Page 23

B eing on the road with Willow is like having a guardian angel with a mouth like a sailor and the tolerance of a drill sergeant.

A drop dead gorgeous little demon who might kill me if we don’t stop for food and a pee stop.

"For fuck's sake, Rhett, two more miles and we could've all died from dehydration," she says, glaring at me as I pull the truck into a dusty gas station lot. I can't help but grin at her dramatics.

The rest of the team piles out of the other trucks before I even cut the engine. It’s been a long drive so far and everyone is desperate for a stretch and a piss after five hours of highway. Jace is driving with Levi, Knox has Logan and Kade, and Weston is riding with us.

"You're welcome, princess," I say, winking at her as she unbuckles. "I live to serve."

"Call me princess again and I'll show you exactly how royal my right hook is." But there's a flash of something in her eyes that isn't entirely anger. Something that makes my blood run hot.

I follow her into the convenience store, watching as she grabs a basket and starts loading it with water bottles, protein bars, and beef jerky. Always the medic, always taking care of everyone. It's one of the things that drives me fucking crazy about her—how she's always putting everyone else first. Makes me want to be the one taking care of her for once.

"You got enough there to survive the apocalypse?" I ask, nodding at her overflowing basket.

She doesn't even look up. "Unlike you, I plan ahead. Remember Albuquerque? When you were practically begging for my granola bars after your dumb ass forgot to pack food?"

"I didn't beg. I strategically negotiated."

"Is that what you call those puppy dog eyes?" She snorts, moving toward the refrigerated section. "Besides, we've got the Dead Man's Ride tomorrow. You assholes need to stay hydrated."

I follow her, leaning against the cooler door she's trying to open. "Move," she says, trying to shove me with her elbow.

"Ask nicely."

"I will ask you with my knee to your groin if you don't move in three seconds."

I laugh and step aside, admiring the curve of her back as she leans down to grab Gatorades. She's wearing her usual jeans and a faded team t-shirt, but somehow makes it look like runway shit.

Weston appears beside us, loading his arms with enough candy to give a small army diabetes. "You two fighting again? It's like watching my parents before the divorce."

"Shut up, Wes," we say in unison, which only makes him grin wider.

"See what I mean? Scary." He backs away, bumping into Knox who's coming around the corner.

Knox gives us both a knowing look. "Jace says ten minutes, then we're back on the road."

I nod, watching Willow roll her eyes as she lifts her basket toward the register. The fluorescent lights catch the highlights in her hair, making the brown look almost golden. Fuck, I need to get my head straight.

"Got it," I say, grabbing a couple energy drinks for myself. "You want something else, Wills?"

She ignores me, already chatting with the cashier, some lanky kid with pimples who's staring at her like she's the second coming. Can't blame him. Even when she's being a pain in my ass, she's the most magnetic person in any room.

Outside, the heat hits me like a slap, the kind of dry heat that sucks the moisture right out of your skin. I squint against the sun, watching as Jace checks his phone, probably looking at standings or weather reports for tomorrow.

“Few more hours and we’re there. I want everybody ready for the press. Willow, you’re on for all Colt related questions. Start those trucks and let’s get moving.”

I pop the cap off my energy drink and chug half of it before climbing back into the driver's seat. Willow slides in beside me, divvying up supplies into individual bags. Her fingers move with that practiced precision, the same way she stitches us up when we're bleeding or tapes our ribs when they're cracked.

"You gonna share those?" I ask, nodding at the jerky she's unwrapping.

She tears a piece with her teeth, chewing slowly while staring straight ahead. Then, without looking, she holds out the package. Progress.

"Thanks, princess."

The bag drops to the floor. "Oops."

I laugh, bending down to grab it while she sighs dramatically. Weston climbs into the back seat, already tearing into a candy bar.

"You two need couples therapy," he mumbles through a mouthful of chocolate.

"Bite me," I say, pulling back onto the highway. The road stretches ahead like a ribbon, cutting through desert landscape that hasn't changed in the last hundred miles. Same scrubby brush, same distant mountains, same endless sky.

"Already did that last night," Willow mutters, so quiet I almost miss it.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel as she snickers from the front seat, fully knowing what she’s doing.

"What was that?" Weston asks from the backseat.

"Nothing," we both chuckle.

