Page 26

L ogan and Willow are knocked out, leaving Kade and I awake on the ride to the next circuit stop.

Kade's been quiet for most of the drive, scrolling through his phone with an intensity that tells me he's not just checking scores or social media. There's a tightness around his jaw I haven't seen before.

"You gonna tell me what you're looking for, or am I supposed to guess?" I ask, breaking the silence that's been hanging between us for the last fifty miles.

He glances up, expression guarded. "Just doing some research."

"Bullshit." I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel him shift in his seat. "We've known each other too long for that crap."

The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating nothing but empty desert and ribbon of asphalt stretching ahead. Behind us, Logan and Willow are passed out cold in the backseat, her head resting against his shoulder in a way that would make me jealous if I didn't know better. Logan's harmless enough—a notorious flirt, sure, but he respects boundaries, especially mine when it comes to Willow.

Kade exhales slowly, finally putting his phone down. "I've been looking into the other riders who dropped out. Something's not adding up."

"You think it's connected to what happened to Willow?"

"Maybe." He runs a hand through his hair. "Three riders from different sponsors, all pulling out within forty-eight hours of each other. Official story is injuries, but I can't find anything solid."

I grip the steering wheel tighter. "You're thinking syndicate."

"I'm thinking we need to watch our backs." His voice drops lower. "Especially at Hell's Hollow. That place has always been a hotbed for the gambling crowd."

The mention of Hell's Hollow sends a familiar rush of adrenaline through my veins. The Brimstone Classic is notorious enough without adding syndicate trouble to the mix. I've won there twice before, but it's always been a knife's edge between glory and disaster.

"You think someone's feeding them information about which riders to target?" I ask, the pieces starting to click together in my head.

"That's what I'm afraid of." Kade's voice is barely audible over the hum of the engine. "Someone who knows schedules, knows riders' weaknesses. Someone on the inside."

I feel a cold weight settle in my gut. "One of us?"

"I don't know." He stares out the window at the darkness. "I trust the Eight with my life. But someone's got access they shouldn't have."

In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Willow's sleeping face, peaceful in a way I rarely get to see these days. The thought of someone putting her in danger again makes me want to tear the world apart with my bare hands.

"We keep this between us for now," I say, my voice low and hard. "Until we know more."

Kade nods, his profile sharp in the dashboard glow. "Already on it. I've got a contact at the commission who owes me a favor. Should have the injury reports by morning."

"Good." I ease off the gas as we approach a rundown gas station, its neon sign flickering weakly against the night sky. "Need to fill up."

Knox and Jace pull in with me with the rest of the guys.

As I pull in beside the pump, Willow stirs in the backseat, her eyes finding mine in the mirror. There's a moment of confusion, then recognition.

"Where are we?" she asks, voice husky with sleep.

"Middle of nowhere, Arizona," I say, catching her gaze in the rearview. "Almost to Hell's Hollow."

She sits up, careful not to disturb Logan who's still out cold, his head now lolling against the window. She stretches, and I catch myself watching the movement, the way her shirt rides up just enough to expose a sliver of skin above her jeans.

"You need anything?" I ask, killing the engine.

"I'll come in with you." She's already reaching for the door handle, and I don't miss the way her eyes scan the parking lot, checking for threats.

The night air hits us like a wall of dry heat as we step out. Even at this hour, Arizona is merciless. Kade mutters something about checking in with Knox and heads toward the other truck where the rest of the guys are piling out, leaving Willow and me alone.

She falls into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. It's intentional—I know her well enough to recognize when she's seeking contact without asking for it.

"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"Just jumpy." Her eyes still haven't stopped scanning our surroundings. "Bad dreams."

I want to ask what kind, but the set of her jaw tells me she's not ready to share. Instead, I rest my hand on the small of her back as we walk toward the convenience store, a silent reminder that she's not alone. She leans into the touch, just slightly.

The bell above the door jingles as we step inside. The place is mostly empty—just a bored-looking cashier flipping through a magazine and an old trucker browsing the coffee station. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly pale glow.

