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T he air was thick with dust and the sharp, electric scent of adrenaline.

Under the blinding glare of the rodeo lights, the crowd roared, their cheers a deafening wave rolling through the packed arena. Eight young men stood at the edge of the chute, hands clenched around the worn wood railing, eyes locked on the rider about to make the eight-second ride that would change everything.

Ethan Moore.

He was the best of them. The heart of the group. Reckless as hell, cocky as sin, but good—so damn good. Too good.

A hand clapped his shoulder—Jace. The ever-steady leader. “Don’t get killed, cowboy.”

Ethan grinned, his golden hair damp with sweat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Rhett leaned in next, smirking. “Bet you don’t even last five.”

Ethan scoffed. “You wanna put money on that?”

Rhett’s smirk deepened. “Nah. I’ll take your whiskey when you win instead.”

The others—Knox, Logan, Kade, Colt, Weston, and Levi—watched as Ethan climbed the gate, settling onto the beast that snorted beneath him. This bull was a legend, untamed, undefeated. A prize that came with a deadly edge.

From the stands, Willow watched too, her breath caught somewhere between awe and apprehension. Ethan had a way of making people believe he was invincible. But something felt off tonight. The way the bull stomped, restless. The way the air crackled with tension.

And then it happened.

The gate flew open.

The crowd roared as Ethan held on, body moving in perfect sync with the raging force beneath him. His muscles coiled, boots dug in. Six seconds. Seven. The buzzer sounded. Eight.

But the ride didn’t end.

The bull twisted violently, bucking harder than before, its massive body slamming into the fence. Ethan lost his grip for a fraction of a second—just enough.

The fall was brutal. A sickening thud as his body hit the dirt. The bull turned, nostrils flaring, hooves digging in—

Then it charged.

A scream split the air.

Rhett was the first over the fence, running like hell. Levi was right behind him. The others followed, but they were too far. Too late.

The bull struck.

A collective gasp rippled through the stadium as Ethan crumpled beneath the weight of a thousand pounds of fury.

And just like that, the golden boy was gone.

Blood pooled in the dirt.

The world tilted, slowed, stopped.

Rhett dropped to his knees, his hands pressing against Ethan’s unmoving chest. “No, no, no.”

Willow shoved through the bodies, her medic bag forgotten in the rush. She dropped beside them, fingers searching for a pulse. Praying. But she already knew.

Ethan Moore was dead.

And something in those eight men—something wild, untouchable, and savage—died with him.

They weren’t boys anymore.

They were something else now.

The Savage Eight.

Later that night, as the whiskey burned down their throats and the pain settled deep into their bones, Jace looked at the seven faces around him, their eyes shadowed with grief and rage.

“We ride for him now.”

The others nodded.

No one spoke of what would come next. The choices they would make. The paths they would walk.

But one thing was certain.

This wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning.