Page 15 of Wild Then Wed
The horse is massive—tall, all lean muscle. His bay coat is dark brown and glossy beneath the sweat, streaked with foam where it gathers along his flanks and neck. His mane is tangled, half-matted to his neck from panic and sweat, and his eyes are wild, the whites flashing with every frenzied pass. There’s a jagged scar across one shoulder, old but angry-looking, and one of his back legs flicks out every few strides like he’s trying to shake off a ghost.
His ribs are visible—not from lack of food, but from the way his body’s locked in survival mode. Every inch of him is tight and coiled, like he’s seconds away from launching himself into a wall just to get away.
Two trainers are in the middle, arms up, ropes out, trying to corner him, which is clearly only making it worse.
The horse’s eyes are wide and white, foam flecking at the corners of his mouth. His chest heaves like he just ran three miles straight uphill. And these fuckers are trying tolungehim?
What the actual hell kind of trainers do they have over here?
I drop my bag near the fence and take a few steps forward, just out of the way but close enough to get a better look. My eyes stay locked on the horse, tracking the frantic rhythm of his hooves, the way he cuts the corners sharp.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a horse this far gone.
And it hits me, low and hard in the stomach. I know this look. The wild-eyed fear. The frantic movement that’s more reaction than intention. He’s not here. He’s somewhere else—somewhere worse—and everything in him is just trying not to break.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and keep my hands at my sides. No sudden moves. Just breathe.
“You’re not helping, idiots,” I mutter under my breath, shooting a glare at the trainers still flapping around like they’re herding cattle.
One of them actually whistles.Whistles.
Jesus Christ.
I shift my weight and catch movement to my left. I glance over.
And—okay.Wow.
There’s a guy standing near the gate. Just…standing there. And he’s fucking huge. At least a foot taller than me and he’sjacked. His arms are crossed tight across a broad chest, his sharp jaw locked, muscles in his neck pulled taut. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up, his forearms all veiny and tense—like he’s been out there wrestling livestock just for the hell of it. He’s built like a Norse god. His hair’s cut short—somewhere between blond and brown, clean and neat.
He’s not hot, obviously.
I mean—technically,yes. He’s extremely attractive. Perfectly symmetrical face, square jaw, biceps bigger than my actual head. But he knows it. Guys like that always do.
Which makes themnothot.
It makes them annoying. And, most of the time, assholes.
Annoying assholes.
Still, I look for half a second too long before snapping my gaze back to the horse. My eyes track the movement automatically—one of the trainers peeling off from the circle and disappearing behind the barn.
Good. Maybe he’s finally getting a clue and tapping the hell out.
Except he comes back holding a whip. My stomach drops.
A fucking whip?
I shoot a look at Vaughn. He sees it too, and his face hardens.
“Tell them to stop,” I snap.
He raises his voice, calling out their names. But they’re too far and the horse is too loud—ears ringing with hooves pounding and adrenaline spiking. They don’t hear him.
I don’t think. I just move.
I shove the gate open and sprint into the round pen.
Is it smart? No. Is it safe? Also no. But if that jackass gets one hit in with that whip, this horse is never coming back from it.