"I’m gonna use the bathroom.” Willow says, nodding toward the back of the store.

Her fingers brush against mine for a half-second before she walks away, and I watch her go, noting how she checks every corner and shadow on her path.

I grab a couple of energy drinks and some beef jerky—road trip essentials when you're running on fumes and adrenaline. The cashier barely looks up as I approach the counter, too engrossed in whatever celebrity gossip she's reading.

"Pump four," I say, pulling out my wallet.

She rings me up with mechanical efficiency, and I'm just pocketing my change when I notice a bulletin board near the register. Amid the faded flyers for local bands and lost pets, there's a promotional poster for the Brimstone Classic. Someone's drawn X's through three of the featured riders—the same three Kade mentioned had dropped out.

"Hey! You a bull riding fan?" I ask the cashier, nodding toward the poster.

She glances up, finally showing a flicker of interest. "My brother's obsessed. He's the one who marked it up—keeps track of who's in and who's out." She shrugs. "Betting pool at his job."

"Those three pulled out recently?" I keep my tone casual, just another curious fan.

"Yeah, last couple days. Disappointed my brother—he had money on Sanchez." She goes back to her magazine, conversation over.

I'm still staring at the poster when Willow returns, her face freshly washed and her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She follows my gaze to the marked-up riders.

"That's not creepy at all," she mutters, grabbing one of the energy drinks from my hand.

"Just some betting pool," I say, but we both know it's more than that. The X's look almost violent, drawn with heavy black marker that's torn through the paper in places.

Willow cracks open her drink, eyes still on the poster. "Coincidence?"

"Not a chance." I grab our stuff and head for the door, suddenly feeling exposed under the harsh fluorescents. "Let's go."

Outside, the night has somehow gotten darker. The rest of the guys are still milling around their trucks, stretching legs and shooting the shit. I catch Kade's eye and give him a subtle nod toward the store. He excuses himself from the others and meets us halfway across the lot.

"Someone's tracking the dropouts," I say without preamble. "Marked up on a poster inside."

Kade's expression doesn't change, but I notice how his stance shifts, more alert, more coiled. "Local fans or something else?"

"Cashier says it's her brother's betting pool markings." I keep my voice low, though we're well out of earshot of anyone else. "But three X's, three riders. Same ones you mentioned."

"Shit." He runs a hand over his jaw. "This is spreading faster than I thought."

Willow steps closer, forming a tight circle with us. "If people at random gas stations know which riders are out before it's officially announced..."

"Then the syndicate's reach is growing," Kade finishes for her. "And they're not being subtle anymore."

A semi roars past on the highway, its headlights briefly illuminating our faces. In that flash, I catch the determination in Willow's eyes, the same look she gets before stepping into the arena. Battle-ready.

"Let's move. I’ll let the guys know.”

Kade walks over to the other two trucks and Willow turns to get into mine. But I put my hand on the door, blocking her in.

She raises an eyebrow, questioning. I lean in closer, close enough that I can smell the faint traces of her shampoo under the dust and sweat of the day.

"When we get to Hell's Hollow, stick close to me," I murmur, my voice low enough that only she can hear it. "I don't like how this is shaping up."

"I can handle myself, Rhett." There's steel in her voice, but I don't miss the way her eyes dart to the store, then back to my face.

"I know you can. That's not what I'm saying." I run my thumb along the edge of the door, fighting the urge to touch her. But I can’t help it. I lightly place my hand on her face.

Willow leans in. Her lips are soft against mine, hesitant at first, then hungry. For one perfect moment, there's nothing but us, nothing but the heat between our bodies and the silent promise we've been dancing around for months.

When she pulls back, her eyes are dark with something that makes my pulse quicken.

"We're not alone in this," she whispers against my lips. "Remember that."

The moment shatters as Logan raps his knuckles against the window, his face pressed comically against the glass.

"If you two are done making out, some of us would like to get back on the road," he calls, voice muffled through the glass. "Unless you're planning to give us all a free show?"

