“I told you she would be with the horse,” a voice called out.

The voice was thin, sharp, and entirely familiar.

It was Julian.

My chest tightened, a cold dread washing over me that had nothing to do with Kroll or the Moretti family.

Julian was the man who had owned the stables where I used to work.

He was the man who had worked horses until they broke, the man who had turned his whip on me when I tried to stop him.

I had run from him two years ago, leaving everything behind to hide in a roadside diner.

Now, he was standing in the doorway of the arena, flanked by three of Kroll’s armed men.

“Look at you, Mara,” Julian said, stepping into the arena. “Still playing the savior.”

He held a heavy leather whip in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“She’s a good handler, Kroll,” Julian said, looking back over his shoulder at a stocky man who stepped up beside him. “She kept this beast alive. That horse is worth millions to the right buyers.”