Page 47

Bront?

“ H ello, my beautiful babies,” I croon at the twin foals.

Keeping my voice hushed, I’m careful not to disrupt the silent serenity of the breeding barn in the morning. The big building is nearly noiseless, except for the occasional tail swoosh or stomp of an errant hoof. A soft beam of sunlight shines through the windows overhead, brightening the space and making it glow.

The baby’s enormous brown eyes stare at me, unblinking for a few minutes before the male hobbles forward with a swish of his fuzzy tail. His long, gangly legs look too fragile to support his body, but I know deep in my gut that one day, those legs will propel him to glory, just like his daddy.

Sully, their mama, glances at me over her shoulder and snorts quietly before going back to munching her hay. That’s about as welcoming as she’s been since the twins arrived, and I take it as an invitation to enter. Unlatching the door, I slip into their stall on silent feet, careful not to startle the little creatures or their overprotective mama. Foals are amazing, but foals sired by your prize stallion are the best—even if they weren’t supposed to be here yet. These two cuties are the result of a frisky young stallion and an inexperienced groom. My father was livid, but as far as I’m concerned, it was a very, very happy accident.

Cautiously, the colt comes closer, and I reach my hand out ever so slowly, letting him approach at his own pace. Both babies are jet black, like their daddy; the boy has the cutest white snip on his nose, while his sister has a clearly defined white heart in the middle of her forehead. They are absolute perfection.

Giddiness bubbles in my belly, the kind of elation that comes with fresh starts and promises of the future. Warm breath puffs against my fingers, and I bite my lip to stop from squealing with delight as the foal’s nose nuzzles and then chuffs into my hand. His sweet baby breath is just what I was hoping for, slowly building a bond of trust like I did with his sire. But when he steps even closer, dropping his head to look for scratchies, my jaw drops to the floor.

He’s such a kind, sweet little soul, and I can’t wait to see what his future holds.

“What are we going to name you two?” I whisper, careful not to startle them. “Your daddy’s name is King, so it should probably start with that…”

In the world of elite horse racing, lineage is everything, so names that showcase a champion sire will broadcast these foals’ value with no further explanations needed. And King is the pinnacle of excellence, the first horse my father let me oversee from inception through training and now racing.

A thrill races through me at the thought of our upcoming race this weekend. Last year, we made a huge splash in the racing scene together. This year, we’re aiming even higher toward winning the prestigious Double Diamond—two back-to-back stakes races that test even the fittest of horses. Win both, and you become the Diamond Crown recipient, racing’s most prestigious title. And the first step to glory starts with this weekend’s Tyrner Cup.

A buzz on my wrist lets me know that my time in the breeding barn is up. With a sigh, I give the tiny colt a farewell rub before slipping from the stall and making sure it’s securely locked behind me.

“Hello, Ms. Bront?,” Paul, one of the grooms, says with a wave as he gets to work mucking out the stalls. His happy whistling echoes through the quiet building, adding a cheerfulness to the day.

“Good morning! How’s Wicked looking?” I ask, peering over the door to the grumpy mare within. Her giant belly looks about to pop, but when she sees me, she shuffles over for a treat instead of trying to nip at Paul. He’s a pro at handling the mamas, but I’m still happy to provide a distraction whenever I can.

“I think it’ll be any day now,” he answers, running a hand over her protruding side. She flashes some teeth at him, but I crinkle a peppermint wrapper, and her head whips back to accept the treat. Her soft nose takes the candy ever so gently before crunching down hard. Moody Mare.

My watch buzzes again with a warning alarm. I had better get moving, or I’m going to be late. With a quick rub over her forelock, I say my goodbyes to both man and beast before walking down the clean, white cement toward the double doors. Though there are six mares and four foals in here, the barn is spotless, a difficult feat, but one my father insists upon. Our horses have the best of everything. As he always says, “We spare no expense.”

The warm sun is shining higher in the sky than it was when I entered the breeding barn, and I move as quickly as I can, careful not to kick up any dust along the winding path. My black riding boots and tan pants are crisp, clean, and shining. Growing up under my Alpha father’s watchful and exacting gaze, I learned early how to present myself. There ought never to be a broken nail or hair out of place, even as a top jockey.

