“That’s Jasper,” Boone says, pulling his hand back as if he’s been burned.
“Who?” I ask, my mind still reeling.
“Happy Feet,” he explains. “The farrier. He’s here to check the horses.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He stands up. “Can you move your hand for me? I need to make sure you didn’t break something.”
I slowly flex my fingers, wincing at the dull throb of pain.
He reaches out, his thumb gently swiping at the small droplet of blood still welling up from the splinter wound. “I’ll check on your arm after he’s gone,” he says. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
And then he does something that makes my entire world stop. He brings the thumb, the one with the tiny smear of my blood on it, to his lips. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the pad of his own thumb.
We both freeze.
The air crackles with a tension so thick I can barely breathe. His eyes, wide and shocked, are locked on mine. I can see the panic dawning in them, the same panic I feel flooding my own system.
Before I can even process what’s happened, he pulls away and practically runs from the room, the screen door slamming shut behind him.
Doggy jumps up onto my lap, his warm body a comforting weight. I wrap my good arm around him, burying my face in his soft fur, my heart racing frantically and painfully against my ribs.
“I think we should call you Wellsy,” I say. My fingers are trembling as I stroke his soft fur.
It’s a distraction from the man who just saved me.
Knox
The air in the conference room is recycled and tastes of stale coffee and anxiety. It’s a world away from the clean scent of pine and earth at the ranch.
This is the other side of my life. The side of polished boardroom tables, tailored suits, and conversations that feel like they’re happening in a language I barely speak.
Gary, my manager, sits across from me, his face a mask of grim professionalism.
To his left is Ms. Sterling, my lawyer, a woman in a razor-sharp blazer who looks like she could disembowel a rival attorney with a single glare.
To his right is Leo, the publicist, a young man with an artfully messy haircut and a perpetually nervous energy.
“Knox,” Gary begins, his voice low and serious. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. He pushes a tablet across the table, the screen glowing with a dizzying array of notifications. “You need to see this.”
I pick it up. My thumb swipes, and the world explodes. Headlines, in bold, screaming fonts, leap out at me.
DALTON DISGRACED: APBRA HEAD FIRED AMID SHOCKING ABUSE SCANDAL.
BULL RIDING ASSOCIATION IN CRISIS AFTER EXECUTIVE ACCUSED OF ASSAULT.
WILLA JAMES: THE OMEGA AT THE CENTER OF THE STORM.
My gut clenches with anger and disbelief. Jack Dalton. The head of the Rough Riders Circuit. A legend in the sport. A man I’ve looked up to, respected. The pictures accompanying the articles are grainy, long-lens shots of Jack looking furious, and another of Willa, her face pale and shielded by a tall, broad-shouldered Alpha I recognize as her packmate, Beau McCrae.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, my voice a low growl. I’m not big on social media—I leave that to Leo. I ride bulls. I don’t tweet about it. But this... this is a tidal wave. A shitstorm of epic proportions.
“It’s out,” Gary says, his tone flat. “The story broke about an hour ago. It’s everywhere. Every sports outlet, every gossip rag. It’s the lead story on the national news.”
“Was he... did he...” I can’t even finish the sentence. The thought of it, of a man in his position of power, a figurehead of our sport, preying on an Omega... it’s sickening.
