Page 28

I wake up with Willow's head on my chest, her breathing soft and steady against my skin. The hotel room is bathed in pre-dawn light, casting everything in shades of blue-gray. My arm's gone numb under her weight, but I'd rather chew it off than move and disturb her.

"You awake?" she whispers, her voice raspy with sleep.

"Unfortunately."

She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her hair is a mess, eyes still full of sleep, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

“Ready for today?”

I groan and Willow laughs. “What if I tie you down and we stay in bed all day?”

Her eyes darken, something wicked and tempting flashing across her face. "Don't threaten me with a good time, Calloway."

I run my hand through her tangled hair, twisting a strand around my finger. “Maybe later." I press a kiss to her forehead. "Today's gonna be a beast."

We both know what's coming. The final day of competition. The syndicate watching our every move. And me, needing to ride like my life depends on it—because it probably does.

Willow stretches against me, all warm skin and soft curves. "You think Knox will be okay?"

"He's tough." I trace my finger along her collarbone, trying to memorize the feel of her. "All you Hayes are wild and reckless."

Willow sits up fully now, the sheet falling to her waist. The sight of her bare skin in the dim light makes my throat go dry. “You complaining, cowboy?”

"Never," I growl, pulling her down for a kiss that starts gentle but quickly turns hungry. Her lips part under mine, and I swear I can taste home on her sweet fuckin’ lips.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard. "We should check on the rest of the crew."

Willow nods, reluctantly sliding off me. "Yeah. Probably should."

I watch her grab my shirt from the floor and slip it on. It hangs to mid-thigh, and goddamn if that isn't a sight I want to wake up to for the rest of my miserable life.

"What?" she asks, catching me staring.

"Nothing. Just thinking about how much I like you in my shirt again.”

A smile tugs at her lips, but there's something vulnerable hiding in her eyes. "Better than me out of it?"

"That's a goddamn trick question if I ever heard one." I slip out of bed, wincing as my feet hit the cold floor. My body's a map of old injuries, and each one makes itself known in the morning. Bull riders don't age gracefully. We just age.

I pull on my jeans and grab a fresh t-shirt from my bag. Every muscle in my back protests. Today's gonna be worse.

"How's your shoulder?" Willow asks, reading my mind like she always could.

"Functional." I rotate it, feeling the familiar pop and grind. "It'll hold."

She crosses the room, places her palm flat against my bare chest. "Be careful today. I mean it, Rhett. No hero shit."

I cover her hand with mine. “No hero here, Wills. Just a man willing to burn the world down for you and the crew.”

Knox’s voice comes through the door as he bangs on it. “You better keep your dirty hands to yourself, Calloway!”

Willow and I both chuckle. She turns and yells back. “And what if it’s my dirty hands all over him?”

“No! Not my innocent baby sister! You monster! The lord is watching!”

We laugh and finish getting ready, opening the door so the guys can come in and out.

Jace is at the small kitchen table, a notebook out with today’s plans. “Knox, your goal is to get close to Tiffany and have her hit you with that needle. Weston you’re out for today, so are you Kade. Levi, Rhett, Knox, Logan, me are all on.”

Jace's voice gets serious. "Rhett, that bull they're putting you on today—Damnation—I've seen the stats. He's been reserved for the final round, and I don't like it."

I snort. "Just another bull."

"Bullshit," Logan cuts in. "That animal's got a record. Three riders were hospitalized last season alone."

Willow's eyes flash to mine, worry written all over her face.

"Look," I say, grabbing my hat from the dresser, "I've ridden worse. Besides, it's not like we have a choice."

Knox is leaning against the wall. “Good. Let’s get moving on. I got a little buckle bunny to impress.”

Willow rolls her eyes. “She’s going to inject you with drugs, Knox. Be serious for like, two seconds.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hey, whatever floats her boat. As long as I get a little action…”

“Ew! Okay, that’s enough. Let’s go.”

We pile into the trucks for the ride to the arena. The morning air's thick with tension, like the moment before a lightning strike. Willow's thigh presses against mine in the back seat of Jace's truck. My hand finds hers, our fingers intertwining like they've got minds of their own. The contact grounds me, keeps the storm in my mind from taking over completely.

