Page 36

S hadow Canyon feels like the edge of the world.

Nothing but rock, heat, and silence waiting to snap.

We roll into the Iron Horn Coliseum just past dawn, and the dust hasn't even settled from last night. Our boots hit the ground like war drums—eight of us, black-clad and battle-scarred, walking straight into whatever the hell comes next. The Wranglers' Last Stand. Final stop before the championship. And after Montana? After that fire?

We’re not here to ride.

We’re here to make a statement.

I glance at Willow, standing by the trailer with shadows under her eyes that match mine. She's been awake all night watching the parking lot, her fingers never far from that knife she keeps strapped to her thigh. Smart woman. Trust is a luxury we can't afford anymore.

"You ready for this?" I ask, my voice rough as gravel.

She gives me that look—the one that cuts through all my bullshit. "Are any of us?"

Fair point.

The arena looms ahead like a fortress. Security's doubled since Montana, men in black shirts with earpieces scanning faces at every entrance. Checking for threats. Checking for us, maybe.

Knox nudges my shoulder. "They're watching the north entrance. Press is already setting up."

"Good," I say, adjusting my hat lower over my eyes. "Let 'em look."

We move like a pack of wolves, silent and watchful. I keep Willow close to my left, Knox on the other side of her. The rest of the Savage Eight fan out behind us, a wall of muscle and determination that parts the early morning crowd without effort.

"They're saying it was an accident in Montana," Willow whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant sound of bulls being loaded into chutes. "Official statement came out at midnight."

I snort. "Yeah, and I'm the fuckin' Easter Bunny."

A fire that precise? Taking out only the locker room assigned to the riders who'd been vocal about the syndicate? Not a chance in hell that was an accident.

Inside, the arena smells like anticipation and fear—sawdust, manure, and sweat all mixing together under the harsh fluorescent lights. I clock four security guards I've never seen before, positioned strategically around the bullpen. New faces. New problems.

"Razor." Knox's voice is low, using my nickname—a warning. "Two o'clock."

I don't turn my head, just shift my gaze. There he is. Marcus Reid, the syndicate's little puppet, standing by the registration table with a clipboard and that same plastic smile that makes me want to rearrange his teeth.

"I see him," I mutter, keeping my pace steady. "Let him come to us."

Willow tenses beside me, her shoulders going rigid. I feel her hand brush against mine—not taking it, just making contact. A reminder that I'm not alone in this shitstorm we're walking into.

"He's got friends," she says quietly, her eyes flicking to the rafters where a man in a dark suit leans against the railing. "VIP section.”

I follow her gaze. Expensive suit, expressionless face, watching us like we're livestock at auction. Something cold slithers down my spine.

"That's him," I say, keeping my voice steady. "The one from Denver. And Tulsa."

The man who never rides, never talks to anyone, just watches from the shadows with those dead eyes. Always there when shit goes sideways. Always gone before questions get asked.

"You sure?" Knox asks.

"Positive."

We push through to the riders' area, where the atmosphere shifts from tension to something darker. Conversations die as we enter. Riders who used to greet us with back slaps and bullshit now find reasons to look away.

I clock the equipment table, where our gear waits. Standard procedure—gear gets inspected, tagged, left for riders to claim. We head to our tent, the rest of the crew waiting.

Willow gets right to work, checking over all our gear and looking for any spots on our arms.

I watch her fingers move with practiced precision, checking every strap, every buckle. There's something about the way she works that settles the rage boiling in my blood. Methodical. Focused. Like she's dismantling a bomb.

"You're staring, Razor," she says without looking up.

"Just making sure you don't miss anything."

The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "When have I ever?"

Never. That's the goddamn truth. From the moment Willow Hayes walked into my life with those knowing eyes and that don't-touch-me stance, she hasn't missed a thing. It's what kept her alive this long. What's keeping all of us alive now.

The announcer's voice booms through the arena, calling my name like I'm some kind of hero. "Next up, ladies and gentlemen, the man they call Razor—Rhett Calloway, riding Apocalypse!"

