Page 33

I wake before the sun, drenched in sweat and ghosts.

The dreams come in flashes—Ethan’s blood on my hands, Willow screaming my name, faceless men in the shadows pulling strings I can’t see. I sit up, lungs tight, heart pounding like I’m still mid-ride on a bull that wants me dead.

She’s already up.

Willow’s cross-legged on the bed, hair a messy halo, lit only by the soft glow of her laptop screen and a half-dozen pages of notes scattered across the quilt. Her brows are furrowed, mouth set in that determined little line I’ve loved since we were kids sneaking whiskey in the barn.

Goddamn, I love her.

And I’m scared as hell of what’s coming.

"Find anything?" I ask, voice rough from sleep and screaming nightmares.

She looks up, those sharp eyes softening when they meet mine. Just for a second. Just for me.

"Patterns," she says, tapping a finger against a spreadsheet. "Three injuries in Oklahoma, five in Texas. All right before big payouts."

I slide across the bed, careful not to disturb her system of organized chaos. The sheets are cold where she's been sitting for hours.

"You should've woken me."

"You needed sleep," she says simply. No bullshit with Willow. Never has been.

I reach for her hand, run my thumb over the calluses there. Same as mine. We're matched pairs in all the ways that matter.

"They'll be watching today," she murmurs, eyes locked on the window where dawn crawls across the horizon. "I've got this feeling..."

I pull her against me, chest to back, and breathe in the scent of her hair—coconut shampoo and something distinctly Willow. "We got this," I whisper against her neck. "Together."

She leans into me for a moment, allowing herself this small vulnerability, before straightening her spine. "Together," she echoes, then closes her laptop with a snap. "But first, coffee."

We get up and wake the others, starting the day. There’s a few grumbles and cries for coffee, but for the most part, everybody is silent.

What lies ahead has shaken us all to our cores.

Grabbing out coffee and gear, we pack the trucks and get on the road. The short drive feels like hours.

The arena smells like bullshit and broken promises.

I can taste the tension in the air, thick as the dust kicked up by restless hooves. Guys who normally shoot the shit are keeping to themselves, checking equipment with the kind of focus that comes from fear. Nobody's saying it out loud, but everyone knows something's wrong in our world. When men who ride two thousand pounds of fury for a living start looking nervous, you know the danger isn't just in the arena anymore.

Willow sticks close as we make our way through the back corridors. She's got her game face on, but I catch her scanning every face, every shadow. Her fingers brush against mine—not holding, just reminding me she's there. That we're in this together.

Knox appears like a damn ghost, materializing from between two stock trailers.

"Heads up," he murmurs, falling into step beside us. "Overheard Tyson talking to one of the judges. There's money changing hands today."

"Which rides?" I ask, voice low.

"Not sure. But the short guy with the clipboard—he's new. Been watching our practice sessions, asking questions."

I follow Knox's subtle nod toward a stocky man in an official's jacket, pretending to check his phone while he watches Weston adjust his rope.

"I've seen him before," Willow whispers. "Tucson, maybe? Not with staff credentials though."

"I don't like it," I say, adjusting my glove with more force than necessary. "Keep eyes on him."

The announcer's voice booms through the speakers, calling the first riders. My stomach knots as I take my place in the chute, straddling two thousand pounds of hate and muscle. The bull—Midnight Massacre—snorts and shifts beneath me. I've drawn a real son of a bitch today.

I wrap my rope, settle my grip. From the corner of my eye, I spot the clipboard guy talking into his radio, looking straight at me.

The gate swings open. Midnight Massacre explodes beneath me like a bomb detonating. He twists hard left, then changes direction mid-air, the kind of move that separates pros from hospital patients. I clamp my thighs tight, center my weight. Eight seconds. Just stay on for eight goddamn seconds.

Four seconds in, I see him again—clipboard guy—now standing near the judges' table. He's not watching the ride. He's watching the bull. Like he knows something.

The distraction costs me. Midnight throws his head back, nearly catching my jaw. I overcorrect, feel myself sliding right while the bull goes left. Shit. This is how careers end.

Something clicks in my head—that place I go when instinct takes over. I throw my free arm back, use the momentum to center myself just as Midnight launches into his signature spin. The crowd roars. I can't hear them over the blood pounding in my ears. My body is on autopilot now—lean, adjust, counterbalance.

Then the buzzer sounds. Eight seconds. I made it.

I dismount with a flourish that's half skill, half pure luck, and the crowd loses their minds. I pump my fist, playing the part they expect, but my eyes are scanning for Willow, for Knox, for clipboard guy.