The miles roll by, Willow's playlist filling the cab with a mix of old country and rock that has Weston groaning in the back seat every time Dolly Parton comes on. I don't mind it. There's something about watching Willow's fingers tap against her thigh to the beat that makes the drive go faster.

"Ten minutes out," I announce as we pass the faded "Welcome to Widow's Bluff" sign. The town appears like a mirage in the distance, a collection of low buildings shimmering in the heat.

Willow straightens up, her game face sliding into place. I've watched this transformation a hundred times—the way she shifts from road trip Willow to professional Willow. Back goes straighter, jaw sets firmer, eyes sharpen. It's like watching someone put on armor.

"You ready for this?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "Gonna be a shit storm of questions about Colt."

She nods, eyes fixed on the arena that's appearing on the horizon. "I've got it covered. Just stick to the script we worked out."

"Yes, ma'am." I throw her a mock salute that earns me a glare, but I catch the slight upturn of her lips before she looks away.

Diablo's Den Arena looks like every other mid-tier rodeo venue we've competed at—concrete structure rising from the dust, flags snapping in the wind, a parking lot already filled with trucks and trailers. But this isn't just any event. The Dead Man's Ride has a reputation that makes even seasoned riders nervous.

We pull in behind Jace's truck, and I can feel the shift in energy. Game time.

"Showtime, kids," I say, killing the engine.

The press is already swarming like vultures when we park. Camera flashes, microphones thrust forward, voices overlapping as we unload our gear. I spot the RSN crew, the Outlaw Sports Network guys, and a dozen bloggers all hungry for the exclusive on Colt's condition.

Willow moves with purpose, her medic bag slung over one shoulder. She's got this aura when she's in professional mode that makes people step back, giving her space even in a crowd. I grab our equipment and follow in her wake.

"Let's set up at the south end," Jace calls out, pointing to an open area where we can establish our team's base. "Knox, secure the perimeter."

We work like a well-oiled machine, each knowing our role. I start unpacking the gear while Willow organizes her medical supplies with military precision. Weston and Logan set up the chairs and table, and Knox is already stringing up the team banner. Jace stands at the edge, surveying everything with that calm, calculating stare of his.

"They're circling," Logan mutters, nodding toward the press who are hovering just outside our space like hyenas waiting for the lions to finish eating.

"Let them wait," Jace says. "We set up first, talk second."

I catch Willow's eye as she organizes her medical supplies, color-coding everything like the control freak she is. "Ready for your close-up, doc?"

"Born ready," she says, but I catch the slight tension in her shoulders. Public speaking isn't her favorite thing, but she's the best one to handle the Colt questions. Clinical, precise, no bullshit.

Once everything's set, Jace gives the nod and the press descends. It's like watching piranhas hit the water. Questions fire from all directions, most aimed at Willow.

"What's Colt's status?"

"Will he compete at all this season?"

"Is it true his career might be over?"

I tense, ready to step in if they get too aggressive, but Willow handles it like a pro. She stands straight, voice clear and steady.

"Colt is making excellent progress in his recovery," she says, her professional tone leaving no room for argument. "The fractures are healing well, and he's ahead of schedule on his physical therapy milestones. We expect him back in competition next year."

"But sources say this was career ending." A stocky reporter sneers.

Willow cuts him off with a look that could freeze hell. "Your sources aren't the ones who've been monitoring his medical progress daily. I am."

Jace jumps in, smooth as silk. "Willow's not just our team medic, she's also the boss. Woman keeps us all in line."

The press laughs, and I can't help but smile. It's true. Eight grown men who wrestle two-thousand-pound bulls for a living, and we all jump when Willow snaps her fingers.

She plays along, cracking a smile. "Someone has to make sure these cowboys remember they're human and not actually made of steel."

More laughter. The tension eases slightly.

"So there's no permanent damage?" A blonde reporter presses.

"None." Willow's voice is firm. "Colt will make a full recovery. He's young, he's strong, and he's determined."

The questions shift my way, and I field them with my usual charm—half-truths wrapped in cowboy swagger.

The media eats it up—Rhett "Razor" Calloway, the bad boy of bull riding with the million-dollar smile and the death wish.

When the questions finally wind down, Jace wraps things up with a call for prayer. "We'd appreciate your thoughts for Colt's continued recovery. Now if you'll excuse us, we've got a competition to prepare for."