I roll my shoulders back, feeling every bruise from last week's ride throb in protest. The crowd noise fades to a dull roar as I focus on the task at hand. Eight seconds. That's all I need to give them. Eight seconds of perfection while the world burns around us.

"Hey." Willow's hand catches my wrist, her fingers cool against my skin. "Come back alive."

It's what she always says. Not "good luck" or some bullshit platitude. Come back alive. Like it's the only thing that matters. And maybe it is.

I nod once, letting my fingers brush against hers before I pull away. “Always do, darlin’.”

The chute gate swings open with a metallic screech, and Apocalypse explodes beneath me like a damn missile.

They named this bull right—1,800 pounds of pure destruction with horns that could gut a man faster than a prayer. His first buck nearly sends me sailing, a violent twist that wrenches my shoulder and makes my vision blur at the edges. I lock my thighs tighter, my hand cinched in the rope like it's my lifeline to this world.

Which it fucking is.

Apocalypse spins left—hard and fast—then reverses direction without warning. The whiplash effect slams my spine, but I readjust, finding that sweet spot where balance meets madness. The crowd roars somewhere beyond the blood rushing in my ears.

That's when I see him.

The stranger. Same dead eyes, same expensive suit. But this time, he's not just watching. He's smiling.

It's the kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes, the kind that makes my blood run cold even as Apocalypse does his damnedest to break my body in half. The stranger raises his glass in a mock toast, and something clicks in my brain. This isn't just business for him—it's entertainment.

We're all just fucking pawns.

I tear my eyes away, forcing my focus back to the beast beneath me. Six seconds in. Two to go. Apocalypse twists again, a corkscrew move that's thrown better riders than me. My vision narrows to pinpoints of light as the G-force threatens to black me out.

Not today. Not fucking today.

I counter his momentum, shifting my weight just enough to stay centered. The buzzer sounds like salvation, and I release my grip, launching away from those lethal horns. My landing is pure instinct—drop, roll, sprint for the barrier.

The crowd erupts, the announcer's voice cracking with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen, that's how it's done! Perfect form from Razor Calloway—a 91-point ride that'll be hard to beat today!"

I slam my palm against the barrier, adrenaline making every nerve ending scream. My breath comes in ragged pulls, sweat dripping from underneath my hat. The rest of the Savage Eight are there, slapping my back, their voices a jumble of congratulations that barely penetrate the ringing in my ears.

But I'm not looking at them. My eyes search the crowd until I find her—Willow, standing apart from the others, her face a mask except for those eyes. Relief. Pride. Fear. All swirling together in a look that locks onto that place inside my soul no one else has found.

I push through the crowd, ignoring the cameras and microphones shoved in my face. The syndicate's men are watching, cataloging my every move, but right now I don't give a shit. My body's one giant pulse of pain and adrenaline as I make my way to her.

"Nicely done, cowboy," she says when I reach her, voice steady but eyes scanning my body for injuries. "Though you cut it close on that spin."

"Had it under control." I roll my shoulder, wincing as fire shoots down my spine. "Mostly."

She shakes her head, that almost-smile appearing again. "Sure you did."

The arena's chaos swirls around us—riders preparing, bulls bellowing, the constant drone of the announcer hyping the crowd. It's always been this way.

But when Willow reaches up and softly kisses me, there’s a calm. Like we’re in our own world where nobody can touch us.

Willow pulls back, searching my face with that look that sees straight through my bullshit. "What's wrong?"

I glance around, clocking three security guards within earshot. "Not here."

She nods once, understanding immediately. That's the thing about Willow—I never have to explain. She follows my lead as we weave through the backstage chaos, past the medical station where some rookie's getting his shoulder taped, past the equipment room where sponsors fuss over their logos.

I find what I'm looking for—a maintenance door with a busted lock I noticed during the walkthrough. One quick check to make sure no one's watching, and we slip inside.

It's a storage closet, tight and dark, smelling of dust and cleaning chemicals. Not romantic, but private. Safe. I flip on my phone flashlight, casting harsh shadows across Willow's face.