I flip him off without looking, but step back from Willow, giving her space to climb into the truck. Her cheeks are flushed, but there's a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth that makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

"Rain check," I murmur, and she nods once before ducking into the passenger seat.

Logan's already sprawled across the backseat, hands behind his head with a shit eating grin.

“Come on back here, little firecracker. We gots some talking to do.”

Willow rolls her eyes. but climbs in, pushing his legs out of her way. Kade hops in the driver's seat, giving me a break in the passenger seat.

As Kade pulls back onto the highway, I stare out at the darkness, my mind racing and my lips still tingling from Willow's kiss. The headlights cut through the night, illuminating nothing but empty road and the occasional reflective marker. It feels like we're driving straight into the mouth of something dangerous, something we can't fully see yet.

"So," Logan drawls from the backseat, "anyone want to tell me why everyone looks like they're heading to a funeral instead of the biggest event of the season?"

I catch Kade's eye, a silent question passing between us. How much do we share?

"Some riders have been dropping out," I say finally, keeping it vague. "We're just being cautious."

"Cautious?" Logan snorts. "Since when has Razor Calloway ever been cautious about anything?"

"Since people started getting hurt,” Willow snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut through Logan's bravado.

The cab falls silent. Even Logan seems to register the gravity in her tone. He sits up straighter, dropping the joker act.

"What's going on?" he asks, all business now. "For real."

Kade keeps his eyes on the road, but I can see the calculation happening behind them—how much to reveal, how much to hold back. I make the decision for all of us.

"The syndicate's bigger than we thought," I say, watching the dashboard lights cast shadows across my hands. "They're targeting riders, manipulating outcomes. And they've got eyes everywhere."

Logan lets out a low whistle. "Shit. You think they're behind the dropouts?"

"We know they are," Willow says quietly. "Question is why those specific riders."

"And who's feeding them that info.” Kade mumbles.

"And what the plan is going to be when we get there," I add, turning back to face them both. "Because we can't just walk into Hell's Hollow blind."

Logan leans forward, elbows on his knees. The playboy act is completely gone now, replaced by the sharp, tactical mind that most people never get to see. It's why he's part of the Eight—not just for his riding skills, but for what he brings to the table when shit gets real.

"So let me get this straight," he says, keeping his voice low even though it's just us in the truck. "The syndicate's somehow pressuring riders to drop out, probably to manipulate the odds. They've got inside information. And they're not afraid to get physical if necessary." He glances at Willow, and I know he's thinking about what happened to her.

"That about covers it," Kade says.

Logan whistles lowly. “Well then, I guess we better fill the guys in when we get there, watch our backs, and be smart.”

We all nod, knowing this is much bigger than we ever imagined.

W e finally arrive at Hell’s Hollow Arena just after sunrise, the massive structure looming against the red desert like some ancient colosseum built for modern gladiators. The parking lot is already half-full—crews setting up, vendors arranging their wares, and early-bird fans hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite riders during practice.

I scan the scene as we pull in, noting every exit, every shadow, every face that turns our way. Old habits. Necessary ones.

"Home sweet hell hole," Logan mutters, stretching as he climbs out of the truck. "Anyone else feel like we're walking into a trap?"

Willow steps out beside him, her eyes mirroring my own assessment of our surroundings. "That's because we are."

Kade parks next to where Knox and the others have pulled in. The eight of us gather in a loose circle beside our vehicles, looking more like we're planning a heist than just catching up before the competition.

"Listen up," I say, keeping my voice low. "This isn't just another stop on the circuit."

Jace raises an eyebrow. "Why do I get the feeling we're about to hear something that's gonna mess with my pre-ride routine?"

"Because you are." Kade steps in, his usual calm demeanor radiating tension now. "Three riders have already dropped out. Official story is injuries, but we have reason to believe it's syndicate pressure."

Knox curses under his breath. "They’re getting bold."

"Bold and organized," I add. "And they've got someone on the inside feeding them information."

