Chapter 8 #2
“Twenty-two hundred!” someone called, and the crowd murmured. That was higher than I’d dreamed, and it wasn’t even noon.
“Twenty-two, now twenty-three, do I hear three?” The auctioneer’s voice could’ve cut through a tornado.
A hand from the Hill Country crew went up. “Twenty-three!”
Another, from the city boys. “Twenty-four!”
It ping-ponged like that, back and forth, the numbers rising faster than the dust. By the end of it, the top steer went for twenty-six fifty, and the rest followed just behind.
When the gavel came down, I felt it like a punch to the chest. Arsenal clapped me on the shoulder, harder than needed, and I let myself grin. It was a damn good haul.
We moved on to the heifers, and the action didn’t slow.
The calves got more attention than I expected—good genetics always paid off, but it was something else, the way buyers argued in low voices about my breeding line.
I caught the words ‘Iron Valor’ more than once.
By the end, we’d cleared nearly twenty thousand for the whole run.
It should have felt like a victory, and in a way, it did. But every time the auctioneer called my name, every time someone mentioned the Walsh bloodline, my mind skipped like a stone, bouncing from the barn to Brie’s last message, the sly way she’d said “maybe” when I asked if she was wet.
I wondered what she was doing now. Painting, probably, or arguing with her mother over the merits of American breakfast food.
I pictured her at the little table in Aspen’s bakery, hunched over a sketchbook with paint on her fingers and hair falling in her eyes.
The image made my cock twitch, which was as inappropriate as it was inevitable.
Arsenal noticed. Of course, he did. He was a predator, too.
“Gunner, you with me?” he said, voice low, nudging me back to reality.
“Always,” I said, but my own voice sounded far-off.
He smirked, but didn’t press. “Good. Because if those Waco boys get rowdy, I’m not bailing your ass out of jail. Not this time.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” I said, but I kept one eye on the edge of the barn, where the Waco crew was clustered. They watched me, but it was more curiosity than threat. We’d kicked enough teeth in enough times to keep them nervous, at least for now.
We loaded out the remaining calves, Arsenal doing most of the heavy work while I handled the paperwork and smiled at buyers who wanted to shake my hand.
I hated the politeness of it, the way men pretended to care about you when it was really just about the next transaction.
But I played the game, because that’s what you did.
By two, we were done. I signed off the last bill of sale and let Arsenal lead the way to the trucks.
Our hands joined us, respectively, and the ride was quiet. The road back to Dairyville was long and mostly empty, fields stretching out on both sides, every fence post and cow skull glowing in the late sun.
I watched the road, letting my mind drift.
The memory of Brie came back stronger now.
The way she’d looked at me that morning, chin up but eyes wide, like she wanted to run and stay at the same time.
The way she’d said my name, just once, soft as a confession.
I could smell her on my skin, even through the sweat and dust of the auction barn.
Somewhere near Amarillo, my phone buzzed. I checked it without thinking. It was a photo from Brie: her hand, paint-smudged, holding a coffee cup with a smiley face in Sharpie on the side. Underneath, she’d written: “Try not to start a fight. I want to see you with both eyebrows intact.”
I smiled, despite myself. I thought about replying but didn’t want to seem too eager. But I knew I was already doomed.
The sun dipped low, turning every ditch and fence into a silhouette. We made Dairyville by dusk, the town so still you’d think nothing ever happened here.
But I knew better. Trouble never left for long.
As we pulled up to the Iron Valor clubhouse, I saw the lights were on. Bronc was waiting. I squared my shoulders, forcing my mind to focus.
Tonight, I’d eat, catch up on my sleep. I’d wait until tomorrow to see Brie. I’d force myself to send her one quick text:
Made it home safe. Gonna shower and hit the hay. We’ll talk tomorrow. Night Maverick.
Saw three dots. Then nothing. I’m sure she was pissed. I really didn’t want to piss her off. I was exhausted. Maybe this could be lesson one in little Brie not getting her way.
I got out of the shower to a terse message waiting.
Oh yeah. She didn’t like the fact that I hadn’t made time for her.
She didn’t even consider how long I’d been on the road or how little sleep I’d gotten the night before.
She didn’t say something like, glad you’re home safe.
Or, I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Nope.
Not my little brat. This is the message I got:
“Fine.”
Which, when a woman says, fine, that generally means it’s anything but.
Pearl ran the kitchen like it were the bridge of a warship, and every man who crossed her threshold was either a soldier, a stowaway, or on KP duty until further notice.
The main table in the Iron Valor clubhouse was packed: Bronc at the head, his Alpha presence undeniable even in a t-shirt and tattered jeans, Arsenal at his right, Wrecker left, and Big Papa squeezed next to Arsenal with a gravity that pulled all conversation his way.
Doc sat in his usual seat next to Wrecker, and I took the last seat on the other side of Papa.
The food was classic Texas: biscuits dripping butter, sausage gravy laced with red pepper, scrambled eggs fluffy as whipped clouds, and bacon thick enough that you could use them as treads on a sled.
Pearl set each plate down herself, dishing them up with a smile that dared you to criticize the seasoning.
“Eat up, boys,” she said. “You look like you’ve been living on caffeine and regret.”
Papa snorted. “Ain’t that the Iron Valor food pyramid?”
Arsenal, already halfway through his second helping, just nodded and kept eating.
I’d barely made it to my seat before Bronc’s gaze zeroed in on me. “Report.”