The announcer's shouting my score—91.5, putting me at the top of the leaderboard—when the screams start. Not the good kind.

The kind that means someone's hurt bad. The crowd freezes, the place deadly silent.

Until I hear her screaming directions. Willow.

I sprint toward the commotion, shoving through a wall of bodies. Mike Rayburn—good rider, better guy—is crumpled on the ground, leg bent at a sickening angle. Blood pools beneath him, too much blood for a simple fall. His rope is frayed in a way that screams deliberate. Not worn out. Cut.

Willow's already there, kneeling beside him, her rodeo medic training kicking in. Her hands move with practiced efficiency, but I catch the flash of anger in her eyes when she looks up at me.

"Femoral artery," she says quietly. "Someone tampered with his equipment."

I crouch down beside her, blocking the view from the crowd, creating a bubble of privacy in the chaos.

"Hang in there, Mike," I tell him, gripping his shoulder while Willow works to stop the bleeding. His face is ghost-white, eyes unfocused. "Ambulance is coming."

"Wasn't an accident," he gasps, fingers clutching at my wrist with surprising strength. "They warned me. Should've listened."

"Who warned you?" I lean in closer, eyes darting to make sure no one else can hear us.

Mike's grip tightens, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Man... black hat. Said... stay away from Blackwater."

Then his eyes roll back, and the paramedics finally push through the crowd, shoving me aside. I back away, finding Willow's hand in the chaos. Her fingers are slick with Mike's blood.

"He's gonna make it," she says, but there's a question mark hanging at the end of her words.

I scan the arena, searching for clipboard guy or anyone in a black hat, but they've vanished like smoke. Convenient.

The rest of the Savage 8 materialize around us, forming a protective circle. Ghost's face is grim, Knox looks ready to murder someone, and the others wear matching expressions of controlled rage.

The announcer is telling the crowd to calmly leave, officials are moving people out.

This is bad. Very bad.

We get Mike stabilized and loaded into the ambulance. It's a blur of blood and noise and questions nobody wants to answer. The officials are calling it an "equipment malfunction," but we all know better. I watch Knox slip away to examine what's left of Mike's gear before security can collect it as "evidence."

Back in our tent, the tension is thick enough to choke on.

"They're picking us off one by one," I growl. "And we're just standing around with our thumbs up our asses."

Ghost is standing there, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. "Not here," he says quietly, eyes flicking to a pole where a security camera blinks red.

Smart. Always the smart one.

We finish packing up in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Willow sits quietly in the passenger seat of my truck, doors locked, and a fear in her eyes I’ve never seen before.

Jace looks at all of us and nods. “We get back to the Airbnb and lock it up tight. Stay close to each other.”

"T he Airbnb" feels like a joke now. It's just a safe house, a place to regroup and figure out who's trying to kill us. Who's already hurt one of our own.

Knox is pacing, can't sit still for shit. His phone buzzes and he yanks it out like it might be a snake. The way his face changes tells me everything I need to know.

"What?" I demand.

He holds up the screen. Unknown number. The message makes my blood run cold:

MIDNIGHT STAMPEDE. BLACKWATER, LA. IRON GATE PAVILION. RIDE IF YOU DARE.

"Same as what Mike said," Willow whispers. "Blackwater."

"It's a trap," Ghost says, stating the obvious.

I laugh, but there's no humor in it.

Knox shakes his head. "No shit. Question is, what do we do about it?"

"We go," I say, and everyone's heads snap toward me like I've lost my damn mind. Maybe I have. But I'm tired of playing defense.

Knox slams his fist against the wall. "That's exactly what they want, Razor. You're walking us right into their hands."

"I know that," I snarl back, getting in his face. "But what's the alternative? Wait for them to pick us off one by one? Hide in shitty rentals while our friends bleed out?"

"We need a plan first," he counters, not backing down an inch. "Or did you forget what happened last time you rushed into a plan without thinking?"

The words hit like a fist to the gut. He's talking about Ethan and Willow. About my failures. The room goes deadly quiet.

"Fuck you," I whisper, voice dangerously low.

Willow steps between us, hands raised. "Stop. Both of you." Her voice cuts through the red haze of my anger. "This is exactly what they want. Us fighting each other instead of them."

Knox backs up a step, jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars. The look he gives me is pure venom, but he shuts his mouth. Small mercies.

"We go," Willow says, surprising everyone, including me. "But we go smart. On our terms."

