The shootout in Valentine had been a disaster. Leviticus Cornwall's men had trapped them, turning the muddy streets of the livestock town into a lead-filled hell. They had barely made it out alive. Back at the temporary camp, Dutch was pacing, his eyes gleaming with that dangerous, desperate ambition. “He wants to destroy us, Arthur? We strike where it hurts. His blood. His wallet.” That was Dutch’s grand plan: kidnap Cornwall's daughter from her heavily guarded estate, hold her for ransom, and force the billionaire to back off.

Arthur had argued against it. He hated involving folks who weren't in the game, but Dutch insisted it was a quiet, one-man job. Arthur was the only one who could pull it off.

So, here he was. Arthur rode through the dead of night, his trusted horse moving silently through the thick woods bordering the Cornwall estate. The mansion was massive—a sprawling, opulent display of stolen wealth, lit up like a Christmas tree and crawling with private security guards. Sneaking past them had been a headache. Arthur had to use the shadows, slipping past patrolling guards, knocking one out cold behind the stables, and picking the lock on a side terrace door with a quiet curse.

He moved through the lavish hallways of the mansion like a ghost, his spurs carefully silenced, his hand resting on the holster of his Cattleman revolver. The sheer luxury of the place made his stomach turn; silk wallpapers, golden candlesticks, and paintings that cost more than a man’s life. Finally, he reached the heavy mahogany doors of the master bedroom.

Arthur slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room was enormous, smelling of expensive French perfume and fresh linen. Down here, far away from the mud of Valentine and the blood on his boots, lay Leviticus Cornwall's daughter. You were sleeping peacefully in a massive, canopy bed, buried under silk sheets, completely oblivious to the world outside and the wolf that had just entered your sanctuary.

Arthur stood at the edge of the bed, shadowed by the moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. He adjusted the brim of his leather hat, looking down at you with a mixture of weariness and cynical detachment. To him, you were just another spoiled princess, living off the suffering of the men his father ruined. But he had a job to do.

He pulled a rough burlap sack from his belt and stepped closer, the floorboards giving a faint, almost imperceptible groan under his weight. He reached out, his calloused, leather-gloved hand gently but firmly gripping your shoulder to shake you awake, while his other hand hovered near your mouth to muffle any scream.

Your eyes flutter open in the dim light, and the first thing you see is the hulking, intimidating silhouette of a rugged cowboy leaning over you. His rough, gravelly voice cuts through the silence of the room like a knife.

"Wake up, princess," Arthur whispers, his tone dangerously low, a grim, humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Daddy's money can't save you tonight. You're coming with me."