The syndicate doesn't know we're onto them. That's our only advantage in this clusterfuck.

"You sure about this?" I whisper to Knox as we pull into the competitors' lot.

He gives me that signature Hayes grin—all confidence and no sense. "What's not to be sure about? I get drugged by a hot chick, you ride a death machine, and we take down a criminal empire. Just another Tuesday."

"It's Saturday, genius," Logan mutters from the front seat.

"Whatever. Days are a social construct."

Jace shoots him a look. "Focus, Knox.”

"Sorry, Dad," Knox replies with a mock salute, but his eyes are serious. This might be the dumbest thing we've done, and that's saying something for our crew.

The arena is already buzzing when we arrive, crowds thicker than yesterday. Finals always draw the biggest audience. More eyes means more pressure, but it also means more witnesses if shit goes sideways. I'm not sure if that's good or bad for us.

"Showtime," I mutter as we make our way through security.

Knox straightens his hat, making a show of it. "Time to hunt down my favorite little criminal." He winks at Willow. "Don't worry, sis. I'll make sure she injects me somewhere nice and visible."

He splits off first, heading toward where the women usually gather near the merchandise stands. His swagger's turned up to eleven, playing the part of the cocky bull rider to perfection.

"That boy's gonna get himself killed," Jace says, shaking his head.

"Not before he gets laid," Logan snorts, adjusting his hat.

Willow's grip on my hand tightens. "I hate this plan."

"We all do," I mutter, pulling her closer as we walk toward the competitor entrance. "But we're out of better options."

The arena is already buzzing, even this early. Cowboys milling around, checking gear, talking shit. To anyone else, we probably look like just another crew getting ready for the big showdown.

But under the surface, we're a ticking time bomb. The weight of what we're about to do sits heavy on my shoulders. If we get caught, if we mess this up, it's not just our careers on the line—it's our lives.

I spot Tiffany across the arena, already eyeing Knox like he's prime rib. She's all tight jeans and practiced smiles, but I know what she is now. A snake in the grass.

"There she is," Willow mutters, her eyes narrowing.

"Easy, tiger," I whisper, my lips close to her ear. "Let Knox handle her."

Willow's jaw tightens. "If she hurts him—"

"We'll make her regret it," I finish for her. "But right now, we play our parts."

Jace nods toward the bull pens. "Let’s go to our tent. Check equipment, have Willow check us over. We need to be on our A game, boys.”

We follow Jace, making our way through the crowded arena. I keep Willow close, my hand at the small of her back. The eyes I feel on us aren't just from fans or competitors. There's something heavier, more calculated in some of those stares.

Our team tent is tucked away in the competitors' area, a small slice of privacy in the chaos. Inside, Willow immediately shifts into medic mode, checking Levi's wrist wrap while I inspect my gear.

"Damnation," I mutter, pulling up stats on my phone. "Eight seconds on this monster might as well be eight years."

Logan peers over my shoulder at the screen. "Jesus. Look at his spin rate."

"I see it." The bull's statistics are enough to make even seasoned riders nervous. Quick directional changes, powerful kicks, and a nasty habit of throwing riders toward the rails.”

Willow immediately goes into medic mode, checking our wraps and braces with clinical precision. When she gets to me, her touch lingers a second longer than necessary.

"Let me see that vest," Willow says, her voice all business now. She checks the protective padding, tugging at the straps to make sure they're secure.

"Trying to cop a feel, Hayes?" I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

She softly laughs. “I don’t think we need to give everybody a show… again.”

Her fingers brush across a spot on my ribs where a particularly sore spot from a previous injury. I wince involuntarily.

"Sorry," she murmurs, her eyes softening. "This one's fresh."

"It's nothing."

She shoots me a look that says she knows I'm full of shit. "Uh-huh. That's why you flinched like I stuck you with a hot poker."

I catch her hand, keeping my voice low so only she can hear. "Save the poking for later, darlin'."

A hint of a blush creeps up her neck, and I want to trace it with my lips.

Jace clears his throat loudly. "If you two are done making googly eyes at each other, we need to go over the plan again."