There’s a veritable sea of perfectly manicured green grass on either side of me, quiet and serene in the morning light. A few horses are out prancing and munching in the white picket paddocks further down the row, but I don’t have time to stop and appreciate their ethereal beauty today. The loud, familiar thump of paws alerts me to my giant dog’s surging presence coming from behind.

With loud panting breaths, my Cane Corso falls in step beside me, his brindle coat shining and his tongue hanging out in a goofy grin.

“Well, good morning to you, Dutch.” I pull a treat from the back pocket of my britches and toss it in the air, watching it arc upward before disappearing into my furry bestie’s huge maw. He presses his heavy body into my leg and accompanies me as I head for the training barn.

There are three main structures at Bowen Estates where we house our racehorses: the breeding barn, the training barn, and the stallion barn. There’s also a smaller one at the back of the land for pleasure riding, but the primary base of operations is front and center.

“Hey. Hey you!” a loud, breathless voice shouts, and I whirl around, surprised.

Everyone here knows me. I can identify most people by the sound of their steps alone, to say nothing of their voices. But this one doesn’t register as a friend or foe. Dutch must agree because all the hair on his body stands up, and he moves swiftly in front of me with a low, rumbling growl.

“Dutch, hold,” I order him, and he stands as stiff as a statue and glares fiercely at the large man before us. My eyes flick over him from head to toe, assessing the threat level before deciding what to do.

He’s well over a foot taller than me, with a muscular build that screams Alpha and a backward baseball cap that screams trouble. My omega likes what she sees, from his ripped arms to his toned thighs and everything in between, but it’s the mischief in his amber eyes that truly makes my blood heat. Sensing my discomfort, he holds up his hands, then brings one to rub over the scruff on his well-defined jaw.

My nostrils flare, trying to catch his scent, but he’s not quite close enough. Something faintly bubbly tickles my nose, but that’s all I get from this distance.

Dutch stays between us, his deep guttural growl a warning to the man that he best not get any closer. I rest my hand on my big pup’s blocky head, but I don’t call him off. It’s not that there aren’t often people visiting our stables—in fact, we have clients and friends who travel in from all over the world just to train with us or buy racehorses from us. But this particular interloper looks nothing like our usual clientele. For one, he’s in jeans, a tight T-shirt, and sneakers—not even close to riding attire. Most owners tend to dress more properly.

“Can I help you?” I ask primly, well aware that there’s going to be hell to pay for my tardiness at the training barn. My father hates it when I’m not prompt—insisting that in order to be a part of this training team, I act like any other employee. Which means that I, too, can get fired. Not that I’d want it any other way. I’ve worked my ass off to become one of the best jockeys in the country, not to mention the only omega in the sport. It’s my whole life, and I’m grateful for my dad’s training and the fact that he never allowed me to rest on our family name. No nepotism here.

“Hey, yeah. Sorry for startling you.” He walks closer to me, and Dutch moves to intercept him with an earsplitting bark, rolling back his lips to display an impressive set of teeth. “Is he going to eat me?”

The man flashes me a grin, one that has the most devastating dimple winking on his cheek. My ovaries flutter, and my core heats from that alone. Damnit, it’s been too long. When his eyes do a slow drag down my body, zeroing in on my chest, it’s like a physical touch, and I nearly moan.

What a dick.

“Not unless I tell him to,” I snip, more annoyed by my body’s reaction than the man himself. Cool, calm, controlled—it’s how I live my life, but the flush creeping up my chest has me flustered. “I’ll ask again. Why are you here?”

“I’m here to see. Benny Bowman. Do you know him?” And with that question, it becomes clearer that he doesn’t belong here. Everyone in the horse world knows that Benny’s my father— everyone. My watch buzzes again, this time with an incoming text. When I see my dad’s name, I decide this Alpha is about to become his problem and not mine.

“Yeah. I’m headed his way now. Follow me.” Turning on my heel, I leave the adorably dimpled Alpha with the amber eyes in my wake. A sharp whistle has Dutch by my side, turning his head every few feet to glare at the man stalking quietly behind us.

“I’m Crimson, by the way,” he calls, but I ignore him, letting my long ponytail sway behind me as I try to hide my amusement.

There’s no time in my life for distractions.

No matter how attractive they may be.