Page 12

“W ant to explain what the fuck I just walked up on?”

Knox’s voice is sharp, angry.

“Nope.”

Jace snorts. “I don’t think any of us need an explanation. Hell, we’ve all walked in on that before.”

Knox turns and glares at him. “Don’t remind me how many times this fucker has defiled my sister.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Jesus Christ, your sister is a grown woman. Who is now inside overthinking everything that just happened.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Rhett! I swear to fucking god.”

"Look, Knox," I say, hands raised in mock surrender. "I know she's your sister, but—"

"There's no 'but' here," Knox snarls, stepping closer. His eyes are dark with rage, reminding me why they call him Viper. "I was the one who had to put her back together when you fucking ran. Take a look around! It was us who stitched Wills’ heart back up. She was reckless, angry, so fucking sad!”

"I know," I say, voice low and dangerous.

"No you don’t!"

Jace moves between us, his presence alone commanding enough space to defuse the immediate threat of Knox's fist connecting with my face. "Take a walk, Viper."

"Fuck that."

"Take. A. Walk." King's voice doesn't rise, but the authority in it is unmistakable.

Knox's nostrils flare, but he backs up a step, then another. His eyes never leave mine, a silent promise that this conversation isn't over.

"This isn't finished," he spits, confirming my thoughts before stalking into the house.

I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders refusing to release. My lips still burn from Willow's kiss, the taste of her lingering like a ghost I can't shake.

"You're playing with fire," Jace says once Knox is out of earshot.

"Tell me something I don't know."

King crosses his arms, studying me with that infuriatingly calm gaze. "She's not the same girl you left behind."

"You think I don't see that?" I snap, the guilt I've been drowning in whiskey for years bubbling to the surface. "I fucked up. I know I did! And I’m here trying to fix what I broke and, and-”

"And what?" Jace challenges, his voice steady while mine fractures. "You think you can just waltz back in and everything's fixed with a kiss?"

I run my hands over my face, feeling the stubble scrape against my palms. "No. Yes. Fuck, I don't know."

The night air feels too thick, too close.

"She still feels something," I say finally, quieter. "I know she does."

Jace's laugh is short, humorless. "No shit she feels something. That's the problem."

I turn away, staring at my truck where minutes ago I had Willow pressed against me, her body remembering what her mind wants to forget. My body is still humming from it.

"Yeah, well, feelings are a bitch." I kick at the gravel beneath my boots, needing to do something with this restless energy. "I didn't come back here expecting to fix everything overnight."

"Could've fooled me." Jace's voice is level, but there's judgment there.

"You know what, King? Not all of us have your fucking zen master approach to life." I turn back to face him, anger rising like bile. "Some of us make mistakes. Big ones."

He doesn't flinch, just watches me with those steady eyes that see too much. "So what's your plan? Corner her in every dark space until she gives in?"

My jaw tightens. "That's not what happened."

"Isn't it?"

I want to argue, but the truth is like a knife between my ribs. I didn't plan to kiss her tonight, but I just couldn’t help myself.

“I’m going the fuck to bed.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Sure. Do that.”

I stalk toward the house, boots kicking up dust as I go. The night air does nothing to cool the fire under my skin.

The front door bangs open under my hand. I grab a bottle of whiskey from the counter, not bothering with a glass and head to my room.

The burn down my throat matches the ache in my chest. I drop onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands.

Willow's taste still lingers on my lips. The way she melted against me before pushing away. The look in her eyes—desire fighting with something darker. Something that looks too much like pain.

My phone buzzes. Knox. Three missed calls and a text that just says: *Stay the fuck away from her*.

I toss my phone on the bed, resisting the urge to hurl it against the wall. Another swig of whiskey burns down my throat, but it does nothing to dull the memory of Willow's body against mine.

Fuck Knox. Fuck all of them.

I know I don't deserve her. That's the goddamn truth nobody needs to keep reminding me of. But the way she responded to my touch—her body remembers us, even if her mind's trying to forget.

I drag myself to the window, staring out at the darkened ranch. Somewhere out there, Willow's probably pacing, overthinking, rebuilding those walls I just managed to crack through. The thought makes me take another long pull from the bottle.

