Shit. That's literally on the other side of the arena. "Thanks," I say before rushing out of the room.
I'm shouldering through the crowd, sweat already soaking through my shirt as bodies press in all around me. There’s a bottleneck at the gates when the ring official's voice crackles over the speakers, announcing the start of ceremonies, and my stomach knots.Damn it.
I break left, and the roar of the crowd swells just as I reach the tunnel reserved for performers. When I round the corner into the dim passageway, my heart stops completely. Near the front of the tunnel, I see her immediately, and she's not alone. Another man has his arms around her waist, but that's not even the part that has my heart pounding in my ears. It's what she's wearing.
I push through the cluster of banderilleros adjusting their capes, past the picadors checking their lances. Someone curses as I elbow by, but I don't care. None of it matters.
"What the hell do you think you're wearing?" I say, my hands tightly gripping the saddle she just mounted.
She looks down at me, and the dim light of the tunnel does nothing to hide the fire in her eyes. "What am I wearing?" Her eyes drift over my suit. "I could ask you the same thing, but I'd probably just get more lies."
"What are you talking about? I've never lied to you."
"You looked me in the eyes and promised." Her voice cracks, just slightly, but she corrects it with anger. The horse shifts beneath her, sensing the tension.
"So that's what this is." Heat floods my chest. "Once again, you made me an enemy. After everything we shared last night, you still ran."
I can see my words are touching a nerve. She wants to believe them, but then her eyes narrow. "Did you forget what you're wearing? You can tell all the lies you want, but your outfit doesn't."
I shake my head. "I'm not fighting. I made you a promise, and putting on this suit doesn't break it. I'm not going out there as a matador. I'm going out there as a banderillero." I can see the moment she realizes her error. Confusion and then the realization wash over her face, and something twists in my chest, but there's no time to savor being right, because she's still mounted, still wearing white, still recklessly holding the reins.
I spin toward Rohan. "Who put her up there?" I bark. "She needs to get down. Now."
"I'm not getting down, Trigger. I'm riding." Her voice is steel. Stubborn.
"Like hell you are." The words rip out of me.
I turn back to Rohan, blood pounding in my temples. "She can't go out there. Find whoever was supposed to ride this horse."
"It's my horse." He shrugs, maddeningly calm, like this is no big deal. "Your wife can be very persuasive."
"I'm going out," she cuts in. "I grew up riding horses, Trigger."
"Not horses with their eyes and ears bound." I practically spit the words; my hands still locked on the saddle. "You’ve never trained to take a hit from a half-ton bull."
The tunnel erupts with movement as a door handler appears at the massive wooden gates with one hand raised. "Diez segundos!" his voice echoes off the stone.
Ten seconds.
"It's too late," Rohan says quietly, backing up before the gate opens, and everyone rushes out.
The crowd's roar doubles, a wall of sound that reverberates through my bones.
"Asha!" I desperately shout her name, one last plea for her to end this madness, but we’re out of time. The gates swing wide, and the crowd's roar becomes a physical force.
The bull charges into the center of the ring, and the arena explodes into controlled chaos. Picadors fan out, adjusting positions. Banderilleros are spreading along the barrier, and the air quickly fills with dust kicked up by hooves and boots. I spin, searching for white among all the movement. Nothing.
My heart is pounding so loud it nearly drowns out the crowd as I watch the bull circling the center of the ring. A group of picadors crosses in front of me, blocking my view of the far side. When they clear, I'm scanning desperately. Then, finally, I spot her near the far curve of the barrier. Her white shirt catches the sun, and I'm able to take a breath, but not for long. She's positioned too close to the bull's line of sight, and my relief instantly transforms to fear.
This isn't how tonight was supposed to go. I had no intention of fighting a bull. An occasional distraction to help a matador, maybe…that was the plan. But the second that gate opened and she took the field, all my plans went to shit. Now, I'll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
My heart is lodged in my throat as I watch her circle toward the bull. The first picador makes his pass and the bull charges straight toward Asha, hitting the padding of her horse with a sickeningthud. Her horse staggers, and she manages to hold on, but she's holding her lance wrong if he comes back around. That's when it occurs to me.She's going to miss. On purpose. Every single time.
I get it. She's not here to hurt an animal. Hell, I even bet she justified getting on that horse with no training, believing she could protect it more than Rohan because she cares deeplyabout its well-being. I know she’s here to prove something, but the thing about missing a bull on purpose is you still have to get close enough to make it look real.
The matadors and banderilleros fail to distract the bull. I can't be sure if it's her or the horse; either way, it doesn't matter. The bull is fixated on her, and I see the fear in her eyes the second she realizes he's about to charge. Whatever revenge she was seeking just got very real.
It charges. She holds her position too long, pulling the horse hard right at the last possible second. When she brings her lance down, the tip skates across the bull's shoulder, not enough to wound, but enough to make it wheel back toward her.
