oh, fuck no,” I growl, voice low and shaking with rage.

The circle freezes.

Every single cat-faced coward turns toward me.

Tim’s eyes flash yellow as his lips peel back into a snarl.

“You!”

But that’s all he gets.

Because I shift mid-stride.

Bones cracking, sinew tearing, my Bull roaring out of me in a burst of muscle and fury, and I trample him flat like he’s nothing more than roadkill under a god’s hooves.

The impact sends a satisfying wet crunch through the air as his screams are silenced in a heartbeat.

The Crew hits like a hammer behind me.

Dante is already halfway to my position before he lands on one of them with a roar that splits the sky.

Emmet’s Black Wolf tears into another with savage precision, while Zeke shifts mid-leap, wings unfurling, his eyes gold and burning as his flames lick across the property, burning the barn and every fucking thing standing.

But I don’t stop to watch the massacre.

I shift back fast, raw, naked, shaking, and I’m already scrambling up the altar, my hands tearing at the binds on Arliss’s wrists.

“You’re okay, mate. You’re okay. Mo Chroí , look at me, I got you. I got you.”

Her eyes find mine, wide and shining, and the sound that leaves her throat as I pull the gag away shatters me.

“Kian!” she sobs. “Kian, you came for me. I knew you’d come!”

And then she’s in my arms.

I cradle her to my chest like she’s made of spun sugar and shattered starlight, burying my face in her hair, inhaling her like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve been faster. Fuck, Arliss, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

My voice is breaking. I can’t stop the tears. I don’t even care who sees.

She pulls back just enough to wipe at her nose and gives me a shaky smile that guts me.

“No. Yes. But not like you think. I, uh, I head-butted Tim. The blood’s mine. I think I broke his nose, hurting mine at the same time.”

I blink, staring at her, awe blooming in my chest even through the horror.

“God, I love you.”

“I love you too, Kian. I really do.”

I pull her into me again, tighter this time, my arms locked around her like I’ll never let go again.

Because I won’t.

Ever.

The battle behind us winds down, groans and snarls dying into silence. The smell of blood, fire, and singed fur fills the clearing, but it doesn’t touch the light in my heart.

Because she’s alive.

She’s mine.

And no one will ever take her from me again.

Not while there’s breath in my lungs.

Not while there’s a Bull in my blood.

And gods help the next motherfucker who tries.