Dead of Winter (Battle of the Bulls #2) - T. S. Joyce Page 0,2

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