My heart swells with a fucked-up mixture of pride and fear. This is my Willow—brave as hell, smart as a whip, and just crazy enough to run toward danger instead of away from it.

"They're expecting us to either show up guns blazing or skip town altogether," she continues, taking control of the room like she was born to it. "So we do neither."

Jace steps up next to Willow. “We follow her lead. And since you,” he nods his head toward me. “Were the first to know about this shit, you need to tell us what you know.”

I stare at the faces around me, people I'd die for, people I'd kill for. People I've already failed once. The weight of what I'm about to share settles on my shoulders like a bull that won't buck off.

"Alright," I say, running a hand through my hair. "But we need something stronger than coffee for this conversation."

Jace disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of Jack and enough glasses for everyone. The amber liquid catches the light as he pours, and I'm suddenly back there, two years ago, with Ethan beside me, planning what we thought was just another investigation into crooked judges.

I down my shot in one go, welcoming the familiar burn.

"It started small," I begin, my voice rougher than I'd like. "Ethan noticed some scores that didn't add up in Oklahoma City. Riders who shouldn't have been placing in the money suddenly taking top scores. Bulls that should've been eight-second rides throwing guys in three. We thought it was just some judges taking bribes, maybe a promoter looking to juice ticket sales with hometown heroes."

I refill my glass, needing the liquid courage. The memories are razor blades in my mind, sharp and painful.

"We started digging. Found a pattern across six states, always the same M.O. Local riders getting preferential treatment, outsiders getting dangerous bulls, equipment 'malfunctions.'"

Willow's hand finds mine under the table, her thumb tracing small circles on my palm. She knows how hard this is.

"Then we found the money. Not just a few hundred bucks changing hands in bathroom stalls. We're talking millions flowing through shell companies, offshore accounts. Professional gambling syndicates using the circuit like their personal ATM."

Knox leans forward, his normally stoic face twisted with a fury I've never seen before. "This isn't just about fixed rides and gambling money. This is about Ethan, isn't it? Tell them what happened, Razor. Tell them what got my brother killed."

The room goes silent, everyone's eyes drilling into me. Willow squeezes my hand so tight I feel my bones grind together.

"Ethan traced the money to someone high up—way high up. Called himself 'The Commissioner.' Never showed his face, never used the same phone twice. But he was running the whole operation from Blackwater." My voice catches. "That night Ethan called me, said he'd found something big. Had proof that would blow the whole thing wide open."

I take another shot, trying to wash away the taste of failure.

“Then he rode the next day. We were all there. I don’t think I need to make us all relive that fucking nightmare. After all that, I ran. Like a goddamn coward. They were coming after me next and… I fucking ran.”

The room falls into a heavy silence that feels like a physical weight pressing down on all of us. Jace refills everyone's glasses without a word.

"The suspension," Willow prompts quietly, her eyes never leaving my face.

I take a deep breath. The memories I've spent two years trying to drown come rushing back like a flash flood.

"After Ethan died, I lost my fucking mind. Started asking questions nobody wanted to answer, threatening people, following judges to their hotel rooms. I knew—I fucking knew—his bull had been tampered with. The way that animal came out of the chute wasn't natural, even for a rank bull."

My hand shakes as I reach for my glass.

"Three days after the funeral, I cornered one of the judges in the parking lot outside a qualifier in San Antonio. Guy named Mitchell. Fat fuck with a turquoise bolo tie who'd been scoring rides for twenty years. I knew he'd been on the take—the way he'd underscored Ethan's last ride before..." I trail off, the memory still too raw. "I confronted him, showed him some of the evidence we'd collected. He laughed in my face, told me I should be more careful about where I stuck my nose."

I drain my glass, welcoming the burn down my throat.

"I lost it. Grabbed him by his fucking bolo tie and slammed him against a truck. Started screaming about Ethan, about all of it. Security cameras caught the whole thing. By morning, there were videos circulating of me 'assaulting an official.' Association called an emergency disciplinary hearing."

Knox makes a disgusted sound. "Convenient timing."

"Yeah, real fucking convenient," I agree. "They brought up old shit—fights I'd been in before Ethan tamed me down, and even some bar fights after. Said they would make it look like a simple recovery break. All fucking bullshit.”

"The kicker is," I continue, my voice dropping to nearly a whisper, "Ethan knew they were onto us. Night before his last ride, he came to my trailer. Never seen him so rattled. Said he'd gotten a warning—pictures of Willow at the clinic, Knox at the ranch, even my old man on his porch in Wyoming."