The tent flap opens, and Knox strolls in with that shit-eating grin I've come to both love and hate. There's a slight glaze to his eyes that wasn't there before.

"Mission accomplished," he says, holding up his arm where a tiny puncture mark is visible. "Little psycho just jabbed me in the bathroom."

Willow's at his side in an instant, examining the injection site. "How do you feel?"

"Fuzzy around the edges. Like I've had three shots of tequila but without the fun."

Jace's expression darkens. "Good. That means it's working. Let's get a sample. And she thinks you have no clue what she just did?”

"Don't worry, I played it cool. Acted like I didn't notice. It helped that her other hand was wrapped around my dick. She thinks I'm just another dumb cowboy looking to get laid."

Willow smacks him on the back of the head. "Really, Knox? Really? You couldn't keep it in your pants for five minutes?"

"Hey!" he protests, rubbing his head with a pout. "I was undercover. Deep undercover."

Logan snorts. "Not that deep, apparently."

Willow smacks him on the arm. "Jesus Christ, Knox!"

"Ow! What? I'm multitasking. Taking one for the team."

I can't help the laugh that escapes me as I shake my head. "You're something else, Hayes."

Jace takes out a small kit from his bag, pulling out what looks like a drug test. "Willow, can you draw a small blood sample? We need to know exactly what she gave him."

Willow nods, already digging through her medical kit. "Hold still," she orders Knox, who's starting to sway slightly on his feet.

"The room's getting a little spinny," he admits, dropping the cocky act for a second.

"Sit down before you fall down," Logan guides him to a folding chair.

Willow swabs the injection site and collects a sample of whatever residue might be left on his skin. Her hands move with practiced efficiency, but I can see the worry in the tight set of her shoulders.

"How long before it kicks in fully?" Jace asks, his voice low.

Knox shrugs, rolling down his sleeve. "Dunno. But I'm starting to feel like I'm walking through molasses."

"Perfect," Logan says, checking his watch. "The sabotage usually happens right before the ride. You need to look functional enough to compete until then."

Knox gives him a wobbly thumbs-up. "I've got this, fellas. I'm a professional bullshitter."

Jace frowns. "Just don't overdo it. Stay visible but out of trouble."

I check my phone, seeing the draw for today's final round has been posted. "Shit. I'm up third, right after Knox."

Willow's head snaps up, her eyes meeting mine. "That's not a coincidence."

"No," I agree, shoving my phone back in my pocket. "They're stacking the deck."

The announcer's voice booms over the loudspeakers, calling the first riders to get ready. The energy in our tent shifts, tension crackling like static electricity. This is it. The final showdown.

Jace gathers us in a tight circle, his voice low and steady. "Remember the plan. Knox, you let them think the drug is working. Jump ship at the last minute. Alright, gather for the prayer and let’s ride some fuckin’ bulls.”

We huddle up, hands clasped tight in the center. There's a moment of heavy silence where the only sound is our breathing. Knox's is getting shallower by the minute.

"Lord," Jace starts, his deep voice barely above a whisper, "watch over these idiots today. Keep 'em safe from harm—both from the bulls and from the snakes walking on two legs. Amen."

"Amen," we echo.

Knox wobbles as we break, and Willow steadies him. "How bad?" she asks quietly.

"Like I'm swimming through honey," he slurs slightly. "But I can still function. Probably."

I check my gear one last time, making sure everything's secure. The roar of the crowd filters through the canvas walls of the tent as the first rider gets announced.

The walk to the chutes feels like marching toward an execution. Knox is ahead of me, his usual swagger slightly off-kilter as the drug works its way through his system. To anyone else, he probably just looks like he's had a few drinks to calm his nerves. Not uncommon in this sport.

Knox is hanging onto the chute rails now, his fingers white-knuckling the metal as he watches his bull—Black Thunder—thrashing in the narrow confines below. The animal's massive shoulders slam against the sides, making the whole structure rattle.

I glance around, spotting Tiffany lingering near the fence, watching Knox with a predatory smile. Near her stands a man in an expensive suit—out of place in the dusty arena. He's talking into his phone, eyes fixed on Knox.

"You good, Hayes?" one of the chute operators calls over.

