Cheyenne and Two Shots Down’s voices echoed through his head. They were here now and riled up on his behalf. Protective herd.
Cheyenne was ripping on the flankman for putting the rope on Dead’s nuts, and Two Shots was leaning down into the chute, yelling at him to, “Buck up, Dead! Train Wreck will take your place if you don’t put Dunbar on the ground. No mercy. Get rid of him!”
Adrenaline pumped through his body. Dead looked out through the slats to the arena again. Gateman was ready, pickup men were ready across the dirt clearing, the bullfighters were all tensed and waiting.
A man laced a rope through the chute slats and flung it around his head behind his horns but in front of the muscular hump on his back. Shit. They did this when there wasn’t enough fight in a bull. Dead hated the feel of the rope sliding back and forth, back and forth on his neck. He slammed his body against the gate, but still the rope rubbed, back and forth, back and forth.
Thunderstruck blared over the loudspeakers, and he could feel Dunbar nod to the gateman.
The second the gateman pulled the rope and it released from his neck, and Dead flew out of the chute. When his front hooves hit the dirt, he kicked high, pushing Dunbar perpendicular so he would slam down on his hand that was holding the rope.
He twisted on the next buck, tossing his head the opposite direction of his body. He needed his hurt shoulder to hold tonight. His tight, quick spins wouldn’t work on Dunbar. He needed the power behind his landings and kicks to rid himself of this tick of a human.
Rage fueled him as his hooves hit the ground again, throwing a cloud of dirt up. Cameras were flashing, the crowd was screaming, Dunbar’s team was shouting for him to stay on, Cheyenne and Two Shots were yelling for him to throw his rider, and then it happened, like it always did. The sound died to nothing, and the flashback began. The torture. The needles. Mom staring at him stone-faced through the window glass of some sterile room. The attempted assassination of an animal that refused to die. The flashback of the pain dumped more adrenaline into him. The echoes of his own screaming filled his head, and he slammed back to earth, twisted, rose back up, and kicked in the air. When he landed, Dunbar went flying forward and hit the dirt on his back.
Dead could hear the wind leave his lungs, but he didn’t care if the rider was down. He didn’t care about the buzzer that signified Dead had bucked him off in time. He didn’t care about anything but killing that motherfucking human because, in this body, humans would always be evil. In this body, he would always hate them. In this body, he would always be scared, and for a creature like Dead…fear manifested as violence.
Dunbar couldn’t get away fast enough. Dead’s black heart smiled as he aimed for him. The bullfighters were yelling, hitting his face then ducking out of the way, and Dead fell for a couple of their moves. One was dragging Dunbar away while two other fighters were trying to get his attention away from Dunbar.
Too slow. He slung his head and knocked one of them off his feet. At the gap he created, he closed in on Dunbar in a few steps. He slammed his horn against the rider’s chest, jerked his head and slung him against Quickdraw’s chute gate.
Cheyenne was screaming something, Two Shots, too, but fuck their words. They didn’t understand how cruel the humans were. They didn’t understand the necessity for revenge. They didn’t understand that he had to do this to feel okay. To feel steady.
The bullfighters were good, but not good enough. They were touching his nose, charging him, two working as one, but Dead only had eyes for the rider on the ground. He tossed his head and bolted the last few steps. So close to the limp cowboy. So close.
Two Shots jumped down from the top of the chute and threw his body over Dunbar, who wasn’t moving.
He should kill Two just for taking that from him. Should kill him for protecting that human.
He should.
He would.
Cheyenne jumped from the top of the fence, slammed down into the dirt in front of Two Shots, and threw her hands over her face.
Shit, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop! Too much weight behind him, too fast, too much power.
Cheyenne!
Dead jumped at the last moment to avoid her and slammed into Quickdraw’s gate. He tried his best to avoid the pile of bodies, but there wasn’t enough space. His hooves slammed down on Two Shot’s leg.
Dead trotted away, feeling like there was poison in his guts. Two. Two, Two, Two. He was limping while he and Cheyenne dragged Dunbar’s limp body with the bullfighters.
Fuck the limping rider, but Two was limping, too. Had Dead broken Two’s legbone?
He trotted around the curve of the arena fences, but it wasn’t his usual victory lap. His eyes were on Two, on his face as he winced in pain with each step and had trouble climbing out of the arena. Dead slowed and stopped, head up, ears erect, eyes on Two. Two, Two, Two, his friend Two. Part of his herd.
“It’s okay,” a woman said softly near him.
Her voice was as clear as a bell over the roaring of the crowd. What? Dead ripped his gaze from Two’s disappearing back and looked up into eyes as black as night. Black eyes, black hair, pink tinted cheeks, black clothes and tattoos painting her skin. She leaned forward and said it again and, this time, the words moved right through him. “It’s okay.”
A rope flung in front of his face and made him flinch when it landed on his neck. It tightened, and then a second landed on his neck before he could back up. The pickup men were here to take him from the arena since he hadn’t gone through the exit gates on his own. As they dragged him toward the open gate between two of the chutes, he locked his legs, tried to keep his eyes on the girl. The girl who stuck out like a sore thumb. The only girl still sitting in her seat while everyone else was up, cheering and jeering. The only one who’d been speaking quietly just to him.
It’s okay.
No, Girl Who Didn’t Belong.
His entire life, he’d stayed away from close relationships, because he hadn’t wanted to be hurt ever again, and now he’d hurt Two. Two, his friend. Two, his herd. Two who had to buck in two weeks and keep his rank so this herd could stay together, and Dead had just landed on his leg.
It wasn’t okay.
Chapter Three
Raven fidgeted with the VIP pass around her neck. “Two more please,” she asked the cashier at the booze truck.
“You can sure put the beer away,” he said. Oh, she knew he was teasing from the sparkle in his eyes, but she didn’t want him to think bad of her. “I’m getting one for someone else.”
“Ten bucks again,” he said as he set the plastic cups on the counter.
She paid and made her way carefully back toward the chutes. There was a VIP entrance there. This pass had cost her an arm and a leg, but when else would she get a chance to meet him? To meet Dead of Winter, the badass number three bull in the world. Well…number four now. He’d just dropped a rank tonight. Some bull shifter named First Time Train Wreck had outscored him, but she didn’t really understand any of the technicalities of this sport. Dead had bucked his rider off before the buzzer, so why the heck did he get dropped a rank? Everyone in the arena had gone wild when he’d bucked and gone after his rider.
Dunbar Whatever-His-Name-Was had recovered. He’d just been knocked out. He’d come out behind the chutes and watched some of the other riders after a few minutes. That was good. At least, Dead hadn’t killed him, but she’d watched the huge black and white bull’s eyes. They had stayed on his teammates, not the rider. He hadn’t cared much about what happened to Dunbar. Something was wrong with that bull. She had to know if the man was as monstrous.