Page 15

R ule number eighteen: No one eats the last cookie unless you have a death wish.

And right now Colt is about to get the ass whoopin’ of his life from Willow.

“Fess up, fuckers! Who ate my last chocolate chip cookie?”

No one moves. The crew room goes silent except for the steady hum of the fridge. Eight grown-ass professional bull riders suddenly find their boots real interesting.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching the show unfold. Willow stands in the doorway, her small frame vibrating with the kind of fury that makes smart men back away slowly.

"I'm not asking again," she says, voice dangerously quiet.

I see Colt's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Wildcard's usually good at talking his way out of shit, but crumbs on his shirt collar are selling him out hard.

"What cookie?” He flashes that charming grin that's gotten him out of bar fights and into women's beds with equal success.

Willow takes three deliberate steps toward him. "The one I saved from the gas station. The one I specifically labeled 'Touch this and die' with a fucking Sharpie on the wrapper."

I gotta hand it to Wildcard—the man's got balls. Not the smart kind, but the kind that gets you killed.

"Might've been me," he admits with a shrug, brushing cookie crumbs from his shirt like they're not evidence in his own murder trial. "Didn't see no name on it."

"Bullshit," Willow hisses, closing the distance between them. "There was a goddamn skull and crossbones drawn on it."

The other guys shift uncomfortably, creating a wider berth around the showdown. Nobody wants to catch a stray bullet when Willow Hayes goes nuclear. I've seen her handle thousand-pound bulls with nothing but a stern look. Colt doesn't stand a chance.

"You want me to buy you another one?" he offers, still wearing that shit-eating grin.

"I want you to go back in time and un-eat my fucking cookie," Willow says, each word sharp enough to cut glass.

I can't help the smirk spreading across my face. There's something about watching Willow tear into someone else that gets my blood pumping. Maybe it's the way her eyes flash when she's pissed, how her whole body becomes a weapon of precision anger.

Colt glances at me, looking for backup. I just shake my head. No way I'm stepping into this shitstorm. Besides, the dumbass broke rule eighteen. Some lessons you gotta learn the hard way.

"Look, darlin'—" Colt starts, and I wince.

Wrong move, Wildcard.

Willow's hand shoots out, grabbing his shirt collar. For someone who barely clears five-foot-four, she manages to make Colt look like he's shrinking right before our eyes.

"Don't 'darlin'' me," Willow snarls. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

The room crackles with tension. I've seen this woman break a man's nose for less, and Colt knows it too. His eyes dart around, looking for an escape route that doesn't exist.

"Alright, alright," he says, hands up in surrender. "My bad. I'll make it right."

"How exactly do you plan to do that?" Willow doesn't release his collar, her knuckles white with tension.

Knox steps forward, his voice low. "There's a bakery ten minutes down the road. Best chocolate chip cookies in the state."

Willow's eyes narrow, considering. "And?"

"And Wildcard's buying a dozen," Knox adds, giving Colt a look that says 'just agree if you want to live.'

"A dozen," Colt repeats quickly. "Hell, two dozen if you want."

Willow releases his collar with a little shove. "Make it two dozen and you're driving me there. Now."

"Deal." Colt straightens his shirt, relief washing over his face. He fishes his truck keys from his pocket, jingling them like a man who just dodged a bullet. "Let's roll."

"And you're buying me a coffee after," Willow adds, because she knows when she's got leverage.

"Jesus Christ, woman, it was one cookie," Colt mutters, but he's already moving toward the door.

"One special cookie," Willow corrects him, following close behind. "The last good thing in this shithole town."

As they leave, the tension breaks. The guys start breathing again, muttering about Wildcard's narrow escape. I watch Willow walk out with Colt. Her dark hair swings across her back, catching the light as she disappears down the hallway.

Knox bumps my shoulder. “Stop lookin’ at my fuckin’ sister.”

"Fuck off, Knox." I don't bother looking at him. My eyes are still fixed on the empty doorway where Willow just disappeared.

"I mean it, Razor." His voice drops an octave. "You keep eyeballin' her like she's the last beer at closing time."

"And you keep actin' like she needs your protection." I finally turn to face him, meeting his glare head-on. "She just about put Wildcard in the ground over a goddamn cookie. Pretty sure she can handle herself."

He steps closer to me. Jace and Levi get up slowly from their seats to come toward us.

“I told you to stay the fuck away from her.”

“And I told you she can make her own decisions. Just because you weren’t there to protect her from your piece of shit father, doesn’t mean you get to play hero now. She’s a grown ass woman who knows what she wants.”

The words hang in the air like smoke after a gunshot. Knox's face hardens, his jaw clenching tight enough to crack teeth. Behind him, Jace and Levi freeze mid-step, eyes wide. Even the fucking fridge seems to stop humming.

I've crossed a line. I know it the second the words leave my mouth.

Knox lunges forward, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt and slamming me back against the wall. His forearm presses against my throat, not enough to choke but enough to make his point.

"You don't know shit about my family," he growls, his face inches from mine. "You don't know shit about what we've been through."

I could throw him off. We both know it. But I don't. Because beneath the rage in his eyes, there's something else. Something raw and wounded that makes me keep my hands at my sides. I've touched a nerve that goes deeper than his overprotective bullshit.

"You threatening me, Viper?" I keep my voice steady, refusing to break eye contact.

"Not a threat. A fucking promise." Knox presses harder against my throat. "You go near Willow, you and me are gonna have problems that can't be fixed."

Jace steps up, placing a hand on Knox's shoulder. "Come on, man."

“She’s a grown woman who has made her choice.”

Knox's face is so close I can see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow—the one he got from hitting the fence when we were seventeen and stupid, racing dirt bikes across the ranch. For a second, I see that kid instead of the hard-ass bull rider pressing his forearm to my throat.

"What choice?" Knox spits. "The one where she throws her life away on another man who'll use her up and spit her out?"

I shove him back hard enough to create space between us, not enough to start a real fight. "Is that what you think I am?"

"I think you're a fucking tornado, Razor." Knox doesn't back down, even with Jace's hand still on his shoulder. "You destroy everything you touch."

I launch forward without thinking, my fist connecting with Knox's jaw in a satisfying crack that shoots pain up my arm. He staggers back but recovers fast, charging like a bull seeing red. We collide in the middle of the room, sending beer cans scattering across the floor.

"Motherfucker!" Knox lands a solid hit to my ribs that knocks the wind from my lungs.

The room erupts into chaos. Chairs scrape against wood as the guys scramble out of the way. Someone's yelling to break it up, but their words dissolve into the roaring in my ears. All I see is Knox's face, twisted with rage and something deeper—something that looks too much like pain.

I duck his next swing and drive my shoulder into his midsection.

We crash into the card table. It buckles under our combined weight, collapsing with a splintering crack that sends poker chips flying like shrapnel. Knox rolls, coming up with blood smeared across his chin, eyes wild with the kind of fury that makes rational thought impossible.

"You fucking piece of shit," he snarls, circling me like a predator.

"Truth hurts, don't it?" I taste copper in my mouth, and realize my lip's split. "She's not your property."

The room blurs into a kaleidoscope of motion. Levi and Jace backing away, creating an impromptu ring. Beer cans crushed underfoot. The overhead light casting harsh shadows that dance across the walls as Knox and I move in a deadly rhythm.

He comes at me again, feinting left before landing a right hook that makes stars explode behind my eyes. I stagger back, my spine hitting the edge of the counter. Knox advances, nostrils flaring, blood painting his teeth red when he bares them in a snarl. We're both breathing hard, the air thick with testosterone and old wounds ripped fresh.

"You don't deserve her," Knox spits, circling closer. "Never fucking will."

I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. "Not your call to make."

We're about to collide again when the door bangs open so hard it leaves a dent in the drywall. The sound cuts through the room like a gunshot, freezing us mid-motion.

Willow stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh hallway lights. Her eyes take in the scene with lethal precision—the overturned table, scattered chips, blood spotting the floor like crimson constellations.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Willow's voice slices through the room like a blade.

