He grabs the cattle prod and a shock collar remote and hands it to me.
“Good luck,” he nods. “Intake building C.”
I don’t bother giving him a response before heading out and turning on the ATV. Bile rises at the back of my throat as I see the thick metal walled cage on the back of the trailer connected to it.
Like the industrial, feral alpha version of the cage Jett forced Mirabelle into.
Growing up as a kid, which wasn’t that long ago considering I’m only twenty-two, these things use to give me nightmares cause Jett would toss me in them and leave me in one of the shipping containers overnight.
Fuck, how the hell am I supposed to get this new guy into the transport cage myself? If I don’t do a basic task like getting him back to the stables, I’m never going to be able to prove myself to anyone.
I’m sure he’s massive, like most alphas tend to be. The other trainers don’t have the issues I have with my beta status. They can just knock any of the fighting dogs out and drag them into the transport cages.
I don’t have that luxury.
One of the few things I do with my days may be hitting the gym, but my strength is nothing compared to that of an untrained alpha.
Fuck it, I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll have to use a fucking forklift.
I drive the ATV over to the unassuming barn building with a C spray-painted over the main doors.
I pause outside, trying to listen for any sign that my brother is still around, but when I hear nothing, I go in through the side door, the shock collar remote and the cattle prod heavy in each of my hands.
My pulse roars through my veins. I’ve never done this before, so I have no fucking clue what to expect. The only thing I’ve done in these barn houses is hose them down after my brother, uncle, or the other trainers are done with the shit they do.
When my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting, I freeze in place.
Oh boy. That’s an alpha all right.
The new fighting dog stands at his full height, around six inches taller than me, so somewhere around six four. He’s exactly what you’d expect a fighter worth the sheer amount my dad paid for him to look like: absolutely massive.
He’s angry too, if his snarl aimed right in my direction is any indication. Actually, anger probably doesn’t encompass the pure hatred and vitriol this guy is trying to shoot at me through his eyeballs alone.
My expression twists into its own, much less menacing snarl, when I finally direct my gaze away from this guy to see Mira huddled behind him. He has a possessive hand wrapped around her hip with his other hand extended, like he wants to keep her away from me.
There are bloody scrapes all along her legs, and her shirt is torn, revealing a hint of her belly button above the hem of my boxers.
My gaze jerks back up to the new fighting dog, and we seem to get locked in a stare down.
Did he do that to her?
If he fucking hurt her, I’ll—I’ll—fuck, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll fucking come up with something.
Mirabelle finally peeks past this guy’s shoulder, her eyes going wide with excitement.
“Rowan! You’re here!” She says, jumping out.
The chain around her ankle clinks with the movement, and I feel like I’m going to throw up all over again.
Fucking hell, my brother chained her to the floor like a neglected puppy.
The alpha lets out a low growl, shifting his body and making his arms pull back as his chains go taught. A protective growl.
He’s protecting her.
From me.
Well, probably not me specifically, but anyone who walks through the door. Especially someone who walks in with another cattle prod.
