Dead of Winter (Battle of the Bulls #2) - T. S. Joyce Page 0,11

him names and one of them said, “Now you’re headed where you belong, Dead. To the bottom. Fuckin’ bottom-feeder. Hey, lady, do you know what he is? An animal. Don’t go home with animals. Have some pride in yourself.”

Her stomach turned, and she clenched her hands at her sides to steady the animal that roiled in her middle. That’s what riders thought of the bulls? “I guess I’m an animal too then, mister,” she ground out.

Beside her, Dead was silent but, oh, his body shook, and power and anger vibrated straight from him to fill her lungs when she tried to drag in a breath. Raven had seen enough trash talk in her life to know they were just trying to get into his head. Dead probably dealt with that it all the time, but she didn’t like it. Didn’t like what it did to him or his bull either. A part of her wanted to change and let her animal have those assholes.

“Who was that?” she asked quietly as he led her toward an old lone truck parked under a streetlamp in the middle of a field the venue had turned into a parking lot.

“No one important,” he said easy.

When he opened the passenger side door for her, she had to try three times to climb up into that jacked-up monster truck. On the third try, he placed his hands firmly on both of her butt cheeks and hoisted her into the seat.

She would’ve pretended to be offended, but she laughed and gave away her amusement.

“See?” he asked. “Gentleman.”

Before she could respond, though, he said, “Forgot something, but I’ll be right back. Just stay here.” His smile was a little too bright to go with his dark eyes.

He sauntered back toward the men lingering outside, his hands relaxed at his sides, swinging like he didn’t have a care in the world, but she knew different. She’d felt his anger.

He made his way back to the cowboys, and in the shadows of the arena wall, she could make out a blur of moment.

Shoot! She shoved open the door and scrambled out, but that man didn’t need any help. He was already headed back her way, a smirk on his lips and confidence in his gait. Oh, his knuckles were busted and bleeding, but he didn’t favor them as he held the door, waiting for her to get back into his truck.

“Did you just beat them up?”

Dead shrugged. “They talked about you and made you mad. They won’t make you mad anymore.”

“Dead,” she whispered, “you can’t just beat up everyone who says something annoying.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because…” Well, why not? “Because…oh heck, I don’t know. It’s against the rules or something.”

“What rules are you living by, Raven? The human ones? Those don’t count in cowboy country. They pop off, lookin’ for a fight, and we give ’em a fight.”

“But…what if they call the police?”

“I’ve had, like, five fights with those assholes. The police would just tell them to stop pissin’ me off.” After he shut the door beside her, she watched him stride around the front of the truck.

Dead was dangerous. If that much wasn’t clear from the way he’d bucked and gone after that rider as an animal, it was clear as crystal with him fighting riders as a human. He wasn’t even traumatized. He just wiped his bloody knuckles on his shirt and turned the engine over. It roared to life.

“Do you fight a lot?” she asked, her voice wrenched up higher than she’d intended.

“I don’t know. What counts as a lot?”

“Once a week?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Easy. Those riders can’t keep their mouths shut. It’s like they enjoy getting punched.”

“Do they ever punch you back?”

“Yeah.” When Dead turned toward her in the interior light of the truck, she could see it. His eye was swelling on his left side. “Don’t go feeling sorry for them, Sugar Tits? This is part of the life.”

“The life,” she repeated softly.

“We don’t call the cops or threaten to sue or throw a glass of wine in each other’s face, Raven.” He made a fist, and the cuts on his knuckles bled. “This is how we settle disputes. No one is allowed to talk to you like that. You understand? And if I ain’t around? You better not be letting them talk to you like that either. You’re a Hagan. You’re a true black monster from birth, a longhorn shifter, and I would bet my boots you never sawed