For a second, nobody moves. Knox and I stay locked in our standoff, both of us breathing hard, blood dripping onto the floor between us. Behind Willow, Colt hovers in the doorway, looking like he wishes he'd stayed at the bakery.

"You two couldn't keep your shit together for twenty goddamn minutes?" She steps into the room, kicking a crushed beer can out of her path. The white bakery box in her hands seems absurdly pristine against the chaos we've created.

"This doesn't concern you, Wills," Knox says, finally breaking our stare-down to glance at his sister.

The laugh that comes out of Willow's mouth is cold enough to freeze hellfire. "Doesn't concern me? You two idiots are bleeding all over the floor, fighting like schoolyard boys, and it's about me, isn't it?"

Neither of us answers. The silence is damning enough.

She sets the bakery box down on the counter with deliberate care, like she's handling explosives. "Get out," she says to the room at large, not looking at anyone. "Everyone but these two morons."

The guys don't need to be told twice. They file out with the urgency of men escaping a sinking ship, Colt bringing up the rear with an apologetic glance over his shoulder. The door closes behind them with a soft click that somehow sounds more ominous than if she'd slammed it.

"Sit." She points to the two chairs still standing.

Knox straightens up, wincing as he touches his jaw. "I'm not sitting down for this."

"Sit your ass down before I put you down," Willow says, her voice quiet steel.

I drop into the nearest chair, not because I'm scared of her—though maybe I should be—but because the fight's drained out of me like blood from a cut vein. After a moment's stubborn hesitation, Knox follows suit, the chair creaking under his weight.

Willow stands between us, arms crossed, looking from me to her brother and back again. The fluorescent light catches in her dark hair, creating a halo effect that's at odds with the fury radiating off her in waves.

"So this is what happens when I leave for twenty minutes?" She gestures at the wreckage of the room. "You two can't keep your testosterone in check long enough for me to get some goddamn cookies?”

"He started it," Knox mutters, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand.

"Oh, that's fucking rich." I lean forward, ignoring the throb in my ribs. "Tell her what you said."

Willow's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "I don't give a shit who started it. Look at you both—professional athletes acting like feral cats in a dumpster." She moves to stand directly between us, her presence somehow filling the space despite her size. "I'm not some trophy to be fought over."

The room falls silent except for our ragged breathing. There's something in the way she's looking at us—disappointment cutting deeper than anger—that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

"He crossed a line," Knox says, his voice lower now but still edged with heat. "Talking about Dad. About you."

Willow's face goes perfectly still, the kind of stillness that comes before an avalanche. Her eyes lock on mine, and I feel the weight of her gaze like a physical blow.

"What did you say about our father?" The quiet in her voice is more dangerous than any shouting could be.

I meet her eyes, refusing to look away even as guilt twists in my gut. "I told him he can't protect you from everything just because he couldn't protect you then."

"Jesus Christ, Rhett." She doesn't yell. It comes out as a tired exhale, like I've just confirmed every disappointing thing she's ever thought about me.

Knox shifts in his chair, wincing as he straightens his back. "He doesn't know when to shut his fucking mouth."

"And you don't know when to let me fight my own battles," Willow snaps, turning on him. “Rhett isn’t wrong.”

Knox's head jerks back like she's slapped him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't need a goddamn guardian." Willow plants her feet, standing taller somehow. "I've been handling my own shit since I was a fuckin’ child."

I stay quiet, watching the Hayes siblings face off. There's history here deeper than the Grand Canyon, and I'm suddenly aware I've stumbled into something raw and unfinished between them.

"That's not fair, Wills." Knox's voice breaks on her name. "I was just a kid too."

"I know." Something softens in her face, just for a second, before hardening again. "But I'm not that scared little girl anymore, and you need to stop treating me like I am."

Knox looks away, his jaw working like he's chewing glass. “I should have stayed.”

Willow walks out of the kitchen just to come back with her med bag. She stands in front of Knox and carefully cleans him up.