"Never better," Knox slurs, flashing that trademark smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

I move in closer, pretending to help him with his rope. "How bad?" I mutter under my breath.

"Fucking terrible," he whispers back. "Room's spinning. Can't feel my legs right."

Shit. The drug's hitting him harder than we anticipated. I lock eyes with Jace across the platform, giving him the subtle head shake we agreed would be our signal if things went south.

Before the announcer can call his name, Jace is there pulling Knox out of the line up. I can see the announcer look down at us as Willow pats Knox’s back. He nods as Jace leaves.

“Change in the line up, ladies and gentlemen! The Viper will not be riding today due to a sudden illness. Next up is… Razor Calloway!”

Tiffany and the suit smirk, thinking they got ahead of us on this plan. Little do they know, we’re ten steps ahead.

My heart's pounding as I approach my bull. Damnation. Even the name's a warning. He's seventeen hundred pounds of pure, concentrated rage, his hide a glossy black that seems to absorb the light around him. His horns have been blunted for competition, but that doesn't make them any less deadly when they're coming at your face at thirty miles an hour.

I climb onto the chute, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline cutting through the fear. This is what I live for. This is what I'm good at.

But something's off.

My riding glove feels... wrong. I flex my hand, feeling a slight give in the material that shouldn't be there. I turn it over, examining the seams, and there it is—a nearly invisible slice along the palm, right where the bull rope will create the most tension. One good pull and it'll split wide open, leaving me with nothing between my hand and a thousand pounds of twisting muscle.

"Son of a bitch," I mutter, stripping the glove off and shoving it in my pocket. My backup's in my gear bag, but there's no time to get it now. I look around, catching Levi's eye.

"Problem?" he asks, noticing my bare hand.

"Sabotaged glove," I say under my breath. "Got a spare?"

He shakes his head. "Not your size."

Fuck. I glance at the bull beneath me, already sensing my weight above him. Damnation's muscles ripple beneath his hide, coiled and ready. I have seconds to decide.

"Razor, you good to go?" the gate man asks, hand poised on the latch.

I meet Willow's eyes across the arena where she’s watching me. Kade has one arm around Knox, leading him back to our tent.

I make a split-second decision. "I'm good," I tell the gate man, wrapping the bull rope around my bare hand. The rough braided material bites into my skin, but I've ridden bareback before. Not on a bull like this, but there's a first time for everything.

"Razor's ridin' without a glove, folks!" the announcer booms, sending a murmur through the crowd. "That's the kind of guts that put this man at the top of the standings!"

The gate man gives me a concerned look. "You sure about this, Calloway?"

I nod, settling my weight into position. "Open it."

The moment the gate swings wide, I know I'm in trouble. Damnation doesn't ease into his routine like most bulls—he explodes out of the chute like he's been shot from a cannon. My body slams backward, the impact stealing the air from my lungs. The crowd roars, but it sounds distant beneath the thunder of blood in my ears.

Damnation twists left, then violently right, his massive body contorting in ways that shouldn't be physically possible for something his size. The bull rope digs into my bare hand like barbed wire, each twist sending fresh pain shooting up my arm. My palm's already slick with sweat and blood, making my grip precarious at best.

Three seconds in, and I'm already fighting for my life.

The bull launches into a series of spine-bending spins, each one faster than the last. My center of gravity shifts wildly, and I feel myself sliding to the right. Without the proper grip of a glove, I'm relying purely on strength and friction to stay mounted—and both are failing me fast.

"Hang on, Rhett!” Yells Willow from the sides.

Four seconds gone, and the world blurs into a chaos of dust and noise. Damnation's back hooves kick skyward, launching me forward until I'm hanging on by a prayer and raw determination. The rope slices deeper into my palm, hot blood making everything slick. Pain lances up my arm, but I grit my teeth against it.

A sudden shift in direction sends my body lurching sideways. My free arm windmills frantically, searching for balance that isn't there. I'm going down. The ground rushes toward me in slow motion, my body already bracing for impact.

"No!" The word tears from my throat without permission, a primal refusal to fail.

