“Welcome to the team, Miss James,” Mark says, his voice perfectly cordial. “You’ll report to Dr. Boone at seven sharp tomorrow. He’ll get you oriented to the protocols, routines, and the animal athletes.”
He extends his hand for a shake, and I stare at it as if it might bite me. The longer I stare, the more I can feel his irritation.
I look back up to his ruddy face. My father’s best friend. The man who would have bonded a minor. A man who thought touching without consent was okay. The man who took this town away from me. And fuck if the burning rage I thought I’d buried doesn’t rear its ugly head.
I’m sure my scent is sour as fuck but fierce. And suddenly I’m not that underage Omega anymore—I’ve just shed my skin and my new one is brighter, stronger, and bulletproof. Iamferocity. I dig deep for a look that says, “I know who you are and what you did, and I’ll never let you do that again.”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” I say, breaking eye contact but not before I register the surprise in his eyes. I keep my handsfirmly at my sides, and I dip my head toward Carrie instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I walk out of that trailer with confident strides, head high, shoulders back. But inside, my Omega is clawing at my ribs, demanding I get as far away from that man as possible.
ONE
willa
“Morning, darlin’.”Eli Briggs tips his hat as I approach the holding pens. The big Alpha treats his bulls like royalty, and he’s one of the few men here who’s never made me feel like I have to prove myself twice as hard. “Got a couple new ones in the mix today. Figured you’d want first look.”
“Appreciate it.” I flip open my chart, pen ready. “What’s their story?”
“Fresh from a ranch outside Cheyenne. Been on the amateur circuit but never faced riders of this caliber.” He gestures toward two massive Brahma crosses, their dark eyes calm but alert. “That one’s called Thunder Road, and the paint there is Midnight Express.”
I approach slowly, letting them scent me before running my hands along their flanks. Good muscle tone, no obvious stress signs. “They look solid. Any behavioral notes?”
“Thunder Road’s got a spin to the left, likes to get riders off early. Midnight Express is a straight bucker but strong as hell.” Eli grins. “Should make for some interesting rides.”
“I’ll keep an eye on them.” I make my notes, checking off their clearance for competition. The familiar routine steadies me, reminds me why I decided to get back here.
The morning flies by in a blur of routine checks and paperwork. By the time the riders start filtering in for warm-ups, I’m feeling good about the day.
By afternoon, I’ve gone through hydration assessments, checked for any signs of lameness or respiratory distress, updated charts, and reviewed the day’s roster with the stock contractors.
I keep my head down, do my job, and avoid Mark Felton like the plague he is.
It’s worked so far. Now I have one more round to go before I can head out.
The Muddy Creek fairgrounds are alive with movement—trucks parked in long rows, families bundled in wool coats, and vendors hawking hot cider and roasted nuts that steam in the sharp November air. Christmas banners flap on the fence posts, red bows tied up neatly against a fresh dusting of snow.
Muddy Creek is dressed up for the holidays, and it looks beautiful.
A loud whistle startles me, and one glance at my watch makes my stomach drop. Hell. I’m late for a wellness check. Tugging my coat tighter around my neck, I take off at a jog toward the indoor arena.
The moment I shove through the side doors, the world explodes in sound and scent. Heat wraps around me. The air is warmer, but it’s heavy too—saturated with dust, leather, hay, and pheromones.
My dual-acting scent blockers are working overtime, but even with suppressants in my system, I feel it like a hum in my bones. There are too many Alphas in one place, too much adrenaline. The whole arena is steeped in pheromones so thick it’s almost tangible; the haze of masculine energy is fucking overwhelming.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and press forward.
The sound is a living thing, alive and electric. The crowd roars from the rafters, boots pounding against the bleacher benches in a rhythm that shakes the arena. Christmas wreaths hang from the posts, and more than a few Santa hats bob in the sea of cowboy hats and wool beanies. For all the chaos, I can’t help it—I love this time of year.
I check three bulls in the holding pens, running quick eyes over backs, hooves, and shoulders. Hydration is good. Respiration normal. The brindled beast in front of me, called Ghost Pepper, swings his head, and I murmur low until the white of his eye softens.
“Atta boy,” I say, giving the pen boss a nod. “He’s fine to go.”
Once Ghost Pepper’s ride is done, I’m almost done for the day, and I’m beat. I’ve got a bath waiting for me tonight. I check my watch again—just in time to see Ghost Pepper tense in the chute.
The announcer’s voice peaks, and the crowd erupts. I keep my focus on the bulls in the holding pens, their flanks twitching, nostrils steaming in the artificial light. My job is to check vitals, watch for strain, and keep the animals fit to ride. Not to get caught up in the spectacle.
By the time I’m done with the final checks, I’m surrounded by a river of bodies. Gate men. Bull fighters. Hands with rosin-blackened fingers. I move sideways like a crab, hugging the fence, radios chattering at my hip. I’m not tall, but I am stubbornly unmovable once I pick a line, and men twice my size flow around me because they’ve learned it’s easier than catching my glare.
