Page 27

T he arena buzzes with electric tension, like the air before lightning strikes. Six riders have withdrawn in the last twenty-four hours—an unprecedented exodus that's sent ripples of unease through everyone at the Hellfire Showdown. I stand at the edge of our team's prep area, my medical kit clutched against my chest like a shield.

"This is bullshit," Rhett growls, pacing the confined space like a caged predator. His boots leave angry imprints in the packed dirt. "Six riders don't just drop out with 'personal emergencies' the day before the biggest purse of the season."

The other members of Savage Eight are scattered around our designated area—some checking gear, others scrolling through their phones with tense expressions.

Knox leans against the metal railing, his posture deceptively casual, but I catch the tightness around his eyes. He hasn't said a word since the meeting began—unusual for someone who typically has an opinion about everything.

"Someone's picking us off," Kade mutters, looking up from his phone. "Making sure the odds shift in their favor."

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the crawling sensation between my shoulder blades. This isn't just competition anxiety; this is something darker.

"Willow," Jace’s voice cuts through my thoughts. "Need you to check everyone before they ride today. Extra thorough. Any twinge, any abnormality, I want to know about it."

I nod, professional mask sliding into place. "I'll start now."

Rhett stops pacing to lock eyes with me. "Save me for last, Hayes" There's a flirty undertone to his comment that makes my stomach flip.

I roll my eyes, hoping the flush I feel isn't visible on my face. "In your dreams, Calloway."

“Maybe we make those dreams a reality tonight, darlin’.”

His smirk makes my heart skip, but I turn away quickly. This isn't the time for whatever electric current runs between us. Not when someone might be systematically sabotaging the competition.

One by one, I examine our riders. Nothing obvious at first—some tight muscles, old injuries acting up—but nothing that screams foul play. Until I get to Weston.

"What's this?" I touch a small puncture mark on his forearm, nearly hidden by his tattoo.

He shrugs. "Caught it on something in the stables yesterday. It's nothing."

But it doesn't look like nothing. The skin around it is slightly discolored, with a pattern that doesn't match any accidental injury I've seen before.

"I want to run some additional tests," I say, maintaining a calm tone while alarm bells ring in my head. "This doesn't look like an ordinary scrape."

“Wills… do you think it’s something serious? I was careful.”

The other guys hover around us, tension radiating off them like heat waves. I keep my voice low, professional. "I'm not sure. But I've seen three other riders with similar marks in the past week—all of whom have since withdrawn."

Weston's eyes widen slightly, the only indication he's rattled. "You think someone is injecting us with something?"

"I think we need to be careful," I say, choosing my words deliberately. "And I think you should sit this one out until we know more."

"Bullshit," Weston hisses, leaning closer. "I'm not forfeiting. Not with what's at stake."

Jace steps forward, his presence immediately commanding attention. "Ghost, if Willow thinks you should sit out—"

"I'm. Riding." Weston's jaw locks, eyes flashing with determination. "I feel fine.”

Before I can argue further, a shadow falls across our huddle. Marcus Reid, aka Doctor McDickface, stands at the edge of our area with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asks, voice dripping with fake concern. "Another rider down?"

"Fuck off, Reid," Rhett steps forward, shoulders squared. "Unless you're here to confess to something."

Marcus raises his hands in mock surrender. "Just being a good doctor. Competition's fierce enough without... accidents." He lets his gaze linger on Weston's arm before sauntering away.

The implication hangs in the air like smoke. I grab my kit and point to Weston.

"I need to analyze whatever's in that puncture site. Now."

He nods and holds out his arm. “Do it.”

I take a sterile swab from my kit and carefully collect a sample from around the puncture site. My fingers don't shake—they never do when I'm working—but my mind races through possibilities, none of them good.

"This'll take time to analyze properly," I mutter, securing the sample in a sealed container. "I can run preliminary tests, but—"

"Do what you can," Jace interrupts, his voice carrying the weight of command. "The rest of you, gear check. Now."

The team disperses, leaving me with Rhett, whose eyes haven't left my face since Reid walked away.

"You think it's sabotage," he says. Not a question.

I exhale slowly. "Six withdrawals, four with mystery punctures. You do the math."