“We were kids. Dad was a piece of shit who could give a shit less about us. He left you and your mom high and dry, then knocked my mom up just to let her die in her addiction.”

The air in the room grows thick, charged with a history I've only heard in fragments. Willow's hands move with practiced precision as she cleans Knox's face, but her eyes are distant, like she's looking through time.

"You did what you could," she continues, her voice softer now. "But I'm not that fucked-up ten-year-old anymore."

Knox winces, not from her touch but from her words. "I should've taken you with me when I left."

"And done what? Dragged a kid sister around the circuit while you were barely making ends meet?" She shakes her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "We both know that wasn't an option."

"I know that," Knox says, wincing when she hits a tender spot. "But I was old enough to—"

"To what?" Willow cuts him off, her hand pausing mid-motion. "To save me from him? You were fourteen when you left, Knox. A fucking kid yourself."

"I could have done something." The raw pain in his voice makes me look away, feeling like I'm intruding on something I shouldn't be seeing.

Willow shakes her head, resuming her methodical cleaning of his wounds. "The only thing you could have done is exactly what we’re doing now. You let me into your world, you gave me a family we both needed. Now let me figure things out on my own.”

When she's done with Knox, she turns to me. I expect her to tell me to get the hell out, but instead she walks over and steps between my legs, tilting my face up. Her touch is clinical but gentle as she examines my split lip.

"This needs ice," she mutters, reaching for a clean gauze pad. “Knox, go shower and take a rest. We’ll talk more later.”

Knox hesitates, his eyes darting between Willow and me, that protective instinct flaring up again.

"Go, Knox," Willow says without looking at him, her focus entirely on the cut above my eye. "I'm fine."

I hold my breath as she dabs antiseptic on my brow, the sting making my eyes water. Her face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, counting each individual eyelash. Close enough that I catch the scent of her—something clean and subtle beneath the bakery sweetness clinging to her clothes.

"This might need stitches," she says, her breath warm against my skin.

Willow's fingers are cool against my skin as she dabs antiseptic on my wounds. I try not to wince, but she notices anyway.

"Baby," she mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

"Not all of us handle pain like you do," I say, watching her face for any reaction. "Some of us are mere mortals."

She snorts, pressing the gauze a little harder than necessary against my cut. "Poor baby bull rider. Can take a ton of muscle and horn to the ribs but cries over a little antiseptic."

I catch her wrist, my fingers circling the delicate bones there. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.

"I don't cry," I say, my voice dropping lower. "I just appreciate a gentler touch."

Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us breathes. The room shrinks to just this—her standing between my legs, my hand on her wrist, the air between us charged with something that's been building since the first day I saw her in the training ring.

"And here I thought you liked it rough, Calloway.”

The words hang between us like a live wire, crackling with possibility. I don't miss the way her pupils dilate, the slight hitch in her breathing. There's a challenge in her voice that sends heat straight through me.

"Depends who's dishing it out," I say, thumb brushing against her pulse point. It's racing now, betraying what her calm expression tries to hide.

Willow doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans in closer, pressing the gauze more firmly against my brow. The sting makes me inhale sharply, but I don't break eye contact.

"Knox is just going to keep coming at you," she says, her focus on the cut above my eyebrow. "He's got it in his head that you're bad news."

"And what do you think?" I ask, staying perfectly still as she works.

Her hands pause for just a heartbeat. "I think you're both idiots who need to grow the fuck up."

I laugh, then wince as the movement pulls at my split lip.

"Hold still," Willow mutters, dabbing at my lip with fresh gauze. "I swear to God, men are the stupidest creatures on this earth."

"Just now figuring that out?" I try not to move my mouth too much as she works.

Her fingertips brush against my jaw, tilting my face to catch the light better. The touch is professional, clinical even, but electricity sparks where her skin meets mine. She's so close I can see the tiny freckle at the corner of her right eye, almost hidden by her lashes.

"I've known that since I was old enough to walk," she says, her voice softer now. "But you and Knox take it to a whole new level."

I catch her hand again, holding it still against my face. "He told me to stay away from you."

"And clearly you're doing a bang-up job of it.”

