I stepped closer, ignoring the guard’s warning glare.

“You’re holding him too tight,” I said.

Dante slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“The lead rope,” I said, pointing. “You’re choking him, and he’s fighting the pressure.”

“Stay out of this, waitress,” Marco snapped, his voice trembling slightly.

“Let her,” Dante commanded.

The silence that followed was heavier than the fog.

I walked to the side door of the trailer and slipped inside before anyone could object.

The smell of sweat, leather, and copper filled the enclosed space.

Vesper was massive, a mountain of black muscle, his eyes showing wide circles of white.

He lunged toward me, his teeth bared.

I didn’t flinch.

I lowered my head, keeping my hands down, and let out a low, rhythmic whistle.

It was an old handler’s trick, a specific frequency to mimic a mother’s breath.

Vesper’s ears twitched.

He paused, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the sleeve of my uniform.

I gently placed a hand on his neck, feeling the rapid, panicked beat of his pulse.

“Easy, boy,” I murmured, sliding my hand down his shoulder.

The stallion let out a long, shuddering sigh and lowered his head.

Outside, Dante watched through the open door, his expression unreadable.

As my hand moved lower, near the girth line, Vesper flinched violently.

I felt a sticky wetness beneath his thick winter coat.

I pulled my hand back; my fingers were covered in dark, foul-smelling pus and blood.

I reached up and unbuckled the heavy leather strap of his protective boot.

Underneath, a deep, infected puncture wound had been crudely bandaged and hidden.

It was swollen, hot to the touch, and rotting under the wraps.

“This didn’t happen tonight,” I said, stepping out of the trailer.

I held up my hand, showing the black fluid to Dante.