That gets everyone's attention. The circle tightens instinctively, heads drawing closer. These men are more than just my crew—they're my brothers, the only family that matters. The thought that one of them could be working against us turns my stomach.

"No way," Jace says immediately, shaking his head. "Not one of us."

"Not saying it is," Kade clarifies. "But someone with access. Someone who knows the inside track."

Willow stands slightly apart from our huddle, her eyes constantly scanning the parking lot. I know that look—she's searching for threats, cataloging faces, memorizing details. It's the same hypervigilance I've seen in her since the attack.

"So what's the play?" Knox asks, his massive arms crossed over his chest. "We just ride like normal and hope they don't target one of us next?"

"Hell no," I say, the very thought making my blood boil. "We're going on offense."

Logan grins, that wild light entering his eyes that usually means trouble. "Now we're talking. What did you have in mind?”

I nod toward Weston. “You had the idea to record that bullfighter who told you to throw your ride. But we’re gonna need to make it less obvious. No using our phones.”

Weston nods, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I've got something better than phones." He reaches into his bag and pulls out what looks like a fancy silver pen. "Micro camera. Resolution good enough to ID faces even in low light."

"Where the hell did you get that?" Knox asks, eyebrows raised.

"Let's just say I've been preparing for this moment." Weston twirls the pen between his fingers. "Got Eight of them. Different designs, all functional as actual pens too."

I take one, examining it. Barely heavier than a normal pen, with a tiny lens I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't looking for it. "This is perfect."

"We need to be smart about placement," Kade says, his tactical mind already working through the angles. "Make it look normal. Use them to sign shit with, play with it here and there.”

Kade lowers his voice, eyes darting to the arena entrance where a group of officials have gathered. "And we need to be careful who we trust with what we find."

"No one outside this circle," I say firmly. "Period."

The guys nod in agreement, each pocketing one of Weston's spy pens. Willow steps back into our huddle, her face tense.

"We've got company," she murmurs. "Three o'clock."

I follow her gaze to see Travis Beaumont, the event coordinator, heading our way with his clipboard and that fake smile that never reaches his eyes. Behind him trail two men I don't recognize—suits, expensive watches, the kind of guys who've never been on the back of a bull but make money off those who have.

Jace clears his throat and starts talking tactics, our fearless leader taking over.

"—talking about the draw today," Jace says loudly, smooth as butter. "Got a feeling I'm getting Diablo's Revenge again."

"That bull has your number," Knox chimes in, seamlessly following Jace's lead.

We shift our stance, unconsciously widening our circle to make room for the approaching suits while keeping Willow partially shielded behind Knox's bulk. It's instinctive, the way we move together, like a single organism reacting to a threat.

"Savage Eight, as I live and breathe," Beaumont calls out, that plastic smile firmly in place. "All together and ready to go, I see. Well, minus one."

I step forward, extending my hand. "Travis. Good to see you."

His handshake is limp and clammy. I resist the urge to wipe my palm on my jeans afterward. “How is Wildcard doing?”

Willow's smile glimmers with a touch of charm that seems almost effortless. "Recovering," she says, her voice giving nothing away. "Eager to get back in the arena."

Beaumont's gaze lingers on her a beat too long. "Glad to hear it. The fans have been asking."

"I bet they have," I mutter, and Kade shoots me a warning look.

Beaumont gestures to the two suits behind him. "Gentlemen, meet the famous Savage Eight. Or at least most of them." His laugh is as fake as his concern. "Boys, this is Mr. Davis and Mr. Wheeler from Apex Investments. They're looking to expand their portfolio into professional bull riding."

The taller suit—Davis—steps forward with a shark's smile. "We've heard a lot about your... crew." The way he says it makes it sound like a gang. "Particularly about you, Calloway. Quite the reputation. Two year suspension from a circuit makes for quite an interesting story."

My jaw tightens. Something in his tone sets off every alarm bell in my head. The suspension he's referencing isn't public knowledge—it was handled quietly, buried in paperwork and legal settlements. Only people with serious connections would know all the details.

