Page 30

T he sun isn’t even up when we hit the highway.

Jace's Ram is blasting outlaw country. Weston’s singing off-key in the backseat. Logan’s half-asleep, forehead against the window.

Knox has Kade riding with him—probably because they’re both early risers, both quiet before the chaos hits. I don't ask.

Levi’s in my back seat with his usual unshakeable calm, sipping gas station coffee like it’s fine bourbon.

Me? I’ve got Willow. Which should be enough to keep me grounded.

But that damn poster from the gas station—the one with names crossed out in red ink, ours among them—hasn't left my mind. Not for a second.

All slashed through like we’ve already been marked for slaughter.

I haven’t told Willow yet. I don’t want to see that look in her eyes. Not until I know for sure it means something.

Still, her presence next to me helps. She hums along to a song I don’t know, sipping from a thermos, her hair tied up in a messy braid that I’m itching to pull loose.

“You’re staring,” she says, not looking at me.

“Can you blame me?”

She snorts. “Keep your eyes on the road, cowboy.”

I flash her a grin. "Darlin', I can multitask."

Levi's eyes flicker to the rearview. "If you two are gonna fuck in the truck, at least wait till we hit a rest stop."

"Fuck off," Willow and I say in unison, which makes us both laugh.

Mountains loom in the distance, jagged and cold, and the Widowmaker Arena crouches like a beast at their feet—iron gates, chain-link fencing, dust clouds rising like smoke.

Fitting.

Thunder Valley looks like it was carved out of rock by the hands of something angry.

We roll in just after dawn, three black trucks rumbling like a storm surge. Knox leads in his F-350, Jace behind him in the Dodge, and I bring up the rear in my Sierra with Willow riding shotgun—her boots up on the dash, my hoodie drowning her frame.

The convoy feels solid. Unbreakable. But even as we pull through the parking lot, I feel the shift. The tension. Like the whole place is holding its breath.

And waiting to choke us.

"Something's wrong," Willow says quietly, her fingers curling around her thermos. "You feel it too, don't you?"

I don't answer right away. Instead, I scan the lot, taking in the clusters of cowboys and their crews, the way conversations stop when we pass. The sideways glances.

"Yeah," I finally admit. "I feel it."

We park in our designated spot—prime real estate near the competitor entrance. A perk of being headliners, I guess. Or maybe they just want to keep us contained.

As we unload our gear, I notice Knox's shoulders are tight as steel cables. His eyes never stop moving. He's been in this game long enough to know when something's off.

"Nice of you to show up," drawls a voice that makes my jaw clench.

Tanner Ellis. The golden boy of the circuit. Daddy's money and ego the size of Texas. His perfect teeth flash in a shit-eating grin as he eyes our group.

"Thought you boys might have decided to sit this one out, what with all the... accidents lately."

Knox steps forward, but I'm faster, my hand on his shoulder. "Wouldn't miss it," I say, keeping my voice level even as my blood pressure spikes. "Someone's gotta show you how it's done."

Tanner's eyes slide to Willow, and something in his gaze makes me want to rearrange his face. "Hayes," he nods. "Still slumming it with these chumps?"

Willow doesn't flinch. "Still compensating for something with that oversized buckle, Ellis?"

A couple of nearby cowboys snicker. Tanner's smile goes brittle.

"Just watch yourselves," he says, voice sharp.

“I’d say you watch us plenty, Ellis.”

He sneers at Willow. “You got a smart mouth on ya, sweetheart.”

"And you've got a death wish," I growl, stepping forward. Willow's hand catches my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Not worth it," she murmurs, but her eyes say something different. They say she's cataloging every twitch, every word. Storing it away like ammunition.

Tanner backs up a step, that cocky smile never wavering. "Save it for the arena, Razor. If you make it that far."

He saunters away, his crew following like trained dogs. The tension hangs in the air like smoke.

"What the hell was that supposed to mean?" Levi asks, dropping his gear bag at his feet.

Knox's face is stone. "It means we watch our backs. All of us."

We move toward the competitor entrance, a unit. Tight. Protected. But I can't shake the feeling we're walking into something that none of us are prepared for.

The arena's backstage area buzzes with pre-competition chaos—cowboys stretching, handlers checking gear, media vultures circling for their pound of flesh. We push through it all like we're moving through mud, everyone's eyes tracking us.

"Media check-in," Kade announces, glancing at his watch. "We're late."