“I thought so too.”

Willow laughs. Her laugh is soft and husky, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with my injuries. She doesn't pull her hand away from where it rests against my jaw, her thumb just barely grazing the corner of my busted lip.

"You two are fighting over me like I'm some prize bull to be won at auction," she says, shaking her head. "That's not how this works."

"That what is this?" I ask, my voice rough. "A competition?"

Willow's eyes darken, and she leans in until I can feel her breath against my face. "If it is, neither of you are winning."

I should back off. I should let her finish patching me up and walk away. But there's something in the way she's looking at me that makes my blood run hot, something that tells me she feels this too—this crackling, dangerous energy between us.

"No?" My thumb traces the delicate blue veins in her wrist. "Then what does winning look like in your book?"

Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second, but it's enough. Enough to make my heart hammer against my ribs like I'm back in the chute, waiting for the gate to fly open.

"Winning," she says, voice dropping to a whisper, "would be neither of you treating me like I'm something to be protected or claimed."

She's still standing between my legs, still close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her eyes. The room feels ten degrees hotter, the air between us charged like the moment before lightning strikes.

"I don't want to claim you, Willow." The words come out rougher than I intend. "I just want you."

Her breath catches. For a heartbeat, we're suspended in this moment.

Willow doesn't move away. If anything, she leans closer, her breath warm against my split lip. The sting of antiseptic mingles with something sweeter—maybe those bakery cookies, maybe just her.

"You've got a funny way of showing it," she murmurs, but there's a hitch in her voice that tells me more than her words. "Fighting my brother, bringing up our past."

"I shouldn't have said that shit about your dad," I admit, still holding her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb. "That was a low blow."

"Yeah, it was."

I nod, accepting the hit. "Fair enough."

My other hand slips to her waist. She doesn't pull away from my touch. If anything, she leans into it, almost imperceptibly.

"You should be more careful," she says, but her hand is still on my face, thumb ghosting over my bruised jaw. "Knox isn't all talk."

"Neither am I." I tighten my grip on her waist, just enough to feel the warmth of her through her thin t-shirt. "But this isn't about him."

"Isn't it?" There's a challenge in her voice, but something else too—a vulnerability she rarely shows. "Because it seems like you two are determined to tear each other apart over who gets to decide what's best for me."

"That's not what I want." My fingers spread against the small of her back, feeling the curve of her spine. "The only person who gets to decide that is you, Wills.”

Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie, the angle, the bullshit. I keep my gaze steady, letting her see whatever truth she's hunting for.

"Pretty words," she says finally. "But I've heard pretty words before."

"Not from me." I pull her closer, just an inch, feeling her body heat against my chest. "I don't do pretty. I do honest."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "That's debatable, Reck."

We're so close now that I can feel her breath mingling with mine. The med supplies forgotten beside us, her hands now resting on my shoulders. Neither of us acknowledging how we got here, but neither of us backing away.

“I know you may not believe me. I know I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Fuck, baby. I want to spend the rest of my days worshipping the ground you walk on. I’m not that boy who ran two years ago.”

Her eyes flicker down to my lips, then back to my eyes. Something shifts in her gaze—a decision being made.

"No," she says quietly. "You're not that boy anymore."

The air between us crackles with electricity. My heart pounds against my ribs like a wild thing trying to break free. One of us has to make a move, and I'm terrified it'll be the wrong one.

"I've spent two years thinking about that night," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Two years wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life."

Willow's fingers tighten on my shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to send a jolt through my system.

"You did," she says simply.

Before I can respond, she closes the distance between us. Her lips press against mine, careful of my split lip but insistent all the same.

“Go clean up, cowboy. I’ve got dinner to make for the family.”

The taste of her lingers on my lips as she pulls away—sweet like those bakery cookies mixed with the metallic tang of my own blood. I'm frozen in place, my hands still on her waist, brain trying to catch up to what just happened.

"Willow—" I start, but she's already stepped out of my grasp, gathering up the first aid supplies with efficient movements.