The press disperses reluctantly, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Willow meets my eyes across our setup area, giving me a small nod. She handled it perfectly, as usual.

"Good job, Hayes," I murmur as we start final preparations.

"You too, cowboy," she says, checking her watch. "You're up third tonight. Need anything before?"

"Just your undying admiration and a kiss for luck," I wink.

She laughs, but leans up, placing a soft kiss on my cheek. Her lips brush against my stubble, the touch of it sending a current through me. It's nothing—a friendly gesture, a good luck charm—but it lands like lightning in my chest.

"There," she says, pulling back quickly. "Now you can't blame me when you get thrown on your ass."

I'm about to fire back with something smart when the arena announcer's voice booms through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 15th Annual Dead Man's Ride!"

The crowd roars, and I feel that familiar rush hit my bloodstream—adrenaline, anticipation, fear all mixed together into the perfect cocktail. Nothing else in the world feels like this.

"Riders, prepare yourselves!" The announcer continues. "Tonight we separate the men from the boys!"

Jace gathers us in a circle, his face solemn. "Bow your heads," he says, and we form our usual pre-ride huddle. "Lord, keep us safe tonight. Guide our hands, protect our bodies, and let us ride with courage and skill. Amen."

"Amen," we echo.

The national anthem plays, and I stand with my hat over my heart, eyes fixed on the flag. This moment always sobers me, reminds me what we're doing is as American as it gets—man against beast, courage against fear. My grandfather would be proud. My father... Well, that's a different story.

"Let's rideeeee!" The announcer's voice echoes through the arena, and the crowd erupts.

I roll my shoulders, feeling that familiar tightness. Rhett, Jace, and Knox are up first. My heart's already hammering against my ribs—not from fear, but from that perfect cocktail of anticipation.

I'm heading toward the chutes when a hand grabs my arm, yanking me into one of those shadowy alcoves where the lights don't quite reach. It's a big dude, face I don't recognize, but the grip tells me everything I need to know. Not a fan wanting an autograph.

"Calloway," he says, voice low and rough. "Got a message for you."

I try to pull away but his fingers dig deeper. "Not interested in whatever you're selling, friend."

His laugh is ugly. "Oh, you'll be interested. You're gonna throw your ride tonight."

"The fuck I am." I move to push past him but he shoves me back against the wall, getting in my face. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey hits me.

"Either you throw the ride, or your team medic might have an accident. Pretty girl. Be a shame."

My blood turns to ice. Willow. He's talking about Willow.

"Who the fuck are you?" I snarl, grabbing his collar.

He just smiles, cold and empty. "Someone who knows people who can make a lot of things happen. Throw the ride, Calloway. Make it look good, but don't score above 70."

I shove him back, my hands itching to connect with his face. "You touch her, you even look at her wrong, and I'll end you."

"Rhett Calloway, you're up next!" The announcer's voice cuts through the tension.

The guy straightens his jacket. "Better get going, champ. Remember what I said. Below 70, or your little medic pays."

He melts back into the shadows before I can grab him again, leaving me standing there with rage burning through my veins and ice in my gut. I can't process this shit now. Not with my name echoing through the arena and eight thousand people waiting.

Fuck.

I catch Willow's eye as I walk toward the chutes. She's watching me, head tilted slightly, a question in her eyes. She knows me too well, and can read every micro-expression on my face. I force a smile, try to look normal, but my mind is racing.

Throw the ride or Willow gets hurt. Fuck that. I don't lose, and I sure as hell don't let anyone threaten my people.

But Willow...

I can't tell her. Not now. She'd try to handle it herself, maybe confront the guy, and that's exactly what I don't want. The thought of those hands anywhere near her makes me want to commit murder.

Focus, Rhett. Get through the ride first.

I'm at the chutes now, mechanical movements taking over as I prep. Chalk on my gloves, wrap on my wrist, check my rope. The bull in the chute is Dust Devil, a monster with a mean streak and a tendency to spin left before throwing his rider into the dirt. Perfect for scoring high—if I was actually trying to win.

Below 70. That's what the guy said.

The gate crew is watching me, waiting for my signal. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. I've never thrown a ride in my life. Not once.

"You good?" the gate man asks.