"Let 'em wait," I mutter, but Jace shakes his head.

"No. We show up. We smile. We play their game." His voice drops. "For now."

The media room is a converted storage space—all concrete floors and exposed pipes, with bright lights set up in a half-circle around a backdrop plastered with sponsor logos. A dozen reporters and camera operators swarm as we enter.

"Well, well. The Savage Eight graces us with their presence," says Marissa Chen, microphone already extended like a weapon.

Marissa's smile is all teeth and no warmth, like a shark circling blood in the water. The cameras click and whir, hungry little machines capturing every twitch, every blink. I feel Willow tense beside me.

"Let's get right to it," Marissa says, not bothering with pleasantries. "Three riders have been hospitalized in the past month. Equipment failures that shouldn't happen. And somehow, the Savage Eight are always nearby when disaster strikes."

Knox steps forward, his face a perfect mask of professional concern. "We're as troubled by these incidents as everyone else, Marissa."

"Are you?" She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Because word around the circuit is that your team benefits most from eliminating competition."

The room goes silent, tension crackling like static electricity. Jace's hands curl into fists at his sides.

"That's a bold accusation, Miss Chen. Especially when members of our own team have been sabotaged.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Care to elaborate?"

Before Knox can answer, Logan steps forward. "No comment. We're here to ride, not gossip."

Marissa's smile turns predatory. "Interesting. The public might wonder what you're hiding."

"The public might wonder why you're pushing a narrative instead of facts," Willow cuts in, her voice steel wrapped in silk. The reporters' heads swivel toward her like startled birds.

"And what facts would those be, Miss Hayes?" Marissa asks, extending her microphone.

"That we're the best damn riders on this circuit," I interject, throwing my arm around Willow's shoulders. "And some people can't handle that."

Cameras flash, capturing what I'm sure looks like cocky defiance. Good. Let them see what I want them to see.

"Time's up," Knox announces.

We leave the press vultures circling their own stink, my blood still on fire from Marissa's accusations. But I've got bigger concerns than some reporter trying to make her name on our backs.

The prep area buzzes with a different kind of energy than usual—darker, heavier. Competitors who'd normally shoot the shit are keeping their distance, like we're carrying something contagious.

Jace notices it too. His eyes are constantly moving, taking in every detail as we make our way to our designated area. "Stay alert," he mutters, just loud enough for our crew to hear.

Willow sticks close to my side as we reach the chutes. Her fingers brush against mine—a touch so brief anyone else would miss it, but it grounds me instantly.

"Be careful out there," she says, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her worry.

"Always am, darlin’.”

She snorts, seeing through my bullshit. "Sure you are. That's why I've stitched you up how many times now?"

I wink at her. "Just giving you excuses to put your hands on me."

The first event kicks off in thirty minutes. Jace and Levi are up before me, which gives me time to check my gear one last time. My rope feels right, my glove worn in just how I like it. But something's still off. The hairs on the back of my neck won't settle.

The announcer's voice booms through the arena, rattling the metal gates around us. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Thunder Valley's Reckoning Showdown!"

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the unease that's been dogging me since we arrived. Around us, the energy shifts from tense to electric as the crowd roars to life.

Jace signals with a sharp nod of his head. We follow him like shadows to our team tent set up near the chutes—a black canvas shelter with our logo emblazoned on it. It's our war room, our sanctuary in the chaos.

"Bring it in," he says, his voice cutting through the arena noise.

We gather in a tight circle, shoulders touching, creating a wall between us and the prying eyes outside.

Jace bows his head first, his voice dropping to a rumble that only we can hear. "Lord, we know you don't play favorites in this arena, but we're askin' for your hand today."

It still surprises some people that beneath our tattooed exteriors and foul mouths, we're God-fearing men. But out here, where a ton of muscle and fury can crush you in seconds, faith isn't just comfort—it's survival.

"Keep our minds sharp," Jace continues, his calloused hand gripping mine so tight I can feel his pulse. "Our bodies strong."

Around our circle, heads bow deeper. Even Willow, who I've never seen step foot in a church, closes her eyes. Her fingers intertwine with mine, warm and steady.

"Watch over these brothers as they climb on the backs of your most dangerous creations," Jace says, his voice gaining strength. "And when the dust settles, bring us all home safe."

"Amen," we murmur in unison, and for that brief moment, we're not just teammates—we're brothers bound by something deeper than blood.

The circle breaks. Game faces slide into place. Jace rolls his shoulders and heads toward the chutes, Levi following close behind.

I hang back with Willow for a moment, watching Jace approach his bull—a massive black beast named Doomsday. The monster snorts and shifts in the chute, sixteen hundred pounds of pure hate just waiting for his chance to stomp someone into the dirt.

"King's got this," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Willow's eyes never leave the chute. "He always does."

And she's right. Jace settles onto Doomsday's back like he's sitting down for Sunday dinner. His movements are precise, methodical—wrapping his rope, adjusting his grip, nodding to the gate man with that same stone-cold focus that's made him a legend.

The gate swings open and the beast explodes into the arena.

It's pure chaos—Doomsday twists and bucks, his massive body contorting in midair like a snake made of muscle and bone. But Jace moves with him, his body perfectly balanced, one hand raised high. The seconds tick by like hours as Doomsday throws everything he's got at our leader.

The crowd roars when the buzzer sounds. Eight seconds. A perfect ride.

Jace dismounts with the grace of a man who's done this a thousand times, landing on his feet and immediately pivoting away from those deadly hooves. The bullfighters swoop in, drawing Doomsday's attention while Jace jogs to the fence, his face finally breaking into that rare smile that tells us all is right in his world.

"Ninety-two point five," the announcer's voice booms. "King McAllister showing why he wears that crown!"

Willow's shoulders relax a fraction beside me. One down.

Levi's up next, drawing a demon called Hellbender. The bull's coat is the color of rust and dried blood, and his temperament matches. He's taken down three riders already this season, sending two to the hospital. But Levi's got ice in his veins. He settles onto Hellbenders back with the same zen-like calm he brings to everything.

"That boy's not human," Knox mutters beside me, arms crossed over his chest as he watches.

The gate crashes open, and Hellbender launches like he's been shot from a cannon. His first jump nearly sends Levi flying, but he recovers, his body finding that perfect counterbalance. The bull spins tight, changing directions so fast it makes my own neck hurt just watching.

Levi doesn't just ride—he dances with the devil. His free arm sweeps through the air like he's conducting a symphony of survival. Every move calculated, every shift of weight perfectly timed to Hellbenders violent rhythm.

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts. Levi disengages with that same eerie calm, dropping to the dirt and rolling away from stomping hooves like it's all choreographed. He doesn't even look winded as he strides toward the exit gate.

"Ninety-one point seven for Breaker Monroe!" the announcer shouts over the roaring crowd. "The Savage Eight are bringing the heat today, folks!"

My turn.

I roll my neck, feeling the vertebrae pop. The familiar pre-ride jitters kick in—not fear, but a surge of adrenaline that makes everything sharper, brighter.

"You good?" Willow asks, her eyes scanning my face.

"Always." I wink, but deep down I can feel something off still.

Willow touches my arm, her fingers brushing against my sleeve. "Just... be careful."

I head for the chutes, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension that's been building all morning. My bull today is Widowmaker's Ghost—a massive gray beast with one milky eye and a reputation for sending riders to the hospital.

My boots echo on the metal grating as I climb up to the chute. Ghost is already loading in, his massive shoulders bunching as handlers guide him into position. He slams against the gate once, twice, metal groaning under the impact.

"He's feisty today," warns Pete, one of the stock contractors, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Already put two handlers on their asses."

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. That feeling—like ants crawling up my spine—won't quit. I scan the arena as I pull my glove tighter, testing the give of the leather.

"You still with us, Razor?”

I shake my head, coming out of my own mind. “Yeah, sorry. Was in the zone there.'“

I shake off the distraction and focus on the beast beneath me. Ghost shifts, sixteen hundred pounds of pure fury contained only by steel panels and my own nerve. I take a deep breath, center myself, and nod to the gate man.

"Showtime."

The chute flies open, and everything narrows to this moment—this dance between predator and prey, where it's not always clear which one I am.

Ghost explodes into the arena like a freight train, his first buck nearly sending me over his shoulder. I recover, driving my spurs into his side, feeling his muscles bunch and coil beneath me. The crowd roars, a distant thunder to the pounding in my ears.

Two seconds.

Ghost twists, his spine contorting in a violent corkscrew that sends a jolt of pain up my arm. I reset my grip, feeling the rope burn through my glove. Stay centered.

Three seconds.

