Page 120 of Saddle and Scent
The letter is written in the kind of formal language that lawyers use when they want to sound threatening without actually making direct threats. It talks about "development opportunities" and "fair market value" and "beneficial partnerships for the community."
But underneath the corporate speak, the message is clear:
He wants my land.
And he's not planning to take no for an answer.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the letter.
My scent is probably broadcasting my distress to anyone within a mile radius.
And I have no idea what to do with the fact that my past has apparently followed me to the one place I thought I might finally be safe.
"Why do you smell distressed and frightened as fuck?"
Callum's voice cuts through my spiraling panic like a blade.
He's approaching from the direction of the barn, tools in his hands and concern etched across his features.
His nostrils are flared, clearly reading my emotional state through scent alone.
I try to play it off, folding the letter and attempting a casual smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
"It's nothing," I say, but my voice comes out shaky and unconvincing. "Just some junk mail that surprised me."
Callum is not buying it for a second.
He drops his tools and closes the distance between us in three long strides, invading my personal space with the kind of Alpha intensity that would normally make me bristle with defensive instincts.
But right now, his presence is more comforting than threatening.
Right now, I need someone strong and capable and willing to fight for me.
He leans in close, inhaling deeply near my neck, and the growl that rumbles from his chest is pure predatory menace.
"That's not 'nothing,'" he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that means business. "You smell like fear and panic and distress. So I'm going to ask again—who do I need to kill?"
The casual way he mentions murder should probably concern me.
Instead, it makes me feel protected in a way I haven't experienced since I was young enough to believe that the people who loved me could actually keep me safe from everything.
"You don't need to kill anyone," I huff, though I can't quite suppress the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Murder is illegal, even in Saddlebrush."
He rolls his eyes at my attempt at levity, but his expression remains serious. When he holds out his hand expectantly, I know there's no point in trying to hide the letter from him.
He's going to find out anyway.
And honestly, I'm tired of carrying burdens alone.
Tired of trying to handle everything by myself when there are people willing to help.
I hand over the letter with reluctant resignation, watching his face as he reads. The transformation is immediate and alarming—his jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, and the growl that builds in his chest is so low I feel it more than hear it.
"Marcus Steele," he says the name like it tastes bad. "The same asshole who made you sleep outside?"
I nod, surprised that he remembers the details from my brief, embarrassing explanation about my dating history one night.
Of course he remembers.