No, I'm not fucking good. But I nod anyway, settling myself onto Dust Devil. The bull shifts beneath me, already agitated, muscles rippling as he tries to anticipate freedom.

If I throw this, I let down the team. If I don't, Willow might get hurt. The threatening bastard wanted me to throw the ride? Fuck him. I'm not just going to ride—I'm going to fucking dominate.

"Let's go," I say, wrapping my hand tight in the rope.

The gate swings open and everything narrows to this moment—the explosive launch as Dust Devil bursts into the arena, the violent twist of muscle beneath me, the roar of the crowd fading to white noise. My body moves on instinct, countering every buck and spin. I'm not throwing this ride. I'm winning it.

Four seconds in. My arm is up, balance perfect. I could fall now, make it look like a slip. Below 70. Easy enough.

But fuck that. I see Willow at the edge of the arena, her eyes locked on me, that focused look she gets when she's calculating injury risks, watching for the slightest sign of trouble.

Eight seconds feels like eternity and no time at all. When the buzzer sounds, I'm still on, still fighting. I dismount with a flourish, landing on my feet as the bullfighters distract Dust Devil. The crowd is on their feet, roaring.

"89 points for Rhett 'Razor' Calloway!" The announcer's voice booms. "What a ride from the Savage 8's star!"

The scoreboard confirms it—well above the 70-point threshold I was ordered to stay under. My chest heaves with each breath, adrenaline and defiance pumping through my veins. I scan the crowd, looking for the face of the man who threatened me, but there are too many people, too many shadows.

I make my way back to our team area with a smile plastered on my face that doesn't reach my eyes. The guys are cheering, slapping my back, but all I can think about is the threat.

"Fucking beautiful, Razor!" Knox shouts.

I nod, scanning the perimeter, looking for any sign of the guy who cornered me. Nothing.

"Hey," Willow's voice cuts through my thoughts. She's standing in front of me, a medical bag over her shoulder, concern etched across her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The lie tastes bitter. "Just focused."

She narrows her eyes, not buying it for a second. "Bullshit. Something happened before your ride."

"Drop it, Wills." My voice comes out harder than I intended, making her flinch slightly. Fuck.

"Fine." She turns away, the hurt evident on her face.

"Team meeting. Now," I say, herding everyone toward our tent. Once we're huddled together, away from prying ears, I let it all spill out.

"Some guy cornered me before my ride. Told me to throw it or else." I run a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat. "Said if I scored above 70, Willow would have an accident."

The team's reactions are immediate and visceral. Knox's fists clench, Jace's jaw tightens, and Weston mutters something that would make a sailor blush. But it's Willow's reaction that guts me—her face drains of color before flushing with anger.

"And you didn't think to tell me this before you went and scored an 89?" She steps toward me, voice low and deadly. "You deliberately pissed off someone who threatened me?"

"I wasn't going to let some asshole dictate how I ride," I growl. "And I sure as hell wasn't going to let him think that threatening you works!”

"Keep your voice down," Jace hisses, stepping between us. "Both of you. This isn't the place."

He's right. We're still in the open, and any one of these passing cowboys or fans could be working with whoever threatened me. I force myself to take a deep breath, but the fury simmering in Willow's eyes makes it hard to focus.

"We move as a team from now on," Jace says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "No one alone, especially Willow."

Everyone nods, the gravity of the situation settling over us like a heavy blanket. Something bigger is at play here—something that's reaching into our world and threatening what matters most.

"Did you recognize him?" Knox asks, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes.

I shake my head. "Never seen him before. Big guy, scar across his eyebrow, smelled like cheap whiskey and bad decisions."

"You should have told me immediately," Willow hisses, stepping closer. The fire in her eyes could burn down the whole damn arena. "I'm not some damsel in distress.”

“And what would you have had me do? Throw my ride, Hayes?”

"No, I would have had you tell me so I could watch my own back! This isn't just about you, Rhett!"

"Enough," Jace cuts in. "Razor did the right thing. We don’t fucking throw our rides.”

Before I can answer, Knox's name booms over the speakers. He's up next, and I can see the conflict on his face—stay for this argument or prepare for his ride.

"You good?" I ask Knox, clapping him on the shoulder.

Knox nods, his face grim as he starts prepping. Willow follows him, checking his gear with even more thoroughness than usual. I watch her hands move with practiced precision, tugging straps and testing buckles twice, three times. Her movements are efficient but I can see the slight tremor in her fingers—she's rattled, even if she won't admit it.