It wasn’t a question. The room went quiet, except for the scrape of forks on plates.
I gave him the numbers first, because that’s what he wanted.
“Cleared just under twenty thousand net, and there’s already talk about booking next year’s calves in advance.
Buyers came from as far as Galveston and Oklahoma City.
I heard two say our stock is better than half the legacy lines in the state. ”
Arsenal backed me up. “He’s not exaggerating. Men were taking pictures of our steers for their social media. It’s getting to be a brand.”
Bronc’s mouth twitched up at the corners, a rare public display of pride. “Good work. Both of you.”
Pearl topped off Bronc’s mug, then circled around to Papa. “Anything to add, sweetheart?”
Papa shook his head. “Not unless you want to hear about the time Gunner tried to break a longhorn with a piece of licorice and a strip of duct tape.”
Arsenal leaned in, voice deadpan. “He got thrown so far, his boots landed before he did.”
I grinned, let the room enjoy the joke. “Yeah, and I still made it to breakfast. Unlike some people.”
Pearl bopped me with a towel. “That’s enough, boys. Let’s talk business.”
Bronc shifted, and the room tensed like a coiled spring. “We’ve had eyes on Maltraz since he went underground, but the trail’s colder than a witch’s tit in January. No hits, no chatter, not even a whisper from the local packs.”
Arsenal put down his fork, posture going rigid. “He’s not the type to just run. He tried to drain our accounts, poisoned half our pack, and his demons nearly killed Papa.” He gave a tight nod to Big Papa, who just shrugged like getting possessed and bled out by demons was all in a day’s work.
“We know he’s still trafficking women,” Wrecker said, voice low. “Word from the coast is, he’s paying good money for supernatural girls. Human, too. The jobs go through burner phones and third parties, but it’s all Maltraz.” His words made my head hurt.
Papa wiped his mouth, slow and deliberate. “I’d pay a month’s wages to rip his spine out myself.”
Bronc’s eyes narrowed, blue as an arctic lake. “The Council’s supposedly aware. The very demon king who’s running the operation sits on the goddamn Council, and they’re aware.”
Arsenal’s laugh was all frost. “They’re aware. Ya think? And they’re gonna do fuck all about it. Until they take someone who belongs to the Council, they are gonna ignore the issue.”
Bronc looked around the table, weighing the mood. “I need to know. Are we gonna take this fight to him? Or do we sit and wait for him to bring it back to our doorstep, because he damn sure will bring it back? And Gunner, when he does, he’s gonna have both barrels aimed right at your girl.”
All eyes at the table were suddenly focused on me. Not everyone was aware that Brie was my mate. Hell, she wasn’t even aware.
“Guess that fucking cat just got yanked right out of the bag. I haven’t even had this talk with Brie yet, but she’s my mate.”
After a series of whoops and ‘bout times, it got quiet again.
“And I know that Maltraz likely will target her since she got away in Paris. I don’t know if I like her being a sitting duck.” I caught all the eyes in the room when I told them that.
Papa raised his gigantic hand. “Maybe we could bait him. Put the word out that Iron Valor’s got a line on a rare blood witch. Maltraz can’t resist a flex.”
I met Bronc’s gaze. “Or we do it the old way. Call in a favor from King Rafe. Tell him the demon king’s running girls through his territory. Rafe’ll be pissed enough to use his own dogs.”
Bronc rubbed his jaw, frown deepening. “Both of those have merit. But we have to be smart. Maltraz has eyes everywhere. We show our hand too early, we lose.”
Papa grinned, wide and sharp. “Then we don’t show our hand. We show our teeth.”
The table went silent, every man chewing on the words.
Pearl started to clear plates but paused at my shoulder. “You all need to remember who you are. Iron Valor built a legacy by outsmarting the bastards, not just by out-muscling them.” She patted my back, gentle. “Use your head, Gunner. You’ve got a good one.”
I swallowed, the compliment landing harder than I expected. “Yes, ma’am.”
Bronc finally spoke. “Wrecker, start tracing the buyers on those girls. Quietly. Papa, see if the witches in Amarillo have heard anything—no one talks to strangers, but they’ll talk to you and Aspen.
” He turned to me. “Gunner, you’re on recon.
If Maltraz is baiting the pack, I want you to be the one he sniffs out first.”
I straightened, pulse pounding. “Copy.”
Pearl started to laugh, but it was soft and secret. “My boys, all grown up and ready to start another war.”
Papa reached for another lemon bar. “We’re getting damn good at it.”
We finished breakfast without another word about Maltraz. The next hour was for strategizing, mapping out contacts, figuring who would run interference and who would play decoy. Bronc stayed at the head, but his eyes were on me more than usual, like he was waiting for me to crack.
I didn’t, not this time.
When the room emptied, Pearl caught me alone. She fixed my collar, like I was a child again, then leaned in close. “Be careful with that girl, Finn. She’s got more power than you think.”
I nodded. “I know.”
She kissed my cheek, then went back to her kitchen, leaving me in the doorway with the smell of roses and coffee and the faintest touch of her perfume.
Outside, the sun was already burning off the morning haze. I saw Arsenal and Papa heading out. Bronc stood on the porch, arms folded, watching the road.
For the first time in weeks, I felt settled. Not calm—never that—but settled.
I knew I needed to go pick Brie up. We needed to talk, but not at her house. She was coming over to my place this time.