Ghost changes direction, a hard spin to the left that tests every muscle in my core. I adjust, finding that sweet spot again where my body moves with his fury instead of against it. The arena lights blur as we whirl in our deadly dance.

Four seconds.

The crowd is a wall of sound, faces blending together in the stands. Ghost bucks high, trying to unseat me with a move that feels like gravity itself is shifting. I dig deeper, my thighs clamped to his sides like vises. The bull's massive shoulder muscles bunch beneath me for another assault.

Five seconds.

That's when I see him.

Standing in the second row, just behind the chutes. He's not cheering, not moving—just staring directly at me with a focus that cuts through the chaos. His face is so plain, yet I can feel it in my soul that I know him from somewhere.

Distracted, I feel my balance falter, my grip suddenly loose. It's just a fraction of a second—a heartbeat's worth of inattention—but out here, that's all it takes.

Ghost seizes the moment like he can sense my distraction. He bucks hard to the right, then immediately reverses, a move they call the Texas Twist. My center of gravity shifts, and suddenly I'm airborne, the rope burning through my glove as I lose my seat.

I'm falling wrong. Every rider knows there's a way to fall that might save your life. This ain't it.

The world spins in slow motion. The arena dirt rushes up to meet me, but I don't hit it clean. Ghost's massive head swings around, and I feel rather than see the moment his horn catches me. A white-hot lance of pain tears through my side, just below my ribs.

The impact steals my breath. I hit the ground hard, rolling through dirt that tastes like copper and salt. Above me, Ghost's hooves thunder past, missing my skull by inches. The bullfighters swarm, their bodies creating a human shield between me and sixteen hundred pounds of pissed-off beef.

My side feels wet. Warm. Wrong.

The crowd's roar turns to a collective gasp, then a hushed murmur that sounds like wind through dead trees. I try to stand, but my body betrays me, legs folding like wet paper. I press my hand to my side and it comes away slick with red.

"Shit," I mumble, the world tilting sideways. The arena lights blur into star-streaks above me. Someone's shouting my name, but it sounds like they're underwater.

Then suddenly, she's there.

Willow crashes to the dirt floor, her medic bag thrown at her side.

Willow's hands are on me before I can even register what's happening, steady and sure despite the chaos around us. The arena fades to background noise—the announcer's voice, the crowd's murmurs, the handlers corralling Ghost back to the pens.

"Don't move," she orders, her voice commanding even as her eyes betray her fear. Her fingers probe my side, and I wince as she peels back my vest to reveal the damage.

"How bad?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Bad enough," she mutters, ripping open a package of gauze with her teeth. "But you'll live to be stupid another day."

The medical team hovers nearby, but they know better than to get between Willow and one of her riders. She's earned her place as our first responder, and even the official medics respect her territory. They know, if Willow calls them in, it’s a real bad one.

"Pressure here," she instructs, guiding my hand over the gauze. Her fingers brush mine, sending a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the pain. "Hold it tight."

I do as I'm told while she rifles through her kit, pulling out more supplies. The crowd's murmurs fade to white noise as I focus on her face—the intensity in her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows that appears whenever one of us is hurt.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I manage through clenched teeth. "Getting to boss me around."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Shut up and keep pressing."

The medical team finally approaches with a stretcher, but I wave them off. "I can walk."

"Like hell you can," Willow snaps, but I'm already struggling to my feet, her arm sliding around my waist to help me.

We slowly make our way out, the crowd cheering as we head back to our tent. The crew is waiting as she sits me down on a bench.

Willow works methodically, her fingers dancing over my skin as she cleans the wound. The tent smells like antiseptic and sweat, the sharp odor of medical supplies mixing with the earthy scent of the arena. Outside, I can hear the announcer calling the next rider, the show continuing like I didn't just nearly get skewered.

"You're lucky," she mutters, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. "Half an inch deeper and we'd be having this conversation in an ambulance."

I wince as she dabs at the wound with something that stings like hellfire. "Easy with that stuff."

"Don't be such a baby." But her touch gentles, those calloused fingers suddenly feather-light against my ribs. It sends a different kind of pain through me—the sweet, aching kind that has nothing to do with injuries.

"That bull had your number today," Knox observes, hovering at the edge of my vision while the rest of the team gives Willow space to work.

"Wasn't the bull," I mutter, wincing as Willow applies more pressure.

Her hands pause for just a heartbeat. "What do you mean?”