"Don't read too much into it, Calloway." Her voice is casual, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she caps the antiseptic. "Just proving a point."

"What point?" I stand up, ignoring the protest from my ribs and the throbbing in my jaw. The sudden movement makes the room tilt for a second before straightening out.

"That I make my own choices." She tosses me an ice pack from the mini-fridge. "For better or worse."

W e're all sitting down at the kitchen table, a mess of empty containers and beer bottles scattered between us. The tension is thick enough to choke on. Knox sits directly across from me, his jaw still bruised from our fight, eyes tracking every move I make. Willow's next to him, pointedly ignoring us both as she picks at her food.

The rest of the crew fills in the spaces, passing bowls and making too-loud conversation to cover the awkward silence between the three of us. Colt's telling some bullshit story about a buckoff in Tulsa, but nobody's really listening.

"Pass the rice," Willow says to no one in particular.

Both Knox and I reach for it at the same time. Our eyes lock over the table, neither of us backing down.

“Jesus Christ," Willow mutters, grabbing the container herself. "You two are like rabid dogs fighting over the same bone."

The table falls silent, Colt's story dying mid-sentence. Everyone suddenly finds their food fascinating, heads down like they're studying for a final exam on refried beans.

"Just trying to help," Knox says, stabbing a piece of chicken with enough force to crack the plate beneath.

I lean back in my chair, ignoring the throb in my ribs. "Yeah, Wills. Just being helpful."

She shoots me a look that could freeze hell. "Don't call me Wills."

"You let him call you Wills ten minutes ago," Knox points out, jerking his chin in my direction.

"That was before he decided to act like a juvenile delinquent." Willow says.

Levi snorts into his beer, and Jace coughs to cover a laugh. The tension at the table cranks up another notch as Knox's glare shifts from me to his sister.

"Something funny?" Knox asks, his voice deceptively calm.

"Yeah, actually," Willow says, scooping rice onto her plate with deliberate slowness. "This whole alpha male pissing contest is hilarious from where I'm sitting."

I take a long pull of my beer, hiding my smirk behind the bottle. Knox catches it anyway, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

"Glad we can entertain you," he says, stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken hard enough to scrape the plate underneath.

Logan covers his ears. “Fuck, man! I hate that sound!”

"Careful, Knox," Willow says without looking up. "Break another plate and you're buying the whole damn set."

The corner of my mouth twitches. I can't help it. Even beat to hell and navigating this minefield, there's something about the way she handles her brother that gets to me. She doesn't back down—not from him, not from me, not from anyone.

Knox catches my expression and his jaw tightens. "Something to add, Razor?"

"Nope." I pop the 'p' sound, just to be an asshole. "Just enjoying the food."

Colt, bless his cookie-stealing heart, jumps in with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. “So! Who’s ready to be on the road for the tour?”

Willow gives Colt a grateful look before turning to the rest of the table. "I've got the schedule mapped out. We're hitting Broken Arrow first, then Widow’s Bluff. Two stops a month minus May - it has three.”

I watch her as she talks logistics, admiring the way she takes command of the conversation. The bruise on my jaw throbs in time with my heartbeat, a steady reminder of the fight with Knox. Worth it, though. Worth it to see the fire in her eyes when she stepped between us, to feel her lips against mine even if it was just to prove a point.

"Razor, you listening?" Jace's voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Yeah," I lie, taking another pull of my beer. "Broken Arrow then Widow’s Bluff. Got it."

"And you're bunking with Levi," Willow adds, her eyes meeting mine with a smirk.

"The hell I am," I say before I can stop myself. "I bunked with him last time. Bastard snores like a chainsaw having an orgasm."

Levi flips me off without looking up from his plate. "Better than listening to you talk in your sleep. 'Oh, Willow, yes, right there,'" he mimics in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like me.

The table erupts in laughter—everyone except Knox, whose knuckles go white around his fork, and Willow, whose cheeks flush a pretty little shade of pink. She recovers quickly, arching an eyebrow at me.

"Dreaming about me, Calloway?"

"Every night, sweetheart," I drawl, ignoring the daggers Knox is staring into me.

