The injured bull is in the far pen, and I can see the problem the moment I approach. He’s favoring his left rear leg, shifting his weight like the limb’s bothering him. Could be soft-tissue, stress from transport—hard to say without getting closer.
“Hey there, big guy,” I murmur, approaching the pen slowly. “Let’s see what’s got you so cranky.”
The bull eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t charge, which I take as a good sign. I slip through the gate, moving with the careful deliberation that years around livestock has taught me. Never rush. Never corner. Always give them an out.
“Easy, boy. Just want to take a quick look.”
Hell or Highwater snorts but allows me to approach his hindquarters. Up close, the swelling is obvious—definitely a strain, probably from his transport. Nothing that can’t be handled with some anti-inflammatory and rest.
I’m crouched by his left leg, running gentle hands over the swollen tissue, when everything goes sideways.
Maybe it’s the sudden sound from the loudspeaker or a particularly tender spot on the tendon. But something spooks him, and fifteen hundred pounds of panicked bull decides that the small Omega crouched behind him is suddenly a threat.
He kicks and lunges away from the direction of the announcer booth—which unfortunately happens to be toward me.
I throw myself sideways, but there’s nowhere to go. The back of the pen walls are too close, too high, and Hell or Highwater is spinning toward me, fear-blind. Time slows to a crawl as I realize I’m about to become a very small, very flat pancake.
This is going to hurt. Trampled by a bull because my car wouldn’t start, and I’m too stubborn to say no to overtime.
But instead of hooves and pain and head trauma, massive arms wrap around my waist, and I’m lifted clean off the ground. We clear the top rail and crash down into the alley beyond, my rescuer rolling us to take the hit as the bull slams the fence behind us.
For a moment, we just breathe. Hard. His chest heaves under me, my face inches from his.
SIX
jake
Omega?!The realization tears through me as the woman on top of me scrambles back, gasping. She rolls off and ends up on her hands and knees, sucking in a sharp breath. Dirt streaks her arms. She’s shaking. She must’ve had the wind knocked out of her when we hit the ground.
She could’ve been hurt.
That thought hits harder than the bull did, and anger surges up to meet it—sharp, protective, and impossible to swallow. What the hell was an Omega doing in the holding pens?
I’m rolling up to my knees and bending over her, desperate to make sure she’s okay. I barely register that compared to me, she’s tiny, even for an Omega.
“What the hell were you thinking?” The words rip out of me, rougher than I mean them to be. My hands move on instinct—skimming over her shoulders, down her arms, checking for broken bones, blood, anything. “That bull could’ve killed you. For fuck’s sake, do you have a death wish?”
The urge to protect her, to keep her safe, is nearly overwhelming. I don’t usually react like this to women. Hell, I make a point to steer clear of Omegas. But something about this one has every instinct in me roaring awake.
My Alpha surges, fierce and hot, and suddenly I’m drowning in adrenaline. She’s still catching her breath, her chest rising and falling fast, her head still lowered, and my gaze betrays me—lingering on the curve of her hips, the strength in her thighs, the dirt clinging to her skin.
Even shaken and dusty, she’s… stunning. There’s something about her that hits me square in the chest. The memory of her body pressed to mine when I yanked her up flashes through me—soft curves and lean muscle, like she was made to fit against me.
And then, just as my heartbeat starts to steady, a flicker of recognition strikes.
I’m still trying to gauge any injuries when the sweet scent of buttercups, orange blossoms, and vanilla runs me over like that bull nearly did her. Everything inside stills until all I can hear is my heartbeat.
No. No fucking way.But only one person has ever smelled like that.
She sits back on her heels and stands up, dusting herself off, her back to me. I roll back, lying in the dirt staring at the lights above the arena, trying in vain to get my racing heart to slow the fuck down.
I look up at her and see her APBRA-branded jacket and realize she’s staff, just as she says, “I was doing my job, for what it’s worth.” Her voice is laced with barely checked irritation.
That voice. Sweet Jesus, I know that voice.
Willa James. I’m a fucking moron, I didn't realize it as soon I saw her…
I know I should say something, but all I do isstare at her back likea dumbass, trying to understand how in the hell Willa James ended up in the pit being charged by a bull.