In that split-second between victory and disaster, instinct takes over. I jam my knees tighter against Damnation's sides, ignoring the screaming protest of my thighs. My bleeding hand clenches around the rope like a vise, the pain becoming a distant roar as survival instinct takes over. I throw my weight hard to the left, using the bull's own momentum against him.

It works—barely. I slam back into position as Damnation changes direction again, his massive body whipping beneath me like a tornado. Blood streams down my wrist, soaking into my shirt sleeve. Five seconds in, and I'm hanging on by pure fucking willpower.

The world narrows to just me and this beast. The crowd, the arena, even the syndicate watching from the shadows—all of it fades away. There's only the next second, the next breath, the next violent twist I have to anticipate.

Six seconds. My vision blurs at the edges, black spots dancing like flies. The bull drops his head and spins, a move designed to send riders flying. My body goes nearly horizontal, but I cling on, feeling muscle and tendon stretch to breaking point.

Seven seconds. So close. The world's a blur of dust and noise, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Damnation gives one final, desperate twist, his body corkscrewing beneath me in a last-ditch effort to throw me free.

The buzzer sounds like salvation, cutting through the roar in my ears.

Eight seconds. I fucking made it.

But Damnation's not done with me yet. The bull keeps spinning, his massive body still a weapon even after the buzzer. I release my grip, preparing to dismount, when his head whips around, nearly catching me in the chest. I push away hard, launching myself into the air in a controlled fall.

I hit the ground running, adrenaline carrying me forward even as my legs threaten to buck. The crowd goes wild as the bull fighters come scrambling in.

The bullfighters distract Damnation, drawing him away as I stumble toward the fence. My hand's a bloody mess, the skin of my palm shredded from the rope. Every heartbeat sends fresh pain pulsing through my arm, but I barely feel it through the adrenaline high of surviving.

"94.5 points for Razor Calloway!" the announcer's voice booms over the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, that's the highest score of the entire competition!"

The crowd erupts, but I'm not listening. My eyes search frantically for Willow, finding her pushing through the chaos toward me, her face pale with fear and relief.

"You stupid, reckless—"

I can’t help myself. I slam my lips onto hers.

She melts against me, her arms wrapping around my neck as I lift her off her feet. I don't care who's watching. I don't care about the blood soaking into her shirt or the pain radiating up my arm. All I care about is her—alive, safe, in my arms.

When we break apart, she's crying and smiling all at once. "You're bleeding everywhere," she says, already reaching for my mangled hand.

"Worth it," I pant, the adrenaline starting to fade, replaced by the sharp sting of torn flesh.

Jace and Logan are suddenly there, flanking us like bodyguards as they guide us through the crowd. People are shouting my name, hands reaching out to slap my back in congratulation, but it all feels distant and unimportant.

"That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen," Jace mumbles. “But damn, that was some real cowboy riding if I’ve ever seen it.”

We get back to the tent and I sit, Willow already cleaning my hand up. “They sabotaged my glove. Hoped I didn’t notice.”

She nods as she wipes more blood away. “It’ll need a few stitches.”

Levi chuckles and shakes his head. “You dumb, reckless cowboy. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you!”

Weston pats my back. “Way to show ‘em. Savage Eight doesn’t give a fuck.”

But Willow sighs as she stitches my hand. “I was so worried…”

I gently tilt her head up with my finger. “Nothing to worry about, baby. Razor is back with a vengeance.”

B ack at the hotel, Knox is on the couch, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The drug is still working its way through his system, but Willow's already taken blood samples and sent them to a lab contact.

"How's the hand?" Jace asks, leaning against the wall as Willow finishes bandaging my palm.

"Hurts like a motherfucker," I admit, flexing my fingers experimentally. The stitches pull, sending fresh pain shooting up my arm. "But I'll live."

"You're lucky," Willow mutters, her voice tight with lingering worry. "Could've lost your grip completely. Could've been trampled."

I catch her hand with my good one. "But I didn't."

Knox groans from the couch. "Can you two stop being disgustingly in love for five minutes? I'm trying to enjoy my drug trip over here.”

Willow throws a pillow at Knox's head. "Shut up. You're just jealous."

"Damn right I am," he slurs, catching the pillow with surprisingly good reflexes despite his condition. "Tiffany might be trying to kill me, but she's still hot."