"Always." His voice is steady, but his eyes keep scanning the crowd. "Keep an eye on her while I'm out there."

I nod, positioning myself closer to Willow as Knox heads toward the chutes. Willow shifts closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine despite her anger.

"I don't need a bodyguard," she mutters, but she doesn't move away.

"Tough shit," I reply, my eyes never stopping their scan of the crowd. "You've got seven of them now."

We watch as Knox settles onto his bull—Grave Digger, a nasty piece of work with a reputation for sending riders to the hospital. Willow's fingers curl around my forearm, her nails digging in slightly as Knox nods for the gate. It's an unconscious gesture, one she probably isn't even aware of. Despite her anger, when it comes to watching her boys risk their necks, her protective instincts override everything else.

The gate flies open and Grave Digger explodes into the arena. Knox is perfect, his form textbook, his body moving in perfect synchronization with the bull's violent twists and turns. The crowd roars as he makes it past the five-second mark, then six, seven—

The buzzer sounds and Knox dismounts with a flourish, landing on his feet as the bullfighters distract Grave Digger. The crowd erupts into cheers, and the announcer's voice booms, "88 points for Knox 'Viper' Hayes! The Savage 8 is bringing their A-game tonight, folks!"

Willow's grip on my arm relaxes, but her body remains tense.

"Two for two," I murmur as Knox jogs back to us, a rare smile cracking his usually stoic expression.

"Piece of cake," he says, but his eyes are serious as they lock with mine.

Jace is up next, and the tension in our little team huddle ratchets up another notch. I can literally feel Willow's anxiety radiating off her like heat waves. She's got her game face on, but I know her too well—the slight crease between her eyebrows, the way she's chewing the inside of her cheek. She's scared, not that she'd ever admit it.

"Jace, let me check your gear," she says, moving toward him with that purposeful stride of hers.

He submits to her inspection without complaint, which is a testament to how serious this situation is. Normally he'd give her shit about mothering him.

"Rope's good," she mutters, tugging on it. "Glove secure. Vest tight enough?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jace says, letting her fuss. His eyes meet mine over Willow's head. We're both thinking the same thing—if someone tried to get to me, they might try to get to him too.

"Jace McAllister, you're up!" The announcer's voice booms through the arena.

"Be careful," Willow says, her voice barely audible over the crowd.

Jace nods, adjusts his hat, and heads for the chutes. I position myself closer to Willow, and Knox does the same on her other side. She notices, of course, and shoots us both an irritated look.

"I swear to God, if you two don't stop hovering—"

"Not happening," Knox cuts her off. "Deal with it."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, just for her ears. "I didn't want to scare you before the rides."

She doesn't look at me, her eyes fixed on Jace.

“I appreciate it.”

We watch as Jace settles onto Hellraiser, a monstrous black bull with a reputation for vicious post-dismount charges. The arena goes quiet as he gives the nod. The gate swings open and Hellraiser erupts from the chute like a demon, twisting in the air before his hooves even touch dirt. Jace moves with him, countering every buck and spin with the precision that's made him a legend.

Four seconds. Five. Six. Jace is still riding strong, making it look easy though I know it's anything but. The crowd is on its feet.

Seven seconds. Just one more.

Then it happens. Hellraiser throws a twist that catches Jace slightly off-balance. He recovers, but the split-second adjustment costs him. As the buzzer sounds, Jace is already sliding sideways. He hits the dirt hard, rolling away from the bull's stomping hooves.

"Shit," Willow hisses, already moving toward the arena fence.

One of the bullfighters moves to intercept Hellraiser, but instead of driving the bull away, he steps aside—a deliberate move that sends the beast charging straight toward Jace, who's still getting to his feet.

"What the fuck?" I'm already moving, vaulting over the barrier with Knox right beside me. Willow's ahead of us, sprinting toward Jace with no regard for the two thousand pounds of fury bearing down on them.

Everything slows down—Willow reaching Jace, trying to pull him up. The bull lowering his head, preparing to charge. My heart in my throat as I run, knowing I won't make it in time.

Then I'm there, putting myself between Willow, Jace, and the bull. Knox flanks me, and we form a human shield. Weston, Kade, Logan, and Levi are all there as well, ropes in hand as they wave to distract the bull.

