Page 16

Knox and I stare each other down, the sun setting on the ranch as neither of us break the silence.

I hear the chairs scraping inside and the loud thumps of the boys rushing to the windows. It's the Hayes family showdown of the century and none of them want to miss it.

"You're making a mistake, Willow." Knox's voice is low, dangerous.

"Wouldn't be my first." I cross my arms over my chest. "Won't be my last."

The porch wood creaks beneath my boots as I shift my weight. Inside, I can practically feel the boys pressing their faces against the window like kids at a candy store. Let them watch. I'm done hiding.

"He broke you before." Knox's jaw tightens, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "Or did you forget that part?"

"I didn't forget a damn thing." The words scrape my throat raw. "But I'm not the same girl he left behind."

"He's Razor fucking Calloway." Knox throws his hands up. "Pride of the Savage 8. Man doesn't know how to love anything but the rush of those eight seconds."

I step closer. “Oh, just like seven other men I know.”

That hits a nerve. Knox's eyes narrow to slits, his breath escaping in a slow hiss that lives up to his nickname.

"That's different," he growls.

"Is it?" I don't back down. "You think I don't understand what drives you all? The adrenaline, the glory, the goddamn death wish wrapped up in a shiny belt buckle?"

The crickets chirp in the silence that follows, filling the space between heartbeats. Behind Knox, the sunset bleeds orange across the horizon like an open wound.

"He's my brother in everything but blood," Knox says finally, his voice softer now. "And you're my actual blood. That puts me in one hell of a position, Willow."

Something in me cracks, just a little. "I never asked you to choose.”

"Maybe not," Knox says, raking a hand through his hair. "But that doesn't mean I won't have to."

The wind kicks up, sending dust swirling around our boots. Night is settling in fast now, the sky deepening to indigo above us. I've had this argument a thousand times in my head, but standing here, facing down the only person who's ever truly had my back, makes the words stick in my throat.

"You think I don't know what I'm risking?" I finally manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "You think I haven't replayed every goddamn second of what happened between us?"

Knox's eyes soften just enough for me to see the worry behind the anger. "He's not built for forever, Wills."

"Neither am I." I shrug, the gesture deliberately casual even as my heart hammers against my ribs.

Knox's expression shifts, pain replacing anger. "Dad really did a number on us, didn't he?"

The mention of our father hits like a sucker punch. William Hayes, legendary bull rider, even more legendary drunk. The man who taught Knox everything he knows about riding—and taught me everything I know about running.

"Dad's got nothing to do with this," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.

"Bullshit." Knox steps forward, close enough that I can smell the leather and pine scent that's uniquely him. "Dad's got everything to do with why you keep picking men who'll leave you and why I can't stand to watch it happen again."

Something hot and sharp rises in my chest. "I'm not picking Rhett. I'm not picking anyone. This isn't about—"

"The hell it isn't!" Knox's voice cracks. "Every time Dad sobered up, he'd promise he was staying. Every damn time. And you'd believe him, Willow. Every. Single. Time."

The truth of it steals my breath. Inside the house, the silhouettes at the window have gone still.

"And you didn't?" I whisper.

Knox's face crumples, and suddenly he looks like the twelve-year-old boy who used to stand between me and Dad's drunken rages. Who'd patch the holes in the walls and in our hearts.

"I wanted to." His voice breaks on the words. "God knows I wanted to."

Something hot and wet slides down my cheek. I swipe at it angrily, hating the weakness. "I can't keep paying for his mistakes, Knox. I can't keep living afraid."

"And I can't scrape you off the floor again." His eyes glisten in the fading light. "Not after the last time. When Rhett left and you—"

"I know what Rhett did," I say quietly. "I was there, remember? I lived it. But what you don't understand is that walking away from him again would hurt worse than anything he could do to me."

Knox's shoulders slump. "That's what scares me."

I reach for his hand, calloused and rough like mine, shaped by the same cruel heritage. "I'm not asking for your blessing. Just your trust that I know what I'm doing."

