Page 128 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

“She was right fucking here.”

My Bull rears inside me, all hooves and fury, a living freight train of blood and vengeance clawing to be unleashed.

My rage is enough to call my shift, sending muscle and adrenaline bulking through my whole body.

I can feel it about to happen, but I must hold on to my human skin a bit longer. Sharp and ready, I surge to my feet. Every cell is vibrating, crackling with a storm that only ends in destruction.

I zero in on the scents like a predator locking on to its prey. Funny because I’m no predator. But I feel like one.

Right now, I am one. Hunting the bastards who stole my mate.

Three males.

No four.

Two went northeast, dragging her with them.

But it’s her scent that owns me.

Warm and terrified. Faint but fresh.

It dances in the air like a melody I’d recognize in any storm.

And my matebond?

It yanks me forward like a fucking lifeline.

“This way,” I snarl, already breaking into a run, my boots pounding against the forest floor, crushing leaves and dirt underfoot like nothing in this world could slow me down.

The trees stretch wide and dark, full of eyes and secrets, but I don’t stop.

Not when I feel her close. So close.

Then I see it.

A clearing.

And in it, there’s a fire burning.

Burning hot and bright, throwing grotesque shadows over a makeshift altar of rock and splintered wood.

And Arliss.

My mate.

She’s bound, wrists tied and spread, her ankles lashed tight with coarse rope.

A rag gag is stuffed between her lips, and her eyes, fuck, her eyes are wild and glistening, staring up at the moon like she’s trying to scream without making a sound.

There’s blood on her face.

A thin trickle from one nostril dried on her lip.

And I snap.

The semicircle of Servals surrounding her are dressed in ceremonial bullshit. Bones, beads, paint smeared across their foreheads like they think it makes them powerful.

It doesn’t.

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