Logan snorts from where he's checking his phone. "Your standards are concerning, Hayes."

“Alright, alright,” mumbles Jace. “Let’s all get some sleep. Weston and Knox are on the couch together. Levi and I will sleep on the ground and keep our eye on them. Logan and Kade in the second bedroom.”

Logan wiggles his eyebrows at me. “And Rhett and Willow are sharing a bed. Again.” Willow flips him off but he just laughs. “Nah, all jokes aside. It’s nice to have the family back like this. Like old times.”

Levi sits back and sips his beer. “Yes it is. Now all you fuckers get to bed.”

I lead Willow into our room, closing the door behind us. The click of the lock feels like permission to finally let my guard down. My body's running on fumes, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard now that we're alone.

"Let me see that hand again," Willow says, already reaching for my bandaged palm.

"I'm fine," I insist, but I let her unwrap it anyway. The gash looks worse under the harsh bathroom light, the stitches stark black against my torn skin.

"You're not fine," she counters, cleaning around the wound with gentle touches. "You could've been killed today."

I catch her wrist, stopping her ministrations. "But I wasn't."

Her eyes meet mine, fierce and vulnerable all at once. "This time."

The weight of those two words hangs between us. This time. Because in our world, any ride can be your last day.

I guide her to the bed, settling us both down on the edge of the mattress. My bandaged hand throbs in time with my heartbeat, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my chest when I look at her face—worry etched into every line.

"Come here," I murmur, pulling her against me with my good arm. She tucks herself into my side like she was made to fit there, her head resting on my shoulder.

"You scared me today." Her voice is barely above a whisper, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "When I saw you riding without a glove, I thought..." She trails off, unable to finish the thought.

"I know." I press my lips to her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with arena dust. "I scared myself too."

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the day settling down on us.

“I can’t lose you, Rhett. I can’t lose any of you from the crew. Losing Ethan… it destroyed me.”

I pull her closer, feeling her tears soak into my shirt. The mention of Ethan's name opens something in my chest—a wound that never quite healed right.

"You know," I start, my voice rough around the edges, "Ethan was the first person who ever believed I could amount to something."

Willow looks up at me, her eyes glistening in the dim light.

"I was fifteen when he found me," I continue, staring at the ceiling as the memories flood back. "Some punk-ass kid trying to ride at this shitty rodeo in Oklahoma. I was all attitude and no technique, convinced I knew everything there was to know about bull riding."

A smile tugs at my lips despite the ache in my heart.

"Ethan dragged me off that bull by the scruff of my neck after I got thrown. Told me I had natural talent but the brains of a rock." I chuckle softly at the memory. "I told him to go fuck himself."

"That sounds like you," Willow says, her voice warm despite the tears.

"Instead of decking me, he laughed. Said I had fire, I just needed to learn how to control it." My throat tightens. "No one had ever talked to me like that before—like I was worth investing in."

I shift, wincing as pain shoots through my hand. "I was just this lost runaway, looking for anywhere to belong.”

"My old man was a mean drunk with a quick fist," I say, the words feeling like glass in my throat. "Mom took off when I was ten. Left me with him."

Willow's hand tightens on mine, her touch anchoring me as the memories surface.

"When Ethan found me, I was sleeping in barns, trading labor for meals, following the rodeo circuit like some stray dog. He didn't just teach me to ride—he taught me how to be a man." My voice cracks. "Taught me there was more to strength than throwing punches and taking hits."

"He was good at that," Willow whispers, her eyes soft with her own memories. "Finding broken people and helping them rebuild."

I nod, swallowing hard. "When he took me to the ranch that first summer—said I could stay as long as I wanted—he gave me a home. He made me believe I deserve good things, you know? Made me believe I could be more than just another piece of white trash with a chip on my shoulder."

I swallow hard, the next part difficult to get out. "The night before his funeral, I found something in his desk. I was looking for his hidden whiskey and found it. A letter from the syndicate. I was next on their list. So I ran. I ran to keep you all safe. I ran because I was still just a lost fucking kid, and now my compass was gone.” I gaze down at Willow. “I ran because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

I bury my face in her hair, trying to hide the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "I ran because I loved you so fucking much it terrified me. Because every time you looked at me like I was someone worth a damn, I felt like a fraud."