My reflection stares back at me from the glass; haunted eyes, stubbled jaw, the face of a man who's made more mistakes.

I down another burning gulp of whiskey, welcoming the fire that spreads through my chest. My reflection is a pitiful sight—the great Razor Calloway, reduced to drinking alone and pining after the woman he left behind.

A soft knock at my door makes me freeze.

It can't be her. Not after what happened.

But hope is a cruel bastard, and my heart hammers anyway as I cross the room. I swing the door open with more force than necessary.

It's not Willow.

Jace stands there, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with my disheveled state.

"What now?" I growl, not bothering to hide my disappointment.

"Just making sure you're not planning to do anything stupid." His eyes drop to the bottle in my hand. "More stupid, I should say."

I take another defiant swig. "Like what?”

"Like drunkenly pounding on her door at two in the morning," Jace says, his weathered face unreadable. "Or picking a fight with her brother that ends with both of you bleeding out on the porch and an angry fuckin’ Wills patching you idiots back up."

I take another swig, deliberately slow. "You a mind reader now?"

"I've seen that look before. On my own face." He doesn't move to enter, just blocks the doorway like the human barrier he is. "She's not going anywhere tonight. Whatever you need to say can wait until you're sober."

I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "That's rich. You think I don't know she's already packing her bags? That's what Willow does—she runs when things get complicated."

"Like you ran?"

The words hit like a physical blow. I grip the bottle tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at his head.

"Get the fuck out of my room.”

Jace doesn't budge. "You know what your problem is, Razor?"

"I'm guessing you're about to tell me." I take another long pull from the bottle, letting the burn distract me from the urge to put my fist through something.

"Your problem is you think you're the only one who's suffered." He leans against the doorframe, maddeningly calm. "That girl's been through hell and back since you left. Not just because of you—though you didn't help—but she fought her own demons while you were gone."

I slam the bottle down on the dresser. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't fucking hate myself every goddamn day for walking away?"

"I think you're so caught up in your own guilt and what you want that you can't see what she needs."

The truth of his words cuts deeper than any knife could. I turn away, unable to stand the weight of his gaze anymore.

"What she needs," I mutter, running my hand through my hair. "You're the expert now?"

"No," Jace says. "But I've been here. Watching her rebuild herself piece by fucking piece after you left. And after everything else."

My head snaps up. "What do you mean, 'everything else'?"

Something flickers across his face—hesitation, maybe. "Not my story to tell."

"Bullshit," I growl, moving closer. "What happened to her?"

Jace straightens up, his solid frame filling the doorway. "Ask her yourself. When you're sober. When you're not thinking with your dick or your guilt."

I want to argue, to demand he tell me what the hell he’s talking about. But I know better than to fight with Jace. He’s the king for a reason. The only one who understands us all on a deeper level, who can rally us all or calm us down.

He taps the doorframe twice with his knuckles. "Sleep it off, Razor. Tomorrow's another day."

After he leaves, I slump back onto the bed. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with a half-empty bottle and a head full of questions. What the hell happened while I was gone? What "everything else" was Jace talking about?

I take another swig, the whiskey no longer burning, just warm and familiar as it slides down my throat. My room feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in with every heartbeat. I can still feel Willow's body against mine, the way she trembled before pushing me away.

Fuck.

I pace the length of the room, five steps one way, five steps back. Like a caged animal. That's what I am now—trapped between what I want and what I deserve.

My phone buzzes again. I snatch it up, half-hoping, half-dreading it might be her.

Another text from Knox: *I mean it, Calloway. Stay away from her.*

I toss the phone aside and collapse back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Knox can go fuck himself. It's not like I planned for this to happen. We were just supposed to talk and I… fuck.

The whiskey's getting to me now, making the room tilt slightly when I stand. I should sleep, but my mind keeps replaying the way she looked at me, that flash of desire before the walls slammed back up.

Screw this. Screw sitting here marinating in my own misery.

I yank the door open, half-expecting to find Jace standing guard, but the hallway empty. The house is quiet except for the distant sound of a TV from somewhere downstairs.

