He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his face went completely pale.

He stared at the screen, his fingers tightening around the device until his knuckles turned white.

“What is it?” I asked, keeping my hand steady on the horse’s leg.

Dante looked up at me, a cold fury burning in his dark eyes.

The phone screen lit up the dark corner of the stall, showing a live video feed of his main warehouse engulfed in flames.

“Hold him,” I repeated, my voice dropping an octave to match the tension in the air.

“Do it,” Dante said, his voice flat and dangerous.

He did not look away from the screen, but his hand on Vesper’s halter was like iron.

I pressed the scalpel into the swollen, hot skin of the horse’s hind leg.

Vesper shivered, a low, guttural grunt escaping his chest, but Dante held him steady.

Thick, pale fluid and dark blood spilled out onto the clean wood shavings.

The sour, sharp smell of infection filled the small stall instantly.

I worked quickly, pressing the edges of the wound to drain it before flushing the cavity with sterile saline.