"That's the thing about trust." Knox squeezes my fingers. "You can't just demand it back after it's been shattered."

I don't ask if he means his trust in Rhett or in me. Maybe it's both.

"I survived Dad," I whisper fiercely. "I'll survive Rhett Calloway."

Knox pulls me into a hug so sudden and tight it knocks the air from my lungs. His shoulders shake against mine, and I realize he's crying. My big brother, the Viper, the man who stares down two thousand pounds of fury for fun, is breaking apart in my arms.

I hold him, my own tears flowing freely now, soaking into the worn cotton of his shirt. We've never been much for crying—Hayes kids learn early that tears don't fix anything—but here we are, falling apart on the porch like the damaged goods we are.

"We're so fucked up," I choke out against his shoulder.

His laugh is wet and rough. "Certified Hayes disaster specials."

We stand like that for what feels like forever, the cool night air settling around us as the stars prick through the darkening sky. When Knox finally pulls back, his eyes are red-rimmed but clear.

"You love him?" he asks, the question so direct it startles me.

I swallow hard. "I never stopped."

Knox exhales slowly, like he's expelling something poisonous. "Then I'll try. For you. But I swear to God, Willow, if he hurts you again, I’m gonna end up on death row.”

I manage a watery smile. "Make sure they bury you with your championship buckle."

"Damn straight." He tousles my hair like he did when we were kids. "Now let's get inside before the idiots break that window pressing against it."

As if on cue, there's a muffled thud from inside, followed by cursing. Knox rolls his eyes and throws open the door, revealing three grown men scrambling away from the window with the guilty expressions of children caught stealing cookies.

"Show's over, assholes," I announce, wiping the last traces of tears from my face.

The living room goes suspiciously quiet as we enter, everyone suddenly fascinated by their phones or the ceiling or anything that isn't us. Only Rhett is missing from the awkward tableau, and my chest tightens at the realization.

"Where's Razor?" Knox asks.

"Out back," Kade mutters, jerking his thumb toward the rear door. "Said something about checking the trailer."

But I know better. Rhett's giving me space—or maybe giving himself space. Either way, the gesture speaks volumes. The old Rhett would've been front and center for the drama, throwing himself into the fray with guns blazing. This calculated retreat is new territory.

"We roll at dawn," Knox announces, his voice steady again. "Broken Arrow's a nine-hour haul. I want everyone's gear loaded tonight."

The guys nod, dispersing with suspicious efficiency. Jace claps Knox on the shoulder as he passes, a silent gesture of solidarity. The tension in the room dissipates like smoke, but the lingering scent of our confrontation remains.

But instead of heading to my room, I head out back where I know I’ll find Rhett.

The screen door bangs shut behind me, and the night swallows me whole. The bull pens and practice arena stretch out like shadows against the horizon, swathed in darkness except for the single flood light illuminating the trailer area. I spot Rhett immediately, his broad shoulders hunched as he secures tie-downs on our equipment trailer.

I stand there for a moment, just watching him work. His movements are precise, economical. The man never wastes a motion—not in the arena, not in bed, not in life. It's what makes him both incredible and infuriating.

"You planning on helping, or just admiring the view?" Rhett calls out without turning around.

A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. "Didn't realize I was being that obvious."

"You breathe loud." Rhett turns, and the floodlight catches half his face, leaving the rest in shadow. His mouth quirks up in that crooked smile that's haunted my dreams for two years.

I cross the yard toward him, gravel crunching under my boots. "Funny, that's not what you used to complain about."

His eyes darken, pupils expanding in the dim light. "I never complained about anything you did with that mouth, Hayes."

The air between us crackles with electricity. Two years of distance and now we're circling each other like wary predators, neither willing to make the first real move. This dance we're doing—half flirtation, half warfare—is exhausting and exhilarating all at once.

"So what's the verdict?" He nods toward the house. "Am I gonna have to sleep with one eye open tonight?"

"Knox agreed not to murder you in your sleep." I shrug. "For now."

Rhett's laugh is low and rough. "Progress. How did it go down between you two?”

