Page 42 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

“Be careful,” she breathed instead.

A slight nod, then he melted into the shadows like smoke, leaving her alone with her thundering heart.

She pressed herself lower to the ground, edging through the thick undergrowth. Her camera clicked softly as she documented more of the camp—close-ups of their weapons, their supplies, anything that might help build a case against them.

Bront tracked her progress, his middle head lifting slightly, but she pressed a finger to her lips. He immediately went still, only his tail twitching against the forest floor. Her throat tightened as his unquestioning obedience.

Finally she was as close as she could get, even though twenty feet of open ground stretched between her hiding spot and where Bront lay trapped. The men’s voices carried across the clearing as they worked, trading crude jokes that made her skin crawl. She counted their weapons—two rifles propped against a log, knives at their belts. Her palms grew slick with sweat.

A branch snapped in the distance. Then another. The poachers’ heads jerked up, hands reaching for weapons. Her heart leaped as one of them barked out orders, gesturing toward the sound.

This was it. Her chance.

She raised her camera one last time, capturing their faces clearly as they moved toward the disturbance. Evidence. Proof. A way to make them pay for every creature they’d hurt.

Then she tucked the camera away and prepared to move. Bront’s eyes never left her face as she gathered herself to sprint for the net.

The roar shook the clearing like thunder. Thorn exploded from the trees, his massive body a blur of muscle and fury. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she watched him crash into the first poacher, sending the man flying, and then she ran to the net.

The knife Thorn had pressed into her palm earlier felt awkward and heavy as she sawed at the metal mesh. Her hands threatened to tremble but she forced them steady as she worked. Bront’s warm tongue lapped at her hands, his three heads watching her work with complete trust.

“Almost there, boy,” she whispered.

A gunshot cracked through the air. She ducked instinctively, but her gaze snapped to Thorn. A third poacher had appeared out of nowhere but he’d knocked the rifle aside, the bullet harmlessly embedding in a tree trunk. His fist connected with the shooter’s jaw in a savage arc that sent the man sprawling.

The last strands of netting fell away, and Bront surged to his feet, shaking himself like he’d just emerged from water. All six eyes blazed with protective fury as he pressed against her leg. A deep growl rumbled from his chest, but he stayed put, shielding her with his bulk.

She urged him back into the bushes with her, then automatically reached for her camera. Through the lens, she captured Thorn in all his wild glory—horns catching the sunlight as he spun, hooves striking sparks from stone, muscles coiled with deadly grace. He wasn’t just fighting. He was defending his home, everything he loved, and the raw power of it stole her breath.

Each frame caught another moment of fierce beauty: Thorn’s face twisted in righteous anger, his tail lashing like a whip, the way he moved like a force of nature itself. Even in the chaos, something inside her recognized the privilege of witnessing this—of seeing him unleashed, magnificent and terrible all at once.

The last poacher crumpled under Thorn’s fist. The man hit the ground with a dull thud, joining his companions in a heap of groaning bodies. Her hands shook as she lowered the camera, adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

His chest heaved as he bound the men with their own rope, his movements precise despite the blood streaking his muscled arms. When he finally straightened and turned toward her, the camera slipped from her fingers, dangling forgotten around her neck as she ran to him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, face pressing into the solid wall of his chest. His whole body went rigid at her touch, but she held on, breathing in the wild earthy scent of him.

Then slowly, like ice melting in spring, he softened. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer. Bront’s warm bulk pressed against their legs, his three heads nudging their hips with worried whines.

The world narrowed to this moment—the steady thud of Thorn’s heart against her cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers trembled slightly as they brushed through her hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his deep voice rough with emotion. The words rumbled through his chest and into her bones.

She smiled against his skin, tightening her grip. Her heart beat in perfect time with his, relief washing through her in waves. They were safe. They were together. Nothing else mattered.

CHAPTER 22

Thorn’s heart thundered against his ribs as he held Sylvie close, her small body warm and comforting against his chest. The metallic scent of blood lingered on his skin, mixed with sweat and the earthy smell of crushed leaves. His hands trembled as he stroked her hair, remembering the savage satisfaction he’d felt while taking down the poachers.

The rush of violence still thrummed through his veins. He’d shown her the monster that lurked beneath his skin—the raw, brutal force he was capable of unleashing. His arms tightened around her instinctively, afraid that she would pull away, but she didn’t shrink from his touch.

Her arms were tight around his waist, her breath warm against his skin, and his initial panic eased. Despite the evidence of his savage nature, she held him without hesitation, and he couldn’t deny it any longer.

I love her.

Gods help him, he loved her more than he’d ever thought possible.

He closed his eyes, breathing in her sweet scent, trying to ground himself in the moment. His knuckles throbbed, his muscles burned, but the pain felt distant compared to the ache blooming in his chest. He loved her so much that he had to let her go.

He took a shuddering breath, then gently unfastened her arms from around his waist and took a step back.

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