Stop Bullshifting Me (Snowy Cozy Shifter Romances #4)

Chapter 1

RAFE

The crowd roars like a beast with too many mouths. Drunk, blood-hungry bastards jammed shoulder to shoulder, sweating under rusted pipes and flickering bulbs. Seville’s fight pits aren’t for the faint or the fair, they’re for the feral. For men like me. Monsters dressed in skin.

I wipe a smear of someone else's blood off my jaw with the back of my hand, breathing hard, chest heaving. My knuckles are raw. Bone peeking through one. I think it's mine. Doesn't matter.

Across the concrete floor, the other guy—Alejandro, or Alonzo, or some other name I won't bother remembering—isn't moving anymore. His ribs are caved in, one leg bent at a wrong angle. The crowd wanted a finish. I gave them one.

“Rafe! Bull’s still undefeated!” someone howls from the stands. A chant starts. Toro! Toro! Toro!

I hate that name. It’s not a nickname. It’s a warning.

"Show's over," I growl to no one in particular, my voice gravel ground in whiskey and ash.

I shove open the gate and stalk through the narrow corridor that leads out of the cage. The stench of sweat and rust clings to my skin, mingling with the iron tang of blood. I feel the beast beneath my skin, not quite sated, not quite silent. He's restless tonight. Pacing. Snorting. Hungry.

The locker room’s little more than a storage closet with cracked tile and a busted sink. The light above the mirror flickers like it's trying to decide whether to live or die. I twist the tap, and cold water rushes over my hands. It stings. Good.

I lean forward, bracing both hands on the very edge of the sink, letting the water run over my busted knuckles.

My reflection’s not much more than a shadow in the rust-speckled mirror.

Black hair matted with sweat, a cut under my left eye still oozing.

My eyes—dark brown but tonight glowing faintly gold around the edges.

Bull's peeking through.

And then it happens.

A pulse—not from my heart, but from somewhere deeper, older. It slices into my brain like a blade dipped in fire. A memory not mine. A voice I haven't heard in too long, echoing in a language we only speak in blood.

The Seal.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pops. “Son of a bitch.”

The Crimson Seal used to mean something. Brotherhood. Blood for blood. Justice without compromise.

Now it’s just a ghost knocking on the door I boarded shut years ago.

“Darius,” I mutter, venom laced through the name like it's poison. “You shouldn’t have called.”

The Seal pulses again, this time stronger, and with it comes a rush of heat down my spine, curling through my veins like molten metal. It wants me to answer. Wants me to remember who I was before the fighting rings, before the blood contracts and backroom executions.

But I do remember.

And that's why I shove it away.

I slam my fist into the mirror. Glass spiders outward with a sharp crack, shards falling into the sink like broken teeth. The pain clears my head. I shake my hand, flicking off red droplets. Not my first broken mirror. Won’t be my last.

The door creaks open behind me. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Her perfume is expensive and reeks of desperation.

“Rafe,” says Pilar, voice clipped, heels clicking across the floor. “Boss wants you. Now.”

I grunt and grab a towel off the bench, wrapping it around my hand, still dripping blood. “Tell him I’m off the clock.”

“You don’t have a clock,” she says, arms crossed over a black leather jacket too clean for this dump. “You’re property. And you just dented his prize fighter room.”

I turn slowly, taking her in. Too much eyeliner. Gold hoops the size of handcuffs. She's sharp like broken glass and twice as cold.

“You come in here again talking like I’m owned,” I say low and slow, “I’ll make sure the next time you blink, you’ll be staring through your own kneecaps.”

She doesn’t flinch. She’s smart. Knows I won’t hurt a woman without a damn good reason.

“I’m just the messenger,” she says, flicking her cigarette lighter. “But if you’re done throwing tantrums, El Jefe’s got a job.”

I pull on my jacket, the leather still sticky from the heat of the ring. “Where?”

“Alcazar District. Penthouse bar. Target’s named Emil Santoro. You’ll know him.”

I pause, boots scuffing the tile. “Shifter?”

She nods once, slow. “Rat. Snitch. Roman’s old meat puppet.”

I don’t like the way her voice curls around Roman’s name like it still tastes sweet. I shove past her, the hallway reeking of mildew and spilled tequila. Outside, the night air is hot and thick, the scent of oranges and old smoke hanging low over Seville.

I hop on my bike, an old Ducati that purrs like a cat with a knife between its teeth. Streets blur. The Seal pulses again, softer now, like it knows I’m trying to outrun it. I ignore it. I ignore everything.

Until I can’t.

The penthouse bar is too clean. White marble floors, glass walls, abstract art trying too hard to impress no one. I step in like I own the place, every patron turning just enough to catch a glimpse of the tattoo across my throat: the broken circle of the Pact, inked over a scar that never healed.

Emil Santoro’s already sweating. He knows why I’m here.

“Rafe,” he says, hands up. “Let’s talk.”

“We are.”

I drag a chair backward, the screech loud enough to cut through the music. I sit across from him, leaning back with the casual threat of a lion stretching before the kill.

“I got nothing left to give,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know they were Roman’s men.”

“You always know,” I say, voice calm. “You just didn’t care.”

His mouth twitches. “I was trying to protect my daughter.”

“You got her caught in a crossfire. You think that’s protection?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

I slam my hand on the table. Not hard. Just enough to crack the glass. He shuts up fast.

“You sold out a wolf from the Andalusian clan,” I say. “Name was Nico. Didn’t shift fast enough. Took a bullet between the eyes.”

Emil swallows. “I didn’t think they’d kill him.”

“You didn’t think,” I say, standing. “That’s your problem.”

I pull the blade from the sheath behind my back. It’s old. Ceremonial. Still sharp enough to cut a soul in half.

“Rafe,” he says again, voice cracking. “Please.”

I look into his eyes, and I see it: fear, yes, but something else too. Regret. Real. Tangible.

I hate that. Because it means I can’t pretend this is justice anymore.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t walk away.”

He blinks. “Because maybe you’re not the monster they think you are.”

I stare at him, the words ringing in a place I don’t want to look too close at.

Then I drive the blade into his heart.

Clean. Precise. Fast.

He gasps once. Then nothing.

No cheers this time. No roar of the crowd. Just me and the silence.

I wipe the blade, slide it back into place, and walk out into the night. The stars above Seville burn white-hot against the ink-black sky, like a thousand eyes judging me from afar.

The Seal pulses again, quiet, questioning.

And this time… I don’t shove it away.