My feet carry me down the corridor before my brain can catch up. I know which room is hers—third door on the left

I pause outside her door, fist raised. The whiskey makes my thoughts fuzzy, but one thing remains crystal clear – I need to see her. Need to understand what Jace meant.

My knuckles hover an inch from the wood. What the hell am I doing? I'm exactly where Jace predicted I'd be, proving him right like the predictable asshole I am.

Before I can decide whether to knock or retreat, the door swings open. Willow stands there in one of my old shirts, the hem coming to the middle of her toned and tanned thighs, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying.

Fuck.

She doesn't look surprised to see me, just resigned.

"I heard you breathing," she says flatly. "You never could stand outside a door quietly."

I lower my hand, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look. "Can we talk?"

"You're drunk." Her eyes flick to where I'm clutching the whiskey bottle, and I realize I brought it with me. Real smooth, Calloway.

"Not drunk enough," I mutter, then immediately regret it when her eyes harden. "That's not—I didn't mean—fuck."

She crosses her arms over her chest, the movement pulling the shirt tighter, reminding me that it's my shirt she's wearing. Something primal stirs in my gut at the sight.

"It's late, Rhett."

"I know." I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, trying to look casual but really just needing the support. "But I can't sleep knowing you're in here crying."

A flash of vulnerability crosses her face before she masks it. "I wasn't crying."

"Bullshit. I know what you look like when you've been crying, Wills." I take a step closer, and she tenses.

"Don't," she warns, one hand raised between us like a shield. "Don't call me that. And don't come any closer."

I stop, swaying slightly. The whiskey's made me stupid, but not stupid enough to push past her boundaries. Not again. Not tonight.

"I just want to talk," I say, softer now. "About what happened earlier."

"There's nothing to talk about." Her voice is steady, but her fingers fidget with the hem of my shirt—her tell when she's lying. Always has been. "It was a mistake. Heat of the moment. We both know that."

I shake my head, maybe a little too emphatically because the hallway tilts. "That's not true and you know it."

"What I know," she says, her eyes meeting mine with a fierceness that cuts through my whiskey haze, "is that you're drunk and need to go to bed.”

"What happened while I was gone, Willow?" The question comes out rawer than I intended, all my defenses stripped away by whiskey and the sight of her in my shirt with tear-stained cheeks.

She stiffens, her knuckles turning white where she grips the door. "What did they tell you?"

"Nothing." I run a hand through my hair, frustration making my movements jerky. "That's the fucking problem. Jace mentioned 'everything else' and then clammed up. Knox looks at me like he's imagining all the ways to gut me. And you—" I gesture at her with the bottle, "—you're different. Not just with me, but with everybody. Guarded. Closed off. We’re a family and you’re acting like we’re all strangers.”

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. Just a hollow sound that scrapes against my skin like barbed wire.

"Family?" The word falls from her lips like poison. "Is that what you called us when you left without a fucking word? When you disappeared for two years?"

"Willow—"

"No." She cuts me off, her voice sharp enough to slice through my drunken haze. "You don't get to come back and demand answers. You don't get to act concerned about what happened while you were gone when you chose to be gone."

I take another step closer, and this time she doesn't back away. Her chin lifts, defiant, but I catch the slight tremble in her bottom lip.

"I know I fucked up," I say, my voice dropping to a rasp. "I know I don't deserve shit from you. But something happened, and I need to know what it was."

She stares at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid.

"Go to bed, Rhett." Her voice is softer now, almost gentle. That scares me more than her anger.

"Willow, please—"

"I can't do this right now." She takes a step back into her room. "Not with you drunk. Not with me like this."

The distance between us feels like miles despite being just a few feet. I want to cross it, to pull her into my arms and promise I'll never leave again. But I've lost that right.

"Tomorrow then," I say, trying to sound more sober. I reach out and gently stroke her cheek. “Tomorrow.”

Willow sighs, slightly leaning into my touch. “Fine. Now go to bed, Reck.”

I can’t help but smile, that small bit of hope rising up in my chest at her nickname for me.

She doesn't pull away from my touch, and for a moment—one fucking perfect moment—we're suspended in time. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, and I swear she leans into it just slightly. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I wonder if she can hear it.