Willow rolls her eyes, but there's something in the way her gaze lingers on mine that makes my heart kick against my ribs.

"Keep dreaming," Willow says, but there's a hint of something in her voice that makes my pulse quicken. "Because that's all you're getting."

The table erupts in a chorus of "oohs" like we're back in middle school. I lean forward, ignoring the sharp pain in my ribs, my eyes locked on hers across the messy spread of containers.

"So what happened in Razor’s truck was… nothing?" Colt says.

Before I can respond, Knox slams his beer bottle down hard enough to make everyone jump.

"Enough," he growls. "Jesus fucking Christ, enough."

Willow turns to Colt with eyes that promise slow death. "You wanna shut your mouth before I shut it for you? You’re already on thin fuckin’ ice with breaking rule eighteen.”

Colt raises his hands in surrender, but the damage is done. The air in the room shifts, becoming dense and charged like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks. Knox's face goes from angry to something worse—a cold, deadly calm that makes even Jace shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Colt. How did you know about that?”

He shrugs and looks toward me. “Uh… how did you know about that, Knox?”

“I fucking walked up on them after.”

Willow slams her palm on the table hard enough to make the plates jump. "I'm sitting right here, assholes. Stop talking about me like I'm not in the room."

The room goes silent at Willow's outburst. Every eye at the table fixes on her, but she doesn't flinch under the attention. If anything, she seems to grow taller, her spine straightening as she glares first at Knox, then at me, then at Colt.

"You want to know what happened in Razor's truck?" She pushes her chair back and stands, planting both palms on the table. "We talked. That's it. We fucking talked."

Knox's eyes narrow. "That's not what it looked like."

"I don't give a shit what it looked like," Willow snaps. "I'm telling you what happened."

I take another swig of beer, watching her over the bottle's rim. It wouldn't be the first time one of the guys have walked in on us or heard us. But this time feels different. More dangerous.

"Talking," Knox repeats, his voice flat with disbelief. "With your hands all over each other."

Willow's laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. How many buckle bunnies did you 'talk' with last season?"

The table goes deadly quiet. Even Colt has the sense to keep his mouth shut now, eyes darting between the Hayes siblings like he's watching a particularly violent tennis match.

"That's different," Knox says, his voice dropping an octave. "And you know it."

"Because you're a man?" Willow's eyes flash dangerously. "Because you're allowed to fuck whoever you want, whenever and wherever you want? But oh, great Besty, God forbid a little ole woman like me wanted to fuck my ex-boyfriend in his truck!”

I almost choke on my beer.

The table goes so quiet I swear I can hear everyone's hearts pounding in their chests. Knox's face drains of color, then floods with red. Jace chokes on his beer while Levi and Logan exchange wide-eyed glances. Colt looks like Christmas came early, his eyes gleaming with the gift of fresh gossip.

"Willow," Knox says, his voice dangerously quiet. "Outside. Now."

She crosses her arms, plants her feet. "No."

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," Willow cuts him off. "And I'm saying no. I'm not sixteen anymore, Knox. You don't get to send me to my room when I embarrass you."

Jace stands up and points to our rule list. “Rule four. The porch is for whiskey, brawls, and brotherhood. You settle it there—fists first, drinks after.”

"Fine," Willow says, throwing her napkin onto her plate. "Porch it is."

She stalks out of the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her with enough force to rattle the windows. Knox follows close behind, his shoulders tense like he's heading into the arena with the meanest bull on the circuit.

The rest of us sit in stunned silence for about three seconds before everyone scrambles to their feet.

"Twenty bucks says she makes him cry," Colt whispers, already moving toward the window that overlooks the porch.

"Fifty says she brings up Tammy Wilson," Logan counters, grabbing the last beer from the fridge.

"Shit's about to get real," Kade mutters, already rising from his seat. No way he's missing this show.

I drain my beer and stand up, ignoring the throb in my ribs. "This should be interesting."

The evening air is thick with humidity, crickets providing background music to what's shaping up to be the Hayes family showdown of the century.