"And Reid just happens to show up right when we notice?"

"Too convenient to be coincidence.”

Rhett runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight enough I can see the muscle jumping beneath his stubble. "I need to warn the others."

"Quietly," I emphasize, grabbing his wrist. His skin burns hot under my touch. "We don't know who's involved or how deep this goes."

He glances down at my hand, then back to my face. For a second, the mask slips, and I see raw concern in his eyes. "You think it's someone inside? One of ours?"

The question hits like a physical blow. I want to deny it immediately, but the evidence doesn't allow for that luxury. "I don't know. But someone's getting access to these riders when they shouldn't be."

"Fuck." The word comes out like a prayer. Rhett steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're careful, right? Wills… I’m just getting you back.”

The air between us shifts, heavy with something beyond the tension of the current crisis. I swallow hard, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his voice.

"I'm always careful," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the sudden proximity. His scent—leather and cedar and something uniquely Rhett—fills my senses.

"No, you're not," he counters, a half-smile playing at his lips. "You're the most recklessly brave person I know."

“Flattery, Calloway?”

He edges closer to me, backing me against his truck.

His eyes darken with intent, pupils dilating as he leans in. "Not flattery. Truth."

My heart hammers against my ribs, betraying the cool exterior I'm fighting to maintain. Rhett always makes me lose my cool, makes me come undone.

"We need to focus," I whisper, though I don't move away.

"I am focused." His gaze drops to my lips. "Very fucking focused."

I smirk as he towers over me, my back against his truck.

"Rhett—" I start, but whatever I'm about to say evaporates when his calloused hand cups my cheek. My skin tingles where he touches me, and for a moment, I forget about sabotage and danger and the fact that we're in a semi-public space.

"Don't tell me we don't have time for this," he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips. "We've wasted enough time already."

The years stretch between us—the fights, the walking away, the stubborn silence—and suddenly it all seems so fucking stupid. I reach up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

"This is a terrible idea," I breathe, even as my body betrays me, leaning into his touch.

His smirk is pure sin. "The best ideas usually are."

When his lips finally meet mine, it's like fireworks exploding in my heart. Soft at first, then hungry, desperate. His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head as he presses me against the truck, his body hard and insistent against mine. I kiss him back with equal fervor.

My hands find their way under his shirt, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle, feeling the way his breath hitches when I touch a particularly sensitive spot. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, igniting something primal and needy.

"Jesus, Willow," he murmurs against my lips. "You're killing me."

I nip at his bottom lip. "Not yet."

His hands slide down to my hips, fingers digging in just hard enough to make me gasp. We're crossing lines we shouldn't be crossing, not here, not now. But I can’t seem to find a single flying fuck to give.

I need Rhett like I need air to breathe. I’m done playing it safe. I’m done being scared of the what ifs.

A sharp wolf whistle cuts through our moment like a knife.

"Might wanna get a room before the show starts," Logan calls out, his voice thick with amusement. "Unless you're aiming to give the crowd a different kind of entertainment."

Rhett pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath coming in ragged bursts that match my own. The heat between us could melt steel.

"To be continued," he promises, voice rough with want. The words send a shiver down my spine.

“To be continued, Calloway.”

Logan's laughter follows us as we break apart, reality crashing back like a bucket of ice water. I smooth my shirt, refusing to be embarrassed. Rhett looks slightly dazed, his lips swollen from our kisses, and I can't help the surge of satisfaction at seeing him affected.

"You good?" I ask, voice low enough that only he can hear.

His eyes, dark with lingering desire, lock onto mine. "Definitely not good, Hayes. But I'll survive." His gaze drops to my mouth again. "For now."

The promise in those words makes my stomach flip, but there's no time to dwell on it. Not when there's potential sabotage threatening the entire competition—threatening our team.

I grab my medical kit and head to the testing area, trying to focus on the sample from Weston's arm rather than the lingering heat of Rhett's mouth.

I set up in the corner of my own little personal medical station, grateful for the privacy screen and the fact that most people steer clear of this area during competition. The makeshift lab isn't ideal, but I've worked with less. I prepare the sample for preliminary testing, my mind still half-stuck on Rhett's lips, when my phone buzzes with a text.