"Promise me," I whisper, my voice rougher than I intend. "Promise you'll talk to me tomorrow. Not run. Not hide."

Willow's eyes meet mine, that familiar storm swirling in them—anger, hurt, and something else. Something that looks dangerously like longing.

"I'll be here," she says finally. "But you better be sober."

I nod, letting my hand fall away from her face, immediately missing the contact. "I will be."

She steps back, creating distance between us that feels like miles. "Goodnight, Rhett.”

T he rooster crows in sync with the banging on my door.

"Wake up, fucker! Breakfast is gonna get cold."

I groan as I roll to my side, the whiskey hangover pounding against my skull like a jackhammer. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds feels like a personal attack.

"Go away," I mutter, voice rough as sandpaper.

The door swings open anyway, because privacy means shit around here. Colt stands there, looking annoyingly well-rested and amused at my suffering.

"Rise and shine, Razor. Knox made pancakes."

I squint at him through one eye. "Knox? Last I checked, he wanted to kill me."

Colt shrugs. "Maybe he poisoned yours. One way to find out."

I drag myself upright, fighting back the nausea that rolls through me. "Fuck. What time is it?"

"Almost nine. You missed morning chores." Colt leans against the doorframe, eyeing the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. "Rough night?"

Memories flash through my pounding head—Willow in my truck, her lips on mine, then later, standing in her doorway wearing my shirt, her eyes red-rimmed and defiant.

"Something like that." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my head throbs in protest. "She down there?"

"Who?" Colt asks, but the smirk on his face tells me he knows exactly who I'm talking about.

"Don't be an asshole."

He shrugs. "Haven't seen Willow this morning."

A spike of panic shoots through me. but Colt just chuckles.

“Nah, she’s still in her room. Gave me a good yellin’ when I dared knock on her door.”

I chuckle as I throw on a shirt. “Rule number thirteen — ‘ If I’m sleeping, so is the entire damn house.’ Better get ready for some hell today.”

"Yeah, well, I've never been good at following rules." Colt pushes off from the doorframe. "But she's definitely still here, so you can wipe that panicked look off your face."

I grunt in response, not willing to admit how much that knowledge settles something in my chest. I run a hand over my stubbled jaw, trying to piece together the fragments of last night through the throbbing in my skull.

"She promised to talk to me today," I mutter, more to myself than to Colt.

He raises an eyebrow. "And you believe her?"

The question hits harder than it should. "I have to."

Colt studies me for a moment, his usual shit-eating grin replaced by something more serious. "You know, when you left, she wasn't the only one you fucked over."

I meet his gaze, the guilt I've been carrying like a second skin wrapping tighter around my chest. "I know."

"Do you?" Colt steps further into the room. "This whole family fell apart, man. Knox went off the rails, took risks in the ring that should've killed him. Jace had to hold everything together while dealing with his own shit."

I rub my temples, the hangover and guilt making a toxic cocktail in my gut. "I didn't come back to hear about all the ways I fucked up."

"Then why did you come back?"

It's a simple question, but it cuts through my defenses like a hot knife. Why did I come back? For redemption? For Willow? For myself?

"Because this is home," I finally say, the words feeling raw in my throat. "And because I needed to make things right."

“Yeah, well. Part of that is sitting down with the rest of us and hearing all the ways you fucked up. Stop worrying about hopping back into Wills’ goddamn pants and look at the big picture.”

Colt's words land like a sucker punch, and for a second, I consider putting my fist through his smug face. But he's right, and we both know it.

"Fair enough." I force myself to stand, ignoring the way my head protests. "But right now I need coffee and about a gallon of water."

"And a shower," Colt adds, wrinkling his nose. "You smell like a distillery threw up on you."

"Thanks for the helpful feedback."

He grins, that shit-eating expression back in place. "What are brothers for?"

I flip him off as I shuffle toward the bathroom, each step jostling my aching head. The face that greets me in the mirror is a wreck—bloodshot eyes, stubble verging on a beard, hair sticking up in directions that defy gravity.

Fucking perfect.

Ten minutes later after a good shower, I’m sitting at the big table with the rest of the Savage Eight crew.