I step closer, gravel crunching under my boots. "About as well as you'd expect. No blood, minimal tears. We're calling it a win."

His mouth quirks up at one corner, that half-smile that's gotten more women into trouble than whiskey and bad decisions combined. "And the verdict?"

"He thinks I'm making a mistake." I shrug, coming to stand beside him at the trailer. "But he's not disowning me. Yet."

Rhett's fingers pause on the strap he's securing. "And what do you think?"

The night air feels electric between us. I can smell the leather of his jacket, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with dust and metal from the trailer. This close, I can see the tiny scar above his right eyebrow from a wreck in San Antonio three years back.

"I think," I say carefully, each word weighted, "that some mistakes are worth making twice."

Something flares in his eyes—hope, hunger, I can't tell which. His hand drops from the trailer strap, and for a breathless moment, I think he might reach for me.

"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement." His voice is sandpaper rough.

"You want a guarantee, Calloway? Buy a toaster." I step closer, eliminating the careful distance between us. "I don't know what this is yet. Neither do you."

"I know exactly what this is."

I gaze up at him. “Oh yeah? Care to enlighten me?”

I’m playing with fire, but right now, I couldn’t give one flyin’ fuck.

Rhett's fingers find my jaw, rough and calloused from years of rope burns and hard living. His touch is light—too light—like I'm something that might shatter. It pisses me off and turns me on in equal measure.

"This," he says, voice dropping to that dangerous register that vibrates straight through my chest, "is inevitable."

I arch an eyebrow. "Pretty big word for a cowboy."

"I read books sometimes." His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath hitches. "When there's nothing good on TV."

The night air wraps around us like a cloak, hiding us from the house and whatever eyes might be watching from those windows. Crickets provide the soundtrack as Rhett's hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.

"Willow," he breathes my name like a prayer.

"Don't," I whisper, my hand pressing against his chest. His heart hammers beneath my palm, a wild rhythm that matches my own. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile."

Something shifts in his expression, the careful restraint giving way to something darker, hungrier. His fingers tighten in my hair, not painful but present. Real.

"Trust me," he says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me. "That's the last mistake I'd make twice."

He crushes his lips to mine before I can even respond. Two years of distance evaporate in the heat between us. His kiss isn't gentle—it's hungry, desperate, a man breaking a fast. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as his arm bands around my waist, lifting me until my boots barely scrape the gravel.

We crash against the side of the trailer, his body pinning mine. Everything narrows to this moment—his mouth on mine, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. I want those marks. Want proof that this is real.

"Fuck, I've missed you," he growls against my mouth, the words vibrating through me.

I bite his lower lip in response, drawing a hiss from him that's half pain, half pleasure. "Show me how much."

His eyes darken to midnight, pupils blown wide. In one fluid motion, he spins me around, my chest pressing against the cool metal of the trailer. His body covers mine from behind, one hand sliding up to pin my wrists above my head while the other snakes around to splay across my stomach.

"Right here?" His voice is gravel in my ear. "Where anyone could walk out and see?"

Heat floods my core at the question, at the edge in his voice. The risk of it all—out here where any of the guys could walk out, where Knox could catch us—should cool my blood. Instead, it's like gasoline on a wildfire.

"What's the matter, Calloway?" I taunt, pushing back against him. "Getting shy in your old age?"

He laughs, dark and dangerous against my neck. "Just checking if you're still the same adrenaline junkie I remember."

His teeth scrape the sensitive spot below my ear, and I have to bite back a moan. His hand slides from my stomach to my hip, fingers digging in with possessive intent.

"We shouldn't," he murmurs, even as his hips press harder against me.

"Didn’t stop you from fucking me in your truck the other night." I turn my head, catching his gaze over my shoulder.

His eyes flash in the floodlight, and I know I've hit a nerve. "That was different."

"How?" I challenge myself.

Rhett's breath is hot against my neck. "Because I've been thinking about it for two years. Didn't exactly have time for second thoughts."