King: Status report.

I type quickly: Testing sample now. Will report findings ASAP. Weston is still planning to ride.

Three dots appear immediately, then: Keep him grounded if possible. I have a bad feeling about this.

That makes two of us. I slide my phone away and focus on the task at hand. The preliminary test isn't sophisticated—just enough to detect certain common compounds—but it's all I've got right now.

While waiting for results, I scan the arena through the small window. Riders mill about, checking equipment, going through their pre competition rituals. My eyes automatically find Rhett, who's at the chutes with Weston, checking rigging. Their heads are bent close together, conversation serious.

The test results flash on my portable analyzer, and my blood runs cold.

"Shit," I whisper, double-checking the readings. The sample contains traces of a powerful muscle relaxant—harmless in small doses, potentially catastrophic for someone trying to stay on two thousand pounds of bucking bull.

I grab my phone and text the group: URGENT. Found muscle relaxant in Weston's sample. DO NOT let him ride.

The three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Appear again. Nothing.

"Fuck this," I mutter, shoving the analyzer into my bag and rushing toward the chutes. I have to get there before Weston's ride.

The crowd's roar swells as I weave my way through the crowd. There's no time to be polite as I shove past officials and competitors, my heart pounding in rhythm with the announcer's voice echoing through the arena.

"Up next, Weston 'Ghost' Callahan on Doomsday Express!"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I break through to the chute area just as Weston settles onto the massive black bull. His face is set in stone concentration, completely in the zone. Rhett and Jace flank the chute, helping adjust his grip.

"Pull him!" I shout, rushing forward. "He's been drugged!"

Rhett's head whips toward me, his eyes widening as he processes my words. Jace moves instantly, reaching for Weston's arm.

"Ghost, off! Now!"

Weston's head jerks up, his eyes narrowing. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he may ignore us and ride anyway.

"OFF!" Jace's voice cuts through the announcer's patter, authority ringing in that single syllable.

Weston hesitates, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. The bull beneath him shifts restlessly, sensing the tension.

"I'm fine," he insists, adjusting his grip on the rope. "Just need to—"

"Your fucking muscles are compromised," I snap, stepping closer to the chute despite the danger. "That puncture wound? Someone dosed you with a relaxant. You get on that bull, you're not coming off in one piece."

Security's starting to take notice of our commotion. The announcer's voice falters as he realizes something's happening at the chutes.

"Thirty seconds," the chute boss calls.

Rhett moves with lightning speed, practically vaulting over the railing to try and get to Weston.

But before Rhett can grab him. The bull rears beneath him, slamming Weston against the metal gate before anyone can pull him free. The crowd gasps collectively as Weston's grip slips—something I've never seen him do in all the years I've known him.

"Fuck!" Rhett lunges forward, grabbing for Weston's vest as the gate swings open.

It happens in slow motion—Weston sliding sideways as Doomsday Express explodes from the chute, hooves churning air, muscles rippling beneath glossy black hide. I'm already moving, medical instincts kicking in before conscious thought can form.

Jace manages to grab Weston's arm, yanking him partially clear, but not before the bull's massive shoulder catches him in the ribs. The sickening crack echoes in my ears as Weston goes airborne.

The bullfighters rush in, diverting the bull's attention as Weston crumples to the ground like a marionette with cut strings. I'm at his side before I even register moving, the medical kit already open.

"Ghost! Stay with me," I bark, hands moving automatically to stabilize his neck while my eyes scan for immediate life-threatening injuries. His breathing is labored, face contorted in pain.

"Ribs," he gasps.

Rhett drops to his knees beside us, face pale beneath his tan. "How bad?"

"Bad enough," I snap, not taking my eyes off Weston. "Broken ribs at the bare minimum.”

The arena has gone deadly quiet, the kind of silence that follows catastrophe.

Weston grabs my hand as the EMT’s rush to our side. “Just some broken ribs, Wills.”

I squeeze his fingers, trying to convey reassurance I don't feel. "Broken ribs and God knows what else. That relaxant—"

"I should've listened," he mutters, wincing as the medics slide a backboard under him.