I inhale sharply, both from the sting of antiseptic and the memory of that face. The team's eyes are on me now, waiting. Even Willow's hands have stilled, her focus entirely on my words rather than my wound.

"There was a guy in the crowd," I say, keeping my voice low. "Same dude I spotted at that rest stop outside of Dallas last month. The one hanging around our trucks."

Knox's posture shifts instantly, his shoulders squaring. "You sure?"

"Positive." I wince as Willow resumes cleaning my wound, her movements more deliberate now. "Plain-looking guy. The kind you'd walk past a hundred times and never remember. Except..."

"Except what?" Willow prompts, her fingers pressing a fresh bandage against my side.

"His eyes." I shake my head, struggling to articulate what disturbed me about them. "They were...watching. Not like a fan. Like someone studying prey."

Willow's hands go completely still, her eyes locked on mine. The tent feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker.

"He was studying all of us at that rest stop," I continue, lowering my voice even further so only our crew can hear. "Taking pictures with his phone when he thought no one was looking. And today, right before Ghost threw me, he was just...standing there. Staring. Like he was waiting for something to happen."

"You think he distracted you on purpose?" Jace asks, his voice tight.

I shrug, then immediately regret it as pain lances through my side. "I don't know. But it felt...deliberate. Like he wanted to see me go down."

Willow's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, a flash of recognition crossing her mind.

I watch her face change, like someone just flipped a switch behind her eyes. She's gone somewhere in her head that I can't follow, that thousand-yard stare suddenly focused on something the rest of us can't see.

"Willow?" I ask, my voice low. "What is it?"

She blinks rapidly, her hands resuming their work on my side, but her movements are mechanical now, her mind clearly elsewhere. When she speaks, her voice is tight, controlled.

"Plain-looking guy. Brown hair. Maybe five-ten. Wearing a blue windbreaker today?"

The question hits me like a freight train. "Yeah. How did—"

"Was he wearing a Denver Broncos cap at the rest stop?"

My blood runs cold. "You've seen him too."

It's not a question, but she nods anyway, her fingers trembling slightly as she tapes me up.

“He’s following us.” Mumbles Knox. “They have a goddamn tail on us!”

Before I can process what Willow's saying, Kade bursts through the tent flap, his face ashen. "Logan's up," he pants, and something in his voice makes us all freeze. "Something's wrong with his bull. It's—"

The words are drowned out by a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by screams that chill my blood. Knox is already moving, shoving past Kade and out of the tent. The rest of us follow, my injury forgotten as adrenaline floods my system.

I stumble after them, Willow's arm around my waist keeping me upright. The arena comes into view, and my heart stops.

Logan is airborne, his body a broken marionette against the arena lights. His bull—Tombstone, a notorious spinner—is thrashing below him, but something's wrong with the animal. It's moving erratically.

Its movements aren't natural—not even for a bull that's trying to murder its rider. The animal's eyes are rolling back, foam spilling from its mouth.

"Jesus Christ," Jace breathes beside me.

Logan's hanging on, but his face is twisted in confusion as the bull starts to stagger, its massive legs buckling. Then it happens—Tombstone collapses mid-buck, sending Logan crashing into the dirt at an angle that makes my stomach lurch.

The bull's massive body convulses once, twice, then goes still. Too still.

"Move!" Willow shouts, already vaulting over the fence despite security trying to hold her back.

The arena erupts into chaos. Medical staff sprint across the dirt. The announcer's voice cracks with forced calm, asking everyone to please remain seated. But I'm already moving too, shoving past the pain that screams through my side with every step.

By the time I reach Logan, Willow's already on her knees beside him, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. His eyes are open, dazed but conscious. Thank God.

"Don't move," she orders him, her voice steady even as her hands check for broken bones. "Tell me what hurts."

"Everything," Logan groans. "What the fuck happened to Tombstone?"

I glance over at the bull. The massive animal lies motionless on the arena floor, a team of vets already swarming around it. One looks up, catches my eye, and gives a small shake of his head.

Dead. The bull is fucking dead. His stock contractor rushes to his side, tears streaming down the man’s face.

Something twists in my gut, and it's not just the horn wound. Bulls don't just drop dead mid-buck. Not like that.

"What the hell?" I mutter as the paramedics arrive, pushing us back from Logan.

