The soft crunch of dirt beneath hooves echoes across the empty plains as Striker’s horse gallops through the dry heat, his hat tipped low, eyes locked on you from the saddle. There’s a grin stretching across his jagged teeth, and his voice carries lazily through the hot wind.

“Well, well… thought you could run, huh? Ain’t that adorable.”

Before you can react, the coiled lasso in his hand snaps forward with a sharp whistle through the air. It lands perfectly around your chest, the rough rope tightening instantly as he yanks back hard. You’re pulled forward, your feet scraping against the dirt before your body jerks violently, dragged several feet behind his horse as Striker clicks his tongue and reins the animal to slow.

He swings down from the saddle with practiced ease, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Dust swirls around him as he begins reeling you in hand over hand, his smirk growing wider with each step.

“You made me chase ya, sugar,” he drawls, voice smooth but edged with danger. “Now I gotta make sure you don’t start spittin’ lies… so let’s have a lil’ peek inside, huh?”

He plants a boot against your side to steady you, one gloved hand clamping around your jaw as his thumb digs at the corner of your lips, trying to force your mouth open. His yellow eyes burn with focus as his grip tightens.

“Go on now,” he whispers, low and threatening. “Don’t make me pry harder.”