Quickdraw Slow Burn (Battle of the Bulls #3) - T. S. Joyce Page 0,55

proud of you.”

And, damn, did happy look good on her friend. Pink cheeks, big grin, mushy eyes, the works.

They were about to pull the gate on Quickdraw. Brandon was settled again, and Quickdraw was leaning his weight on the chute gate, pinning his leg. Brandon was yelling something at his handlers, but she couldn’t hear what over the cheering of the crowd. Fans were holding signs for Quickdraw, and the song “We Will Rock You” blared over the loudspeakers as the announcers talked him up.

“Come on,” she murmured to herself. “Come on, Quickdraw. Do it.”

The gate was pulled, and there was a split second where Quickdraw froze. And then he flew out of the chute like a bat out of Hell. He sailed toward the rafters, kicking, twisting his body. And, God, what a shredded body. He was covered in claw marks and gouges. His face was swollen on one side. Half of his horn had busted off, and there were streaks of crimson stained into the splintered parts. He was massive, every muscle tensed as he went insane. Brandon was sitting sideways, hanging on for dear life, as Quickdraw slammed his massive hooves into the arena dirt, then jerked the other way, swung his hips out hard, and flung Brandon into the fences.

Brandon scrambled up as four wranglers tried to keep Quickdraw’s deadly attention from the downed rider. He charged anyone close, moving always toward where Brandon was climbing the fence to get out of the way. Quickdraw rammed the fence so hard it dented inward, and the crowd went wild as he turned and trotted toward the middle.

He looked like he’d been through Hell and back, a bleeding bull of the apocalypse. Looking for his next victim, he took off and smashed into a barrel one of the wranglers had ducked into. The song was still playing, and the announcers were gushing. Annabelle couldn’t be any prouder if she tried.

As the barrel went rolling across the arena, his score was announced. 44.1—a damn-near perfect score.

“And there you have it, folks. Take a good luck because you are witnessing history right now. Quickdraw Slow Burn has won the finals a day early. He’s so far ahead in points this season, no other bull can catch him, even with a perfect score. This is your number one bull shifter in the world.”

“He won?” she asked Train Wreck.

Train Wreck nodded. “I knew he would. Whatever shit he’s been through today? Whatever hurt him? That’s fuel for a bull like Quickdraw. He doesn’t even have to buck off Lee Bristol tomorrow, but I bet he will. He’ll give the crowd the show they want.”

Shocked, she cheered at the top of her lungs with the other fans.

Quickdraw was trotting around the arena, charging any wrangler that got too close, also the pickup men who tried and failed to rope his neck. He dodged out of the way and was scanning the crowd. He was looking for something.

“He’s looking for us,” her wolf said.

Annabelle leaned over the railing and murmured, “Quickdraw.”

He twitched his head immediately and locked eyes on her from across the arena. He’d told her he wanted her to be there. He’d told her he wanted to see her in the stands when he finished a buck.

He galloped straight for her and, for a second, she thought he would jump the fence, but he didn’t. Instead, he skidded to a stop in front of her and bumped the fence, rested his head there.

She reached down and pressed her palm on the top of his head, right between his horns.

“Ma’am, don’t touch him! He’s dangerous,” a pickup man yelled a warning as he galloped toward her on a horse.

Annabelle shook her head. “I’m his. He won’t hurt what’s his.”

A glance up on the huge screen mounted above the center of the arena, and the camera was on her, leaned over the railing, resting her hand on a monstrous looking bull that was holding still for her. He was the bull. He was her bull.

Quickdraw Slow Burn wasn’t running.

He’d found her in the crowd and let the world know exactly what she was to him.

They were going to do this.

Together.

Chapter Nineteen

“What if he never changes back?” Annabelle watched Quickdraw trot around the holding pen, spin, and then pace back the other way. He didn’t slow, he didn’t stop, he didn’t rest.

The rage never rested.

His hide was covered in blood and sweat, his head up, ears erect, looking right through anyone who dared to look