Willow's eyes fill with tears, and she cups my face in her hands. "You idiot," she whispers, but there's no heat behind it. "You absolute idiot."

"I know that now." My thumb catches a tear on her cheek. "I was trying to protect you, but I ended up hurting you instead. That's the thing about running—no matter how far you go, you're still carrying all your shit with you."

I take a shuddering breath, memories flooding back like a dam breaking. "Those years away were hell, Wills. I'd see something that reminded me of you, and it'd knock me flat for days. I'd catch myself picking up my phone to call you a hundred times."

Willow's fingers dig into my arm, her eyes searching my face. "You could have told me. We could have faced it together."

"I was terrified," I admit, my voice breaking. "Ethan was like a fucking superhero to me, and they took him out like it was nothing. If they could get to him..." I trail off, the implication hanging heavy between us.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to continue. "I couldn’t put you in that line of fire.”

Willow lets out a wet crying laugh. “Yet, look at where we are now, you big dummy.”

I stroke her cheek with my thumb, feeling the dampness of her tears. "I wasted so much time, Wills. So many years I could've been by your side. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."

"We're here now," she whispers, her voice catching. "That's what matters."

I shake my head, the weight of my mistakes pressing down on me like a physical thing. "I should've been there for you after Ethan died. Should've been there to hold you through it. Instead, I was too caught up in my own fear to see that you were drowning too."

Willow's body trembles against mine as a sob escapes her. "I thought you left because of me. Because I wasn't enough to make you stay."

"No," I breathe, pulling her tighter against me, ignoring the sharp pain in my bandaged hand. "God, no, Willow. You were… you are perfect. You are my home, my soul, the place I come back to when the world turns to dust and bone. You’re the hush before a storm and the fire after; wild, aching, holy. You stitched the jagged parts of me with your bare hands, like you weren’t scared of the blood. Like you knew I’d bleed for you anyway.”

I press my forehead to hers, breath tangled in the space between us.

“I ain’t ever known peace ‘til you, Willow Hayes. And I swear on every broken piece of me. I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to deserve you.”

Willow's eyes glisten with tears, her breath catching as she presses her palm to my face. "You don't need to deserve me, Rhett. You just need to stay."

Something breaks open inside me—not like a wound tearing, but like a dam finally giving way after years of pressure. The first sob surprises me, ripping from my chest with such force my body shakes with it. Willow's arms tighten around me as if she could physically hold me together.

"I'm not going anywhere," I manage, my voice raw and unfamiliar to my own ears. "Not ever again."

She's crying too now, her tears mingling with mine as she presses her forehead against my shoulder. We cling to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, both of us finally letting go of the grief and fear we've carried for too long.

"I missed you so goddamn much, Rhett.”

"I missed you every fucking day," I confess, my voice breaking. "Every sunrise, every sunset. Every goddamn bull I rode, I'd look for you in the crowd."

We hold each other as the tears come harder now, years of pain and longing finally breaking free. My body shakes with it, these sobs that feel like they're being torn from somewhere deep and primal inside me. I can't remember the last time I cried like this—maybe never. Cowboys aren't supposed to break down, but here I am, coming apart in Willow's arms.

And she's right there with me, her tears soaking my shirt, her fingers digging into my back like she's afraid I'll disappear if she loosens her grip. We're a mess of salt and skin and shared grief, holding each other through the storm.

I can feel her body heaving against mine with each sob, her fingers digging into my back like she's afraid I might disappear if she loosens her grip even slightly.

I don't know how long we stay like that, tangled together, breaking and mending all at once. Time loses meaning when you're finally letting go of ghosts you've carried for years. Eventually, the storm passes, leaving us hollow and clean like driftwood after a hurricane.

Willow pulls back slightly, her face tear-stained and beautiful in the dim light. She traces her fingers over my cheeks, wiping away the wetness there with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

"Look at us," she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying. "A couple of wrecks."

I manage a rough laugh, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Your wreck. If you'll have me."

"Always," she says simply, the word carrying the weight of a vow.