"Yeah, you fucking should have," I say, but there's no heat in my words. Just fear and relief tangled together in a messy knot.

The crowd starts to applaud as Weston is lifted onto the stretcher, a courtesy for fallen riders that always makes my skin crawl. Like they're applauding the damage, the spectacle of a broken body being carted away.

Rhett's hand finds the small of my back as we follow the stretcher, his touch grounding me when I feel like I might fly apart. The announcer's voice booms overhead, already moving on to the next rider, the next potential disaster.

"That was too fucking close," Rhett murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my skin. "If you hadn't figured it out—"

"But I did," I cut him off, unable to process the alternative. "We need to find who did this. Now."

Jace materializes beside us, his face carved from granite. "Meeting. Ten minutes. Equipment room." His voice is pitched low, meant only for us. He strides away, already on his phone.

I follow the medical team long enough to confirm Weston's being properly cared for, then slip away when they wheel him toward the ambulance. My mind races through possibilities, scenarios, suspects. The sample in my bag weighs heavy, evidence of something far more sinister than simple competition.

Jace appears beside us, his expression carved from granite. "Team meeting. Now."

We follow him to a secluded hallway behind the arena, away from prying eyes and ears. The rest of Savage Eight assemble quickly, faces grim. Knox keeps glancing over his shoulder, jumpy as a cat in a dog kennel.

"Someone's targeting riders," Jace states flatly once we're all gathered. "And they're getting to us somehow."

"The puncture marks," I say, pulling up photos on my phone. "Four of the withdrawn riders had them.”

The rest of the crew arrives and we fill them in. Knox runs his hand through his hair.

“This isn’t good. The syndicate has somebody close to all of us working for them.”

I sigh and lean against the wall. “But who? It’s obviously somebody we trust, somebody nobody would bat an eye at.”

Kade pulls his phone out. “Let’s start making a list. Could be another rider, medics, stock contractors.”

I shake my head. "It's not just about access—it's about trust. Whoever's doing this, we don't flinch when they get close enough to inject something."

The realization settles over us like a shadow. We're looking for someone we all trust implicitly, someone who could get close enough to any rider without raising suspicion.

Rhett's jaw tightens. "Medical staff."

"Not necessarily," I counter, though the thought has crossed my mind. "Could be anyone who has a legitimate reason to touch riders—equipment checkers, other competitors, hell, even the photographers who get all handsy positioning everyone."

Knox snorts. "Great. So basically everyone in this goddamn arena."

"We narrow it down," Jace says, his voice cutting through the tension. "Who had access to all six withdrawn riders? Who could get close to Weston?"

"And who does the syndicate have dirt on?”

B ack at our tent, the boys are packing up, loading gear with practiced efficiency while throwing theories back and forth. I tune them out, my focus narrowing to the data on my phone. Someone has to be the common denominator between these incidents.

My phone buzzes with a text from the hospital - Weston's got three broken ribs and a mild concussion. Could've been so much worse.

I'm scrolling through the competition roster when Rhett slides beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine. "What're you thinking, Hayes?"

"That we're missing something obvious." I tilt my phone so he can see. "I've cross-referenced all the withdrawn riders. Different sponsors, different trainers, different everything except—"

"Except they all qualified through the Thunder Valley preliminary," Rhett finishes, eyes widening slightly. "Including Weston."

"Exactly." I swipe to a new screen. "And guess who was at Thunder Valley?” I turn my phone to show him Doctor McDickface’s smug stupid face.

Rhett's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath his stubble. "That sonofabitch."

"He had access and opportunity. Plus, look who is following him like a little lost puppy."

Tiffany. The circuit president's eighteen-year-old daughter.

"Little Miss Daddy's-Rich-Connections," Rhett growls, leaning closer to examine the photo. "That gives him access everywhere."

A chill runs down my spine as pieces click together in my mind. "And she's been hanging around all our events lately. Like, suspiciously around."

"Plus," Kade chimes in, peering over my shoulder, "that girl's been snapping pictures with every rider who later withdrew. Look." He pulls up his own phone, showing a series of social media posts—Tiffany grinning beside various riders, her arm always draped around their shoulders, Reid often lingering in the background.