The kitchen smells like maple syrup, coffee, and tension. Knox slaps a plate of pancakes in front of me with more force than necessary, splattering syrup across the table.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sleep well?"

I grunt in response, my head still pounding. The bright kitchen light feels like needles in my eyeballs, but the coffee is hot and strong. I gulp it down, ignoring the way it scalds my throat.

Jace sits at the head of the table, silently reading something on his tablet. He glances up, eyes meeting mine briefly—a silent question asking if I remembered our conversation last night. I give him a slight nod before turning my attention to my food.

"Where's Wills?" Knox asks, and my head snaps up despite myself.

Smooth, Calloway. Real smooth.

Colt shrugs. “She gave me an earful when I asked if our princess would be joining us this morning.”

Levi nearly chokes on his coffee. “Rule thirteen, man.”

The kitchen door swings open, and there she is—Willow in all her sleep-deprived glory. Her hair's twisted up in a messy bun, and she's wearing running shorts and a baggy t-shirt. Not mine this time. I try not to feel disappointed about that.

"Speak of the devil," Colt says with a grin. "We were just talking about you, princess."

Willow flips him off without looking, making a beeline for the coffee pot. "It's too early for your bullshit, Colt."

"It's nine-thirty," Levi points out.

She glares at him while pouring coffee into a mug that says "Not Today, Satan" in big black letters. "Did I stutter?"

I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. Morning Willow has always been a force of nature—beautiful, pissed, and deadly in equal measure. She hasn't looked at me yet, deliberately I'm sure. Her eyes scan the kitchen, landing on everyone but me.

"Pancakes?" Knox offers, his voice softening the way it only does for her.

She nods, taking the plate he hands her before sliding into a chair at the far end of the table—the maximum possible distance from me. Real subtle, Wills.

"You look like shit," she finally says, eyes flicking to me briefly before focusing on drowning her pancakes in syrup.

"Thanks. I feel worse."

Her mouth twitches, almost a smile before she catches herself. "Good. You deserve it."

Knox snorts, and I shoot him a glare. The tension around the table is thick enough to cut with a knife.

The kitchen falls silent except for the scrape of forks against plates. Willow stares at her pancakes like they've personally offended her, and I can't stop watching her even though I know I should look away.

"So," Jace says, setting down his tablet, "we've got media and press day this afternoon. Ya’ll ready?”

A chorus of groans erupts around the table. Media days are necessary evils in our world—hours of repetitive questions, fake smiles, and pretending we're all just happy-go-lucky cowboys instead of the walking disasters we actually are.

"Do I have to go?" Willow asks, stabbing her pancake with more force than necessary.

Knox raises an eyebrow. "You're our medic. And the only one who can keep these idiots from saying something that'll get us all canceled."

"Plus," Colt adds with a smirk, "you're easier on the eyes than the rest of us."

I grip my coffee mug tighter, hating the possessive streak that flares through me at his words. Willow doesn't belong to me. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. But I'm not wearing anything uncomfortable."

Jace sighs. “Willow.”

“Jace.”

They lock eyes in one of those silent battles of will that usually end with Jace sighing in defeat. But not today.

"Last time you showed up in gym shorts and one of Knox's old flannels," Jace says, his voice patient but firm. "The sponsors weren't impressed."

"Fuck the sponsors," Willow mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. She knows as well as the rest of us that sponsors keep this operation running.

I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Some things never change—like Willow's absolute disdain for anything that requires her to dress up or play nice for cameras.

"I'll make sure she looks presentable," Knox offers, earning a betrayed glare from his sister.

"Traitor," she hisses.

I take another sip of coffee, watching this familiar dance unfold.

Colt laughs and eggs Willow on. “I think you should wear those jeans.”

Willow’s smirk lights up her face. “Ya know, Colt? I think you’re right. I will wear those jeans.”

Knox's head whips around, his glare burning holes into Colt. "What jeans? What the fuck are you talking about?"

Colt just grins wider and I know he’s just getting started.

"The ones that made that reporter from ESPN follow her around like a lost puppy last season," Levi supplies helpfully, earning a high-five from Colt.