"Ancient history," I say, keeping my voice level. "I'm more focused on the future."

"Aren't we all," Wheeler chimes in, his eyes cold despite his smile. "The future of this sport is precisely what interests Apex. Particularly its... predictability."

Kade shifts slightly beside me, a subtle movement that positions him between Wheeler and Willow. I catch Logan's eye, see the same recognition there. These aren't just suits looking for investment opportunities. They're syndicate, or at least connected.

"Bull riding isn't exactly known for being predictable," Willow says, her voice light and sweet.

She’s trying to charm the pants off these guys with that sickly sweet girl next door tone. "That's what makes it exciting. The unknown." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the picture of innocence. "But I'm sure smart investors like yourselves already understand that."

Wheeler's eyes narrow slightly, assessing her. I can practically see him rewriting whatever file he has on Willow Hayes in his head. Good. Let them underestimate her.

The tension in our circle ratchets up another notch. They're not even being subtle now. It's almost like they want us to know who they are, what they represent. A power play.

Davis laughs, but his eyes remain cold. "For the spectators, certainly. For investors, however, a certain level of... consistency is preferable."

"Well, bulls aren't exactly known for taking direction," I say, crossing my arms. "Kind of the point."

"The animals, perhaps not," Wheeler concedes with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But the riders... Well, they're more reasonable. Especially when properly motivated."

The threat hangs in the air between us, thinly veiled but unmistakable. I feel Kade tense beside me, ready to move if needed. The rest of the guys shift almost imperceptibly, tightening our circle.

"Well," Beaumont interjects, oblivious to the undercurrents or deliberately ignoring them, "I'll let you gentlemen continue your introductions. Just wanted to make sure our stars were properly welcomed." He claps his hands together once, that fake smile still plastered on. "Draw's in an hour. Don't be late."

As Beaumont walks away, the two suits linger, their predatory gazes sweeping over our group.

"Looking forward to seeing what the Savage Eight can do," Davis says, his eyes landing on me. "Especially you, Razor. I've got... special interest in your performance."

"I bet you do," I reply, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice anymore.

Wheeler's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Ms. Hayes, a pleasure to meet you. Your reputation precedes you as well." He reaches for her hand, but she's already taken a step back.

"Funny," she says, her voice honey over steel. "I can't say the same about you."

The suits exchange a look, then Davis nods once before they both turn to leave. I watch them go, memorizing their faces, the way they walk, the expensive cut of their suits.

"Well, that was about as subtle as a bull in a china shop," Logan mutters once they're out of earshot.

"They wanted us to know," Kade says, his voice tight. "That's what worries me."

Willow's fingers brush against mine, a fleeting touch that grounds me when I feel like I might explode with rage. "They're trying to throw us off our game," she says quietly. "Classic intimidation tactic."

"It's working," Jace admits, running a hand through his hair. "Three riders are already out, and now those sharks are circling? This is next level."

Knox spits on the ground. "Fuck 'em. We ride like we always do."

"No," I cut in, my mind suddenly crystal clear. "No, we don't just ride like always. We ride better. We win. And we catch these bastards in the act."

The guys turn to me, waiting. I feel the weight of their expectations, their trust. It's a familiar weight, one I've carried for years.

"Weston, I want those cameras running constantly. Jace, Levi, Knox, you're our eyes in the staging area—watch who talks to which riders, especially before the big rides. Logan and Kade, work your charm with the stock contractors, see if anyone's been asking about specific bulls."

They nod, determination replacing the uncertainty in their eyes.

"What about me?" Willow asks, her voice steady but her eyes blazing.

I meet her gaze directly. "You're with me. We're going to have a little chat with some of the other riders who suddenly got 'injured.'"

I feel the Eight's eyes on us as we walk away, my hand instinctively finding the small of Willow's back. It's not possessive—it's protective, a reminder that she's not facing this alone. Not anymore.

"You really think these 'injured' riders will talk to us?" she asks, keeping her voice low as we weave through the growing crowd. "If the syndicate's got them scared enough to pull out..."