The arena falls into chaos—fans screaming, the announcer shouting for more bullfighters. I grab Willow's arm, yanking her back as Hellraiser's horn misses her by inches. Adrenaline floods my system, everything narrowing to this moment: protect Willow, protect Jace, don't get gored.

"Get them out!" I yell to Knox, who's hauling Jace to his feet.

The other bullfighters finally get their shit together, converging on Hellraiser with flags and distractions. The bull hesitates, torn between targets, giving us the seconds we need to retreat toward the barrier. I keep Willow tucked against my side, my arm a vise around her waist as we back away. The crowd's roaring in my ears, but all I can hear is Willow's ragged breathing.

We make it back to our team area, adrenaline still coursing through my veins like wildfire. Jace is limping but upright, his face a mask of controlled pain that I've seen too many times before. Willow's immediately in medic mode, shoving him into a chair despite his protests.

"I'm fine, Hayes," he grunts, wincing as she probes his ribs.

"Shut up and let me check," she snaps, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. There's a tremor in her hands that only I notice, the only sign that she's rattled. "Follow my finger," she orders, moving her index finger back and forth in front of Jace's eyes. "Any dizziness? Nausea?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. No. I’m good, Hayes.”

While Willow checks Jace over, Knox and I exchange a look. That bullfighter stepping aside wasn't an accident. It was too deliberate, too perfectly timed.

"That was no fucking coincidence," I mutter, keeping my voice low enough that only Knox can hear.

"Saw it," Knox confirms, his eyes still scanning the crowd. "Guy in the red vest. Recognize him?"

I shake my head. "No, but I'm gonna find him after this is over."

"Not alone you're not." Knox's tone leaves no room for argument.

My attention snaps back to Willow, who's finishing her assessment of Jace. Her face is composed, professional, but I can see the tightness around her eyes. She's scared and trying like hell not to show it.

"Bruised ribs, possible mild concussion," she announces. "You're gonna be fine, just rest tonight.”

Her hands start to shake a little more, her breath coming in short gasps.

Jace doesn’t waste a second and pulls Willow into his arms. “I’m okay. I promise. I’m okay, Wills.”

He softly kisses the top of her head, like a father would his daughter.

She lets out a soft sob, then pulls back to wipe the lone tear rolling down her face. “When I find that dirty fucking bullfighter, he won’t ever see the light of day.”

I can see the wheels turning in Willow's head, that dangerous look she gets when she's plotting something. It makes me both worried and a little turned on, which is fucked up timing on my part.

Jace's lips twitch into a small smile. "Easy, killer. I've taken worse hits."

The team huddles closer, forming a protective circle around us. The usual post-ride banter is gone, replaced by a tense vigilance that has everyone on edge. I scan the arena, looking for the bullfighter in the red vest, but he's nowhere to be seen. Convenient.

"We need to get the fuck out of here," I say, keeping my voice low. "Finish packing up and head back to the hotel."

"What about the scores?" Logan asks.

"Fuck the scores," Knox snaps. "Someone just tried to take Jace out."

Willow's still shaking, though she's trying to hide it by busying herself with her medical supplies. I step closer, shielding her from view as she repacks her kit.

"You okay, Wills?”

She doesn't look up at me, just keeps organizing bandages and gauze with those quick, efficient movements. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit."

Now she does look up, her eyes flashing. "What do you want me to say, Rhett? That I'm terrified? That watching Jace almost get gored made me want to throw up? There. Happy now?"

Her voice breaks on the last word, and something in my chest cracks open. Without thinking, I pull her against me, one hand on the back of her head. She stiffens for a second, then melts into it, her forehead pressing against my chest.

"We're gonna figure this out," I murmur into her hair. "No one's touching you or any of our boys. I promise."

She pulls back after a moment, composure restored. "I know. I just need a minute."

"Take it," I tell her, my voice gentle in a way it only ever is with her. "We've got your back."

I glance over at the rest of the team, who are packing up with grim efficiency. Weston and Logan are dismantling our setup while Kade and Levi stand guard, their postures casual but their eyes sharp. Knox is helping Jace, who's insisting he can walk on his own despite the obvious pain.

"Let's move," Jace calls out, his voice strained but authoritative. "Hotel, team meeting, no one alone."