"He was watching from the VIP box. Same guy, but in a suit this time. He smiled like…”

Willow nods her head. “Like he knows.”

I nod, running a hand over my face. My body still thrums with adrenaline from the ride, but it's a different kind of tension crawling up my spine now. "Yeah. Like he knows exactly who we are and what we're doing. Like he's ten steps ahead."

"Hey." Willow's hand finds my cheek, her touch feather-light against the stubble. The calluses on her palm catch against my skin, a familiar roughness that grounds me. "We knew this was coming. They were bound to notice eventually."

In the dim light of the phone, her eyes look almost silver, reflecting what little brightness there is. I've seen those eyes narrowed in anger, wide with fear, cold with calculation—but right now, they're soft. Just for me.

"I'm not backing down." I say, my voice low and steady despite the storm raging inside.

She laughs. “Hell, none of us are. So buck up, cowboy. You’re not alone in this.”

I pull her closer, my hands finding their place at the small of her back. This close, I can count the freckles scattered across her nose, see the tiny scar above her eyebrow from that incident in San Antonio last year. The mingled scents of leather and lavender that are uniquely Willow fill this tiny space, pushing out the chemical smell of the closet.

"You know what scares me most?" I whisper, my lips almost brushing hers. "It's not what they might do to me. It's what happens to the rest of you if this goes sideways."

Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, featherlight but steady. "That's because you're an idiot who thinks he needs to carry everything alone."

I can't help the laugh that rumbles out of me. "Damn, tell me how you really feel."

"I just did."

“Come on, you little wildfire. Let’s get back to our tent.”

I tug her toward the door, but she stops me with a hand on my chest. In the blue glow of my phone light, her expression shifts—that soft look hardening into something more cautious.

"Wait," she whispers. "Listen."

I freeze, straining to hear what caught her attention. At first, there's nothing but the muffled roar of the crowd and the distant announcer's voice. Then I catch it—urgent voices, the scuff of boots moving fast across concrete. Something's happening.

"We need to go," I say, already reaching for the door.

We slip back into the corridor just as Knox rounds the corner, his face set in hard lines. Behind him, two paramedics sprint past with a stretcher, their faces grim beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

"What the hell?" I grab Knox's arm as he tries to pass. "What's happening?"

Knox's face is a storm cloud, dark and ready to break. "It's Cooper. Colton Cooper."

The name hits me like a bull's horn to the gut. Cooper—one of the few riders outside our crew who'd been asking questions about the syndicate. Who'd pulled me aside in Denver last month to share what he'd found. Who has—had—a wife and twin baby girls back in Oklahoma.

"What happened?" Willow asks, her voice tight.

"They're saying his rigging snapped during warm-up. Bull caught him wrong, trampled him before anyone could get there." Knox's jaw works, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "But I checked that equipment myself last night. It was solid."

A chill slides down my spine, colder than ice water. "Where is he?"

"Loading him into the ambulance now. It's bad, Rhett. Like career ending bad.”

Willow lets out a breath. “Fuck.”

Jace appears with a nervous look on his face. “Where were you guys?”

“Needed a minute.”

He nods, looking between Willow and I. “Time to load up. South Dakota is a long ride.”

T he drive to Redemption feels endless, stretching through plains and badlands like we're driving straight into purgatory. I keep one hand on the wheel of my truck, the other resting on Willow's thigh as she stares out the window at the nothing that is South Dakota. The radio crackles with static between stations, but neither of us reaches to change it.

"Cooper's wife called," she says finally, breaking the silence that's been hanging between us for the last hundred miles. "Said he's in surgery. Spinal damage, shattered femur. Three broken ribs punctured his lung."

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. "He'll live?"

"Yeah." She turns to look at me, her face half-shadowed in the fading daylight. "But he won't ride again."

The message couldn't be clearer.

The Broken Crown looms ahead like some twisted fairytale castle, all sharp angles and steel beams catching the last rays of sunset. SAVAGE SHOWDOWN blazed across the entrance in neon that burns through the twilight. Redemption, South Dakota. Never was a town so poorly named.