Something in his admission makes my heart stutter. The idea of him wanting me all this time, carrying that need through rodeos and women and miles of open road—it does things to me I'm not ready to examine.

"And now?" I push back against him, feeling exactly how much he still wants me. "Having regrets?"

"The only thing I regret," he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that vibrates through my bones, "is every second I wasn't inside you."

My body responds before my brain can catch up, a liquid heat pooling between my thighs. His hand slides from my hip to the button of my jeans, deft fingers working it open. The cool night air kisses my skin as he tugs my zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet.

"Last chance to tell me to stop," he whispers against my ear, his breath hot.

In answer, I reach back and grab his belt, pulling his hips harder against mine. "Since when did I ever want you to stop?"

He groans, a sound so raw and honest it makes my knees weak. His hand slips beneath the denim, fingers finding me wet and ready. "Fuck, Willow."

"That's the idea," I gasp as his fingers stroke me through thin cotton.

The trailer's metal is cool against my cheek, a sharp contrast to the heat of Rhett's body pressing against my back. His fingers slip beneath my underwear, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out when he finds that sweet spot that makes my knees buckle.

"Still know exactly how to touch you," he murmurs, satisfaction thick in his voice.

I want to hate how smug he sounds, but his fingers are moving in slow, deliberate circles that make thinking nearly impossible. My hips rock against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.

"Someone could walk out here any second," he says, his voice a dangerous rumble against my ear. "Your brother could come looking for you."

The risk only heightens everything—the cool metal against my overheated skin, the rough scrape of his calluses against my most sensitive flesh, the night air on my exposed skin. I arch into his touch.

"Let them look," I breathe, my voice barely audible over the thundering of my pulse.

Rhett growls, the sound vibrating through my back as his fingers slip inside me, curling with devastating precision. My body remembers him—every touch, every rhythm—like we were never apart. Like the last two years were just a bad dream we both woke from.

"Two years," he mutters against my neck, "and you're still the wettest thing I've ever felt."

I should hate how crude he sounds, how possessive, but my body clenches around his fingers in response. The rough denim of his jeans scrapes against the backs of my thighs as he presses closer, his free hand still pinning my wrists to the trailer. The metal creaks softly with each movement, a soundtrack to our recklessness.

"Tell me you missed this," he demands, his voice rough as his thumb finds that bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

"You know I did," I gasp, my pride dissolving under his expert touch.

"Say it." His fingers curl inside me, hitting that spot that makes my legs tremble. "I want to hear you say it."

My breath comes in ragged pants, hips moving in desperate rhythm against his hand. "I missed you. Fuck, Rhett, I missed you."

His teeth graze my earlobe. "Missed what exactly?"

Even now, he's pushing, demanding. The bastard never could take the easy win.

"This," I gasp as his fingers work magic inside me. "Your hands, your mouth. The way you make me feel like I'm flying and falling all at once."

He makes a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat, primal and possessive. "And?"

"And the way you fuck me like you own me," I admit, the words torn from somewhere deep and honest. "Like I'm the only thing that matters in the whole goddamn world."

The confession hangs in the night air between us, too raw, too real. For a heartbeat, his movements still, and I wonder if I've said too much. Then his grip on my wrists tightens, and he spins me around to face him.

The look in his eyes steals my breath—hunger and heat and something else, something that makes my chest ache with a dangerous kind of hope.

"Say it again," he demands, voice ragged.

I swallow hard, caught in his gaze like a deer in headlights. "Which part?"

"The part where I make you feel like you're the only thing that matters." His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "Because you fucking are, Willow."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My hands find his wrists, holding on as if I might float away without his anchor.

"Rhett—"

Whatever I'm about to say dies as his mouth crashes down on mine again. This kiss is different—less desperate, more deliberate. Like he's trying to pour every goddamn emotion into me.

His kiss brands me, marking every inch of my mouth as his. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild, like a bull that's just broken free of its pen.

"I came back for you," he says, voice rough with something more dangerous than desire. "Every other reason is bullshit. It was always you."