"Son of a bitch," I mutter. "She could easily stick someone while posing for those photos. No one would think twice about her touching them." I lower my voice. "But we need proof beyond circumstantial evidence."

Rhett leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that raises goosebumps along my neck. "So we get proof."

"How exactly do you propose we do that?" I'm already thinking through scenarios, none of them particularly legal or safe.

His grin is pure predator. "We give him what he wants—another target."

My blood turns to ice. "Absolutely not. You're not using yourself as bait."

"Who said anything about me?”

The way his eyes cut to Knox makes my stomach drop. "No fucking way," I hiss, grabbing Rhett's arm. "Knox isn't—"

"Knox is the only one who hasn't been targeted yet," Rhett points out, his voice maddeningly logical. "And he's set to ride tomorrow in the finals."

Knox straightens up, his expression shifting from confusion to determination. "I'm in."

"You're out of your damn mind," I snap. "We're not dangling you like bait on a hook."

"You got a better plan, Wills?" Knox challenges. "Because I'm not seeing a lot of options here. If we don't catch these assholes, they'll just keep picking us off one by one. I’d lay my life on the line to protect you.”

I look around, the guys all nodding in agreement.

I press my fingers to my temples, fighting the headache building there. "Fine, but we do this smart. No lone wolf bullshit. Stay safe and smart. Got it?”

Knox grins, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Since when do I ever do anything stupid?"

"Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?" I deadpan, but my mind is already racing ahead, plotting out how we can do this with minimal risk.

Jace steps forward, commanding the space with just his presence. "We need a solid plan. No improvisation. No heroics." His gaze settles on Knox. "And we need to make you an irresistible target."

"That part's easy," Knox says with a cocky smirk. "I'm already irresistible."

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly strain something. "Focus, jackass. If Reid's working with the syndicate, they'll want to take out our strongest remaining rider before finals. That's you."

"So we put out the word that Knox is favored to win," Levi adds.

"Leaking inside info to a few key people," Rhett nods, his eyes lighting up with the plan forming. "The right gossip in the right ears..."

"I'll handle that," Logan volunteers. "Got a buddy who's tight with the bookies. One hint that Knox is riding hot, and the odds will shift before morning."

"We need to create a perfect opportunity for them," I say, mind racing through scenarios. "Make Knox look vulnerable, but keep eyes on him the entire time."

Rhett nods. "Tiffany's pattern is to catch riders alone, usually after they've been drinking. We create that situation, but control it."

I glance at my brother, worrying gnawing at my gut. "You'll need to be wired. Something discreet they won't find if they pat you down."

"And we need a signal," Jace adds, his tone brooking no argument. "Anything goes sideways, you abort immediately."

Knox rolls his eyes. "Yes, Dad."

I smack his arm. "This isn't a joke. These people have been systematically drugging riders. God knows what else they're capable of."

"I know, Willow." His expression softens. "I’m gonna be just fine, I promise.”

He pulls me into a hug, my head resting right on his heart. “I just can’t let anything happen to any of you. Colt, Weston, Logan. All hurt. And you?” I look up at him. “You are the most important one here. I can’t lose you, Knox.”

He softly kisses the top of my head. “And you won’t. We’re gonna get through this and come out on top. I booked a suite at a local hotel. Two bedrooms plus a pull out couch. Let’s pack up and head there now.”

I nod, watching as the team disperses to pack things up. My eyes follow Rhett, who's already barking orders about security perimeters and sight lines. His protective instincts are in overdrive, and despite everything, it makes something warm curl in my chest.

"You know he's still crazy about you," Knox murmurs, following my gaze.

"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.

"Just saying," Knox shrugs, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "That kiss earlier wasn't exactly subtle."

I whip my head around. "You saw that?"

"Everyone saw that, Wills. You two were practically eating each other's faces off against his truck."

Heat floods my cheeks. "We were not—it wasn't—"

"Save it," Knox laughs, holding up his hands. “I’m just glad the family is back together.”

I punch his arm, but my heart isn't in it. "You're such an ass."

"Family trait," he winks, then sobers. "We're gonna nail these fuckers, Wills. Nobody messes with Savage Eight and walks away."