The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Willow's fingers tighten around mine until they're bloodless.

"He made me promise something that night," I say, the words scraping my throat raw. "Made me swear that if anything happened to him, I'd let it go. Protect the family, he said. All of you. So I did what he asked."

I look directly at Knox, whose face has gone completely still. "I put the target on me instead. After the suspension, I made sure every whisper, every rumor, every goddamn word was put on me and taken off all of you.”

"And now the bastards are back," Jace says, his normally steady voice tight with controlled anger. "Coming for all of us."

"They never left," I correct him, staring into my empty glass. "They've been watching. Waiting for the right moment to finish what they started."

Knox stands suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor like a scream. For a second, I think he's going to hit me. Maybe I deserve it. Instead, he just stares, his eyes burning with something that looks too much like grief to be pure hatred.

"You should've told me," he says finally. "He was my brother."

"He was more than just a brother to me. He was the father I never had. The only one who gave me that second chance at life. And I fucked up. I owe all of you an apology. You’re my family, the ones who were here through all my ups and downs."

Jace smiles. “Just glad to have you back.”

"You're back on the right track," Willow says quietly. She's looking at me with that mix of pride and worry that only she can pull off.

Weston nods toward Willow. “And what happened between you two?”

Willow blushes and looks at me. “That’s private and has been handled.”

Logan chuckles. “Share with the class.”

“I ran for so many reasons. And one of them was… I was so goddamn scared of what Willow meant to me.”

Willow's gaze meets mine, and for a moment, it's just us in the room. All the hurt and longing and fear laid bare between us like an open wound.

"I told myself I was protecting her," I admit, my voice rough. "Truth is, I was terrified of losing her like we lost Ethan. So I pushed her away first. Real fucking brave of me."

Ghost clears his throat. "So this Blackwater message. It's a challenge?"

"Or a death sentence," Knox mutters.

"Either way, we need to be ready," Willow says, standing up. The steel in her spine reminds me why I fell for her in the first place. "They're expecting the Razor they remember—reckless, impulsive, alone. They don't know about us. All of us."

I look around at the faces of the Savage Eight —my family, my crew, the only people I trust in this world—and something shifts in my chest. A feeling I haven't had since before Ethan died. Hope.

"We leave at dawn," I decide. "Hit the road before anyone expects us to move. We meet at the motel outside Blackwater, plan our approach from there."

Jace nods, already calculating logistics in that military brain of his. "I'll work out the travel arrangements."

"I'll check the equipment," Ghost offers. "Make sure nothing's been tampered with."

Logan and Weston exchange a look. "We'll handle security for the convoy," Logan says. "Keep our eyes open for anyone following."

Knox still hasn't sat back down, his posture rigid with unresolved tension. But he gives a curt nod.

"We go to Blackwater," Knox says finally, "but we go smart. We find this 'Commissioner' and make him pay for what he did to Ethan." His eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time in two years, I see something besides hatred there. Something like a truce.

As the others break into smaller groups, planning and preparing, Willow pulls me into the hallway, away from the others. The dim light casts shadows across her face, highlighting the worry lines that weren't there two years ago. My fault. So much of this is my fault.

"You okay?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I almost laugh. "No. Not even close."

Her hand comes up to rest against my cheek, and I lean into it like a lifeline. "You don't have to carry all of this alone anymore, Rhett. That's what got us into this mess.”

I brush my thumb across her bottom lip, feeling her breath catch. In the half-light, her eyes shine with unshed tears, and I want to drown in them. In her. In everything we could've been these past two years if I hadn't been such a coward.

"I don't deserve a second chance with you," I whisper, my voice breaking on the truth of it.

She steps closer, eliminating the space between us until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. "It's not about deserving, Rhett. It never was."

Her hands slide up my arms, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She tangles her fingers in my hair, tugging gently until our foreheads touch. The gesture is so achingly familiar that my chest constricts with a pain that's almost sweet.

"I love you, you stupid cowboy.”

The words hit me like a freight train, knocking the air from my lungs. There it is—the thing I've been running from, the thing I've been chasing. For two years I've tried to convince myself she was better off without me, that I was protecting her by staying away. What a load of bullshit.

I crush my mouth to hers, desperate and hungry, like a drowning man finding air. She responds instantly, her body melting into mine, her fingers tightening in my hair. The kiss is an apology, a promise, a homecoming all wrapped up in one.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I press my forehead against hers.

"I love you, Willow. Never stopped. Not for one goddamn second."

A small smile quirks the corner of her mouth. "I know."