We pull into the competitors' lot, a caravan of black trucks and trailers that draws every eye in the place. The Savage Eight, rolling in like the horsemen of the apocalypse. I catch Willow's small smile as she takes in the whispers, the pointing, the way other riders straighten their shoulders as we pass. Fear or respect—doesn't much matter which, as long as they stay the hell out of our way.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, cutting the engine.

"For the next forty-eight hours, anyway." Willow mumbles.

The equipment check has become a ritual of life and death. I watch as Knox and Willow methodically go through our gear, laid out across folding tables in our private tent.

"Razor," Knox's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Take a look at this."

I move closer, leaning over the table where he's holding my bull rope, fingers tracing along the braided surface. At first glance, nothing seems wrong—it's the same rope I've used for the past season, worn just right, familiar as my own heartbeat. But Knox's face tells me there's something I'm not seeing.

"Here." He points to a section near where my hand would grip. "And here."

I take it from him, running my fingers over the surface, feeling what I hadn't seen—nearly invisible nicks in the rope, evenly spaced, each one cutting just deep enough to weaken the structure without severing it completely. The kind of damage that wouldn't be visible during a standard inspection, but would cause the rope to snap under the strain of a ride.

"Son of a bitch," I breathe, feeling ice water replace the blood in my veins. "Check the others."

Willow's already moving, her hands a blur as she examines Jace's equipment. Her face goes pale, fingers finding the same pattern of subtle damage on his bull rope. "This one too."

One by one, we inspect every piece of gear belonging to the Savage Eight. Every single bull rope shows the same methodical sabotage—professional work, meant to cause "accidents" that would look legitimate to anyone not looking too closely.

"They're targeting all of us," Jace says, his normally stoic face darkening with rage. "Every single one."

"But they made a mistake," I say, holding up my sabotaged rope. "They wanted us to find these."

Willow's eyes narrow. "A warning."

"More like an invitation to the dance." I toss the rope back onto the table. "They want us rattled. Want us looking over our shoulders instead of focusing on our rides."

Knox shakes his head. "It's working."

"Bullshit." I look around at my crew, at the faces that have become more family than my own blood ever was. "We've come too far to back down now. They think they've got us running scared? Let's show these fuckers exactly who they're dealing with."

The silence that follows is heavy with everything unsaid—the fear, the rage, the knowledge that tonight isn't just about points or prize money. It's about showing the world the Savage Eight won't be broken.

Willow moves to stand beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. "We need new ropes."

"Already on it," Jace says, reaching for his phone. "Got a buddy who owes me a favor. He'll have them here in an hour."

I nod, feeling something like pride cutting through the anger. "Good. In the meantime, we stick together. No one goes anywhere alone."

The preparation moves forward with military precision—new equipment arrives, gets inspected twice, then a third time for good measure. We don't talk much, each of us locked in our own pre-ride rituals. I catch Willow watching me as I wrap my wrist, her eyes tracking every movement like she's memorizing them.

"What?" I ask, meeting her gaze.

She shakes her head, that ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "Just wondering if I should kiss you for luck or knee you in the balls for being a stubborn idiot."

I can't help the laugh that breaks free. "How about the kiss now, and you can save the kneeing for later if I do something stupid?"

"Deal."

Her lips brush mine, soft and quick, but it steadies something in me that's been rattling loose since Montana. When she pulls back, her eyes are serious again. "Be careful out there, Rhett. Sabotaged equipment isn't the only way they can hurt you."

"I know." I finish wrapping my wrist, flexing my hand to test the support. "Stay close to Knox. I don't want you alone while I'm in the chute."

The arena buzzes with electricity as my name echoes through the speakers. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the man they call Razor—Rhett Calloway, riding Red Dust Reckoning!"

The crowd erupts, but I barely hear them. My focus narrows to a pinpoint as I approach the chute where Red Dust Reckoning waits. He's a legend on the circuit—2,000 pounds of pure dusty red hatred with a success rate of less than 8%. Only three riders have ever gone the full eight seconds on him, and none in the past year.

