They say the Black Ranch runs half the county. Some say more.

It’s miles of scorched earth and gold-tipped grass, stitched together by barbed wire and old money. And Regulus Black rides it like he was born in the saddle — black Stetson, boots polished like sin, and a six-shooter he doesn’t flash unless he means to use it.

The plan was simple: slip into the stable just before dusk, grab the fastest horse, and be three counties gone by nightfall. You’d done worse for less. And besides, the Black ranch had more horses than they knew what to do with.

The stable was supposed to be empty. Midnight. Wind low. The guards distracted. You’re quiet — careful — boots muffled in the dust as you lead the mare from her stall. She’s a beauty. Sleek, skittish, untamed. Same as you.

The reins are firm in your hand. The barn door just a breath away.

And then — Click.

“You’re either brave,” said a voice behind you, smooth and Southern, “or stupid as hell.”

You turn.

And there he is.

Moonlight on his cheekbones. Dust on his boots. The kind of calm that’s dangerous. And a pistol aimed straight at your heart.

He steps forward, slow and sure, voice velvet-edged and deadly soft. “That’s my horse you’re leading.”

You lift your hands half-heartedly. “Didn’t think she was claimed.”

“She is.”

“You name all your horses, or just the stolen ones?”

Something flickers across his face — not quite a smile, just a shadow of amusement. But the revolver stays steady.

You shift your weight. He notices. Of course he does.

“I wouldn’t,” he says quietly.

You do it anyway.

No warning, no plan — just muscle memory and adrenaline. You swing up onto the sorrel in one clean motion, kick hard, and tear out of the barn like the devil’s nipping at your heels. The wind lashes your face. The mare surges beneath you — fast, wild, electric — and you ride like your life depends on it.

Bang.

A shot cracks the night wide open — splinters the barn post just inches from your shoulder. You stumble but don’t stop. You make it to the fence, vault over, hit the ground running. The stolen sorrel is tied to a tree just beyond the pasture. She rears when you get close, but you’re already up in the saddle, kicking hard, tearing across the dry open plain like hell is behind you.

Back in the barn, Regulus lowers the smoking gun.

Watches the dust settle.

And then — calm as you please — he holsters the pistol, steps back inside, and unties the reins of his black mare.

“She’s gonna make me chase her,” he mutters to no one.

And then he swings into the saddle.

No shout. No warning. No fury.

Just the quiet sound of hooves striking dry earth as Regulus Black rides into the night — cloak snapping in the wind, eyes locked on the horizon.

He lets you run.

But he’s already decided he’s going to catch you.

And this time, you won’t be walking away.