"They'll talk to you," I say, glancing down at her. "Everyone does eventually."

She snorts, but I catch the hint of a smile. "That's because I don't give them a choice."

"Exactly."

The practice arena is already buzzing with activity—riders warming up, stock contractors checking their animals, officials scurrying around with clipboards and radios. I scan the area, picking out familiar faces, noting who's missing.

"There's Miguel Sanchez," Willow murmurs, nodding toward a solitary figure leaning against the fence near the holding pens. "He's on the dropout list."

I study him from a distance. Sanchez is good—not great, but consistent enough to be a contender at most events. Right now, though, he looks like shit. His shoulders are hunched, his normally meticulous appearance disheveled. Even from here, I can see the dark circles under his eyes.

"Let me approach him first," Willow says, her voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the arena. "He won't feel as threatened by me."

I want to argue—the protective instinct in me screaming to keep her close—but I know she's right. Willow has a way with the riders that makes us all fall to our knees for her. Hell, she gets new offers every weekend to be medic for another team.

"I'll be watching," I say, my voice low and gruff. "First sign of trouble—"

"I know." She cuts me off with a look that's half irritation, half appreciation. "I'll scream your name and run for the hills."

I snort. "Like hell you will. You've never run from anything in your life."

Her lips quirk up in that half-smile that does things to my insides. "True. But I might scream your name for other reasons."

Before I can process that loaded statement, she's walking away, her confident stride and swaying hips drawing more than a few appreciative glances. I force myself to hang back, positioning myself where I can watch without being obvious about it. The pen camera feels heavy in my pocket, a reminder of what's at stake.

Willow approaches Sanchez with the casual air of someone just making conversation.

I can't hear what she's saying, but I recognize the way she tilts her head, the gentle touch on Sanchez's arm—she's in full medic mode, all concern and professional care. It works like a charm. I watch as Sanchez's posture shifts, relaxing slightly as he answers whatever question she's asked.

They talk for a few minutes, Willow nodding sympathetically while Sanchez grows increasingly animated, gesturing with his hands in a way that suggests frustration rather than fear. At one point, he glances over his shoulder, scanning the arena with the same hypervigilance I've seen in Willow. The look of a hunted man.

When Willow finally walks back to me, her expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.

"Well?" I ask as soon as she's close enough.

"Not here." She takes my hand in hers, leading me toward a secluded corner behind the concession stands. Her grip is tight, fingers interlaced with mine in a way that feels both natural and electrifying.

"He wasn't injured," she says once we're alone, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was threatened."

"The syndicate?"

She nods. "Two men approached him after his last ride—one of them matches the description of Wheeler. They showed him pictures of his kids at school, told him how tragic it would be if there was an 'accident.'"

My blood runs cold. "Jesus Christ."

"It gets worse." She leans in closer, her breath warm against my neck. "They knew things, Rhett. Personal things. The name of his daughter's teacher. Where his wife shops for groceries." Her eyes meet mine, fierce and determined. "Someone's feeding them information—detailed information."

“Fuck.”

I pull her closer, needing to feel her warmth against me, needing to ground myself in something real while my mind races through the implications. "We're in deeper shit than I thought."

Willow doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into me, her forehead resting against my chest. I can feel her heart racing, matching the thunderous beat of my own.

"What are we doing, Rhett?" she whispers, and I know she's not just talking about the syndicate anymore. "What the hell are we up against here?"

I run my hand down her back, feeling the tension coiled in her muscles. "I don't know," I admit, the words bitter on my tongue. "But I know we're not backing down."

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, searching for something. "That's not what I meant."

"I know."

The moment stretches between us, heavy with everything we haven't said. Her eyes are searching mine, and I find myself drowning in them, unable to look away. Both of us too stubborn, too scared to put a name to whatever this is.

"Rhett," she whispers, and my name on her lips feels like a prayer and a curse all at once.

