A fifth horse, a striking paint gelding with a blanket of white splashed over powerful haunches, trotted down the ramp. He was a study in contrasts, bold and flashy, yet his eyes were kind and curious. He bobbed his head, his ears swiveling to catch every sound, a vibrant, living piece of art.
The last to emerge was a raw-boned, leggy sorrel gelding, all angles and restless energy. He was younger than the others, his coat the color of a new penny, and he moved with a coltish awkwardness that spoke of untapped potential and a spirit that wasn't quite ready to be tamed.
Fly stood beside Than, his arms crossed, watching as the man led them one by one into the corral. "Pick one," he said, his voice low and rough.
Than turned to him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
"A gift," Fly said, his gaze sweeping over the six animals now milling about in the dusty enclosure. "For you. I'm taking one for myself." Fly looked at Than then, his eyes holding a depth of exhaustion that went beyond the physical. "I miss my ranch, Than. I miss the smell of hay and leather and the way the heat rises off the land in the afternoon." He took a breath. "Riding...it does something to the soul that I can't explain. It settles things. We need this. This punishing shit we're doing...it's not working. It's just grinding us down."
Than's gaze drifted from the restless sorrel to the other horses. It settled on the buckskin, the steady, grounded gelding who stood apart from the others, observing with a quiet, knowing calm. He was built like the land itself, solid and enduring. There was a stillness in him that felt like an anchor.
Than looked from the horse to his brother, seeing the truth in his words. He thought of the pendant burning against his chest, of the nightmares that refused to abate. He thought of the endless cycle of pain and exhaustion. He met the buckskin's calm gaze and felt something inside him shift, just slightly.
"The buckskin," Than said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll take him."
Fly nodded, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "Yeah," he agreed. My grandad knows us, and he knows good horseflesh. He nodded toward the raw-boned, energetic gelding, who was already testing the fence line with a curious nudge. "I’ll take the sorrel. He's got some fire, needs leadership, or he’ll turn ornery. He’s part Brumby, and already mine."
“His coat is the same color as your hair,” Than said, again, that lightness stealing in almost like a thief.
Even with the horses, the punishing rhythm didn’t break.
25
RCMP WILD Headquarters, TOC, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
“We don’t use RCMP access to pass around photos of half-naked men,” Blair said flatly. Her voice was low, but it cut through the air like a shard of glass.
One of them blinked, wide-eyed. “Ma’am?”
“The emails. The photos. The chain. All of it.” Her voice was calm now, which meant it was far past anger. It was the quiet before the strike. “Does this stuff happen? Of course, but don’t abuse RCMP systems.”
“He’s unbelievably gorgeous. We were just?—”
Blair stepped closer. Close enough that they could feel the authority rolling off her in waves, close enough to see the faint tremor in her own hands. “He’s a warrior in this secure facility. The cartel has marked him for death.” Her eyes narrowed. “He saved my life and yours last week when he warned HQ. Let’s show him some courtesy,” she said, each word a carefully placed stone. “You’re not entitled to his body, and you’re not going to harass an American Tier 1 operator under my command.” They paled, the blood draining from their faces. “Any further violation of access will be more than a warning,” she continued, her tone leaving no room for appeal.
Phones emerged. Fingers moved fast, frantic swipes and taps.
The image lingered, uneasily sharp. Not his body, his expression. Blair didn’t hesitate. She left the TOC and headed for security.
The room was cramped, the air thick with the smell of old electronics. The monitor showed Breakneck, alone. Deep in a squat, bar racked behind him, thighs parallel, no, below parallel, heels flat, back straight, elbows resting casually on his knees like this wasn’t an act of quiet violence against his own limits.
The seconds on the time stamp crawled by. One. Two. Three. At least this time.
She rewound the feed and found him there again and again. A late-night session, and he was holding that squat again, but this time, he was shaking, then he groaned softly clutching his thigh, his face contorting in pain as he collapsed, his chest heaving. He lay flat on his back, and the haunted look in his eyes gutted her.
She returned to the current session. He transitioned without standing, a fluid, impossible shift. One hand to the floor, his bruised and healing torso rotating open, spine unfurling with a slow precision that stole her breath. A man his size had no right to move like that. None. It was a grace that spoke of a thousand hours of punishing practice, of a body honed into a tool of brutal efficiency.
Then the pull-ups. Strict. Controlled. No momentum. Each rep a clean, silent explosion of power. At the top of the last rep, he didn’t drop. He stayed. Forearms corded like steel cables. Shoulders locked. Body rigid and suspended, like gravity had paused to watch.
The only sound in the room was the faint hiss of the monitor and the frantic, thumping pulse in her own ears. Alarm bloomed guilty and fast, cold and sharp in her veins. Damn… This wasn’t a workout. This was a man keeping himself in line. Punishing himself into silence. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Heart racing. Jaw tight.
Whatever war Breakneck was fighting, she had become part of it. He was fighting it alone, and her heart broke.
She immediately left HQ and went looking for Iceman. She found him in his room. When she knocked, and he opened the door, she said, “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
He nodded and stepped aside so she could enter. She paced back and forth and explained the email, and her actions.
Iceman leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, those blue eyes holding hers with a frozen stare. “The kid’s ripped, has the looks, and the skills. He causes a sensation wherever he goes. He can handle a little female attention. Hell, we’ve all experienced it. What is this about, really? You’re wound up tight as a spring.”
