"Yeah," he says, his voice flat. "Perfect timing."
He releases me completely, leaning back in his chair and putting distance between us that feels like miles. His jaw is tight, and he won't quite meet my eyes.
I blink, confused by the sudden shift. "Trigg," I start.
"We should probably head in soon," he cuts me off, his tone now detached. "Figure out if we're staying for the weekend or not."
The warmth from moments ago has evaporated, and in its place is a chill that has nothing to do with the night air. I don't understand why, don't understand what just changed, or what I said wrong. All I know is the walls are back up in his eyes, and I feel like I lost something I didn't know I had.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ASHA
Iwake to cold sheets. The space beside me is already empty, the indentation in the mattress the only proof Trigger was ever there. It's been like this ever since we kissed. Ever since I not only asked him to kiss me but let him into my bed—with conditions, of course. No touching and no crossing the wall of pillows.
He's honored those conditions religiously. Perhaps to a fault.
I'd extended the olive branch after hearing Santiago mention wanting to see him ride. There was no way I was going to let him continue sleeping on the couch, not when I know how brutal bull riding is on the body. I didn't want him climbing onto two thousand pounds of rage already wrecked because he got shit sleep on a decorative couch. Honestly, I expected I'd be kicking him out, peeling him away from my space. Instead, he arrives after I've gone to sleep and leaves before I wake, leaving his avoidance unmistakable.
A muffled shout shatters the silence, and then I hear Santiago's gravelly voice carrying through the air. I throw off thecovers and cross to the window. When I wrench open the thick curtains, sunlight floods in, and my stomach knots.
The training pen sits halfway up the hillside, a circle of weathered wood fencing. I squint as my eyes adjust to the sunlight, and sure enough, it's him. Trigger is in the pen with a bull, a massive black beast with horns that could gore a man in half, but this time, he’s not on his back. No, this time he's on foot, planted in the center of the ring with nothing but a red cape between him and two thousand pounds of pure muscle and fury.
Shit.I don't remember moving. One second, I'm at the window; the next, my lungs are burning as I stomp up the hill. When I finally reach the pen, I'm ready to tear into him, to scream until my throat is raw about his recklessness, his stupidity, his apparent death wish. However, when I reach the fence, the words die on my tongue.
He's...beautiful.
Trigger moves with grace and precision. The bull charges, and he pivots, the cape sweeping low. Every muscle in his body is tensed, but he’s ready and more alive than I've ever seen him. The bull thunders past, close enough that its horn tears through the cape's edge, and Trigger doesn't even flinch. He's going to get himself killed, and he looks more at peace than I've ever seen him.
"He's a natural, huh?" Santiago appears at my side, one weathered boot hiked up on the lowest fence rail.
"He's insane," I mutter, unable to look away.
We watch in silence as Trigger executes another pass and then another. The bull tires, but he’s still no less deadly.
"How does this end?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
Santiago doesn't look at me. "You know how it ends,mija."
"He's going to kill it?" My stomach drops. "Trigger,stop!" The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
His head snaps toward me, those stormy eyes finding mine. For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to just us. Then the bull moves.
It happens so fast. His massive head twists, and the horn slices through the air where Trigger's ribs were a fraction of a second before. He throws himself backward, stumbling, eyes wide as saucers. Then he's running, cape forgotten in the dirt, scrambling for the fence. His boots find the rails, and he vaults over, landing on the other side just as the bull slams into the wood hard enough to make the whole structure shudder.
I'm already moving, rounding the pen at a dead sprint. He's standing when I reach him, chest heaving, hand braced against the fence. There's a wildness in his eyes that hasn't faded yet, that primal rush of surviving something that should have killed him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shove him, hard, and he barely moves.
He's breathing fast as adrenaline floods his system. "What does it look like?"
"You were about to kill it!" I punch his shoulder, needing to feel something solid, needing to confirm he's real and whole and still breathing. "That's what you wanted? To slaughter something for sport?"
Something shifts in his expression. "Glad to know where your concern lies." He shakes his head, jaw tight, and starts toward the barn. Just...walks away, like I'm not worth the argument. Like the past few days of carefully constructed distance has turned into something permanent.
"You're not getting back in there." I follow him, my boots kicking up dust with each step.
"That's not your call to make." He doesn't slow down, doesn't look back.