I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs tracing the curve of her cheekbones. "I'm not good at this," I admit, my voice rough. "Never have been."

A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "That makes two of us."

“I’ve been getting a lot of second chances lately. Think there’s one for us?”

Willow leans up and softly kisses my lips. “I think we both need that second chance, cowboy.”

The moment shatters as the loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing the draw in thirty minutes. Willow steps back, but her fingers remain tangled with mine, reluctant to break contact completely.

"We should get back," she says, through her eyes telling me she'd rather stay.

"Yeah." I run my thumb over her knuckles before finally letting go. "We need to fill the guys in on what Sanchez told you."

We make our way back through the growing crowd, shoulders brushing as we navigate the chaos of pre-event energy. The air smells like dust and livestock and anticipation—a scent I've known all my life, as familiar as my own heartbeat. But today it feels different, charged with something darker.

The team's gathered near the staging area, huddled together in that casual-but-not-really way that keeps outsiders from getting too close.

Knox spots us first, his eyes narrowing down on where Willow’s and I’s hands are still locked together. Weston gives us that slight smile, while Jace just chuckles and shakes his head.

“Fuckin’ finally, huh?” says Levi.

Knox groans. “And here I was, hoping I would never see you comin’ outta my baby sister's room ever again.”

But there’s no heat, no venom, just good ole Savage Eight ball bustin’.

Willow flips Knox off. "Shut up. We've got bigger problems."

The mood shifts instantly, the guys closing ranks around us. Kade steps forward, his eyes sharp. "What did you find out?"

I keep my voice low, even though we're surrounded by the noise of the arena. "Sanchez was threatened. Not injured."

"Shit," Logan mutters. "We figured as much, but still..."

"They threatened his family," Willow adds, her voice tight. "Showed him pictures of his kids at school."

That lands like a punch to the gut. The guys exchange dark looks, the reality of what we're up against sinking in.

"These aren't just gamblers looking to fix a few rides," Kade says, his usual calm demeanor cracking slightly. "This is organized. Professional."

"And personal," I add, the image of Sanchez's haunted face still fresh in my mind. "They knew details about his family that aren't public knowledge. His kid's teacher's name. Where his wife shops."

"Inside information," Weston says, his normally jovial expression hardened into something dangerous. "Someone feeding them details."

"That's what I don't get," Willow says, crossing her arms tight against her chest. "Who would have access to that kind of personal information about the riders?"

We all fall silent, the implications hanging heavy in the air between us. The list of people with that kind of access is short and uncomfortable to consider.

"Circuit officials," Kade suggests. "Medical staff. Maybe sponsors."

"Or other riders," Logan adds quietly, voicing what we're all thinking but don't want to say.

Willow clears her throat. “So we keep close like always. We play it normal. Go to the bars, hang out with other riders, pretend like we don’t know jack shit. Then, on the road we talk.”

The draw happens exactly like we expected—without much fanfare, just names being called and bulls being assigned. I pull Armageddon, a nasty spinner with a reputation for throwing riders into the gates. Willow squeezes my arm when they announce it, her fingers digging into my bicep.

"That bull's a nightmare," she mutters.

I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my mind's already working through the ride. "I've handled worse."

"Yeah, and I've patched you up after 'worse' too," she shoots back, but there's something in her eyes that looks almost like pride.

The rest of the guys get their draws—Knox pulls Devil's Advocate, a bull he's ridden to 89 points before. Kade gets Tombstone, Jace pulls Midnight Fury, Logan gets Widowmaker, Weston gets Dark Star, and Levi gets Lucifer's Pride, a bull he's been itching to draw for months.

"Looks like the Savage Eight got the cream of the crop," Logan says, eyebrows raised. "Every single one of us drew top-ranked bulls."

Kade's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Convenient."

"Too convenient," I mutter, scanning the staging area where the officials are already dispersing. "Almost like someone wanted to stack the deck."

Willow shifts closer to me, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They're setting you up. All of you."

"Question is, setting us up to win or lose?" Weston asks, his usually cheerful face grim.