Willow stays put, her voice firm as she briefs the medical team. "Possible concussion, complaining of right shoulder pain, no loss of consciousness." She's all business, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands that only someone who knows her well would notice.

The crowd is a mix of horrified silence and nervous chatter. In all my years riding, I've never seen a bull collapse and die during a ride. Injured, sure. Put down later, unfortunately. But drop dead in the arena? Never.

The medical team carries Logan away and Willow takes the time to walk over to the stock contractor. I watch as she kneels beside him, her hand gently rubbing his back as she wipes a tear of her own.

Knox appears at my side, his face carved from stone. "This isn't right," he says.

I nod, jaw tight. "No, it ain't." My voice comes out rough. "Say what you want about us riders, but we respect these bulls. They’re not just animals—they’re partners in this madness. Warriors. That bull gave everything out there, just like Logan did."

The words burn coming out. Because no matter how brutal this life is, it’s never supposed to end like this—for any of us.

W e’re all checked into our hotel suite, Logan on the pull-out couch with his leg propped up on pillows. The docs at the hospital cleared him—no broken bones, just bruises and a twisted knee that'll keep him out of competition for a couple weeks.

We're gathered around a spread of pizza boxes and beer bottles, the TV muted in the background where sports analysts are already dissecting today's events with ghoulish enthusiasm. Logan's picked at his food, silent for the past hour. We're all giving him space to process.

"Anyone talk to Colt?" Jace finally asks, breaking the heavy silence.

Knox nods, cell phone still in his hand. "Just got off with him. He's pissed he's missing this, but the docs won't clear him to travel yet."

"What'd he say about Tombstone?" Kade asks.

"Not much over the phone," Knox replies, his voice low. "But he wants us all on a video call tomorrow. Says he's been digging into some things we need to hear about."

Willow sits cross-legged on the floor, her back against the wall, nursing a beer she's barely touched. She hasn't said much since we left the arena, her eyes distant, processing something she's not ready to share.

"They're saying it was a heart attack," Levi says, scrolling through his phone. "Official statement from the circuit vet."

"Bullshit," I mutter, wincing as I shift position on the bed. My side throbs despite the painkillers Willow forced on me earlier. "Bulls don't just have heart attacks in their prime."

"They do if someone wants them to," Willow finally speaks, her voice soft but razor-sharp. All eyes turn to her.

"What are you thinking?" Knox asks, leaning forward.

She sets her beer down carefully, every movement deliberate. "Tombstone was worth nearly a hundred grand. Bulls like that don't just drop dead unless something's seriously wrong." Her eyes meet mine across the room. "Or someone makes them."

The implication hangs in the air, heavy as a thundercloud.

"You think someone doped the bull?" Weston asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I think nothing about any of this is coincidental," Willow says. "The accidents. The sabotage. That man is watching us." She looks directly at me. "The message at the gas station."

I feel the others' eyes shift to me. "What message?" Jace demands.

Shit. I hadn't told them yet. But Willow's face tells me she already knows.

"At the last stop," I admit, quietly. “There was the poster with the faces crossed out, the cashier was really weird about it. It had to be that guy who was following us.”

Willow nods. “He came in after us. He had to be the one. That girl looked too nervous.”

Before anyone can respond, the window explodes.

Glass rains down like deadly hail, sending us all diving for cover. I throw myself over Willow, pain lancing through my side as my wound reopens. A brick tumbles across the carpet, leaving a trail of shattered glass in its wake.

"Everyone okay?" Knox shouts, already on his feet, a gun drawn from wherever he keeps it hidden.

A chorus of affirmatives follows as we cautiously rise. Logan's still on the couch, shielded by Jace's body. Willow pushes against my chest, her eyes wide with concern.

"You're bleeding again," she says, glancing at my side where red seeps through my shirt.

"I'm fine," I lie, moving toward the brick. There's something attached to it—a note secured with a rubber band. My fingers shake slightly as I pull it free.

The paper unfolds in my shaking hands, revealing a message written in what looks like black marker—the letters jagged and rushed.

"Back off, or the next horn won't miss."

I look up, meeting Willow's eyes. She reads the message over my shoulder, her face going pale beneath her tan. For a moment, the room is dead silent except for the distant wail of sirens—someone must have called the cops already.

"This ends now," I say, my voice deadly calm despite the rage building inside me. "No more warnings, no more guessing games."

Knox takes the note from my hands, his expression hardening as he reads it. "Whoever's doing this just crossed a line."