I feel Willow's eyes on my back as I lower myself onto the massive bull. His muscles twitch beneath me, like contained lightning ready to strike. I adjust my position, feeling the new rope in my hand—unfamiliar but secure. Knox gives me a nod from outside the chute, his face stone-cold and focused. This is it. This is the moment that defines everything.

"Ready?" the gate man asks.

I nod once, wrapping the rope tight around my hand, feeling the leather dig into my palm. The familiar burn of it grounds me, reminds me I'm still alive. Still fighting.

The gate swings open with the sound of metal scraping against metal, and Red Dust Reckoning explodes out of the chute like he's been shot from a cannon.

The first buck nearly tears my arm from its socket. Pain lances through my shoulder as the bull twists violently beneath me, his massive body coiling and uncoiling with a fury that seems personal. The arena lights blur into streaks as he spins, the roar of the crowd distant beneath the thunder of my own heartbeat.

Three seconds in. Not even halfway.

Red Dust changes tactics, switching from spinning to a straight-line buck that sends my spine compressing like an accordion. My vision tunnels, black edges creeping in as the G-force threatens to shut my body down.

Five seconds. Just three more.

The bull's muscles bunch beneath me, telegraphing his next move a split second before he executes it—a corkscrew drop that sends my center of gravity shifting dangerously to the left. My grip starts to slip, sweat and blood making the rope slick under my glove.

This is it. This is how it ends.

Everything slows down, like someone's hit pause on the world. I can see individual faces in the crowd, mouths open in silent screams of excitement. Can see Knox at the rail, his knuckles white where he grips the metal. Can see Willow, her face a mask of controlled terror as she watches from the sidelines. The world snaps back into real-time, and I make my choice.

Instead of fighting the momentum, I lean into it.

My body tilts so far to the left that my hat flies off, revealing my face to the crowd. I'm practically horizontal now, nothing but one hand and sheer willpower keeping me from being trampled beneath two thousand pounds of fury. The crowd collectively gasps—a sound like the air being sucked out of the entire arena.

Seven seconds. Just one more.

Red Dust senses my vulnerability and capitalizes with a violent twist that should send me flying. My shoulder screams in protest as the socket stretches beyond what any human joint should endure. I'm going down. I know it. The bull knows it. The whole damn arena knows it.

But then something clicks inside me—that same wild, reckless thing that's kept me alive all these years. With a final surge of strength that feels like it's tearing muscles from bone, I wrench my body back upright, defying gravity, physics, and every goddamn odd stacked against me.

The buzzer sounds just as I lock my position.

Eight seconds. I made it.

I release my death grip on the rope and launch myself away from Red Dust, who's still bucking like the devil himself is on his back. My landing is pure chaos—legs buckling beneath me as I hit the dirt hard, rolling to avoid the hooves that could crush my skull like an egg. The bullfighters swarm in, distracting Red Dust while I scramble toward the fence on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

The crowd has lost their collective mind, a wall of sound so intense it vibrates through my bones. I make it to the fence and haul myself over, collapsing against the barrier as Knox and Jace rush to my side. The scoreboard flashes: 96 POINTS. A perfect ride.

"Holy shit, man!" Knox's voice barely cuts through the ringing in my ears. "That was—"

But I never hear what that was. The crowd's cheers are cut short by chaos erupting in the stands - a brawl breaks out, and I spot Marcus Reid slipping away in the confusion.

"There!" I point toward the exit, where Reid is making his escape. "Son of a bitch planned this!"

I push away from the fence, ignoring the fire ripping through my shoulder. The crowd surges around us, chaos spreading like wildfire as security rushes toward the brawl. Perfect cover.

"Rhett, wait!" Willow's hand catches my arm, her grip strong enough to stop me despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins. "You're bleeding."

I glance down. My shirt is torn at the shoulder, dark with blood where the bull's horn must have caught me. I hadn't even felt it.

"Doesn't matter," I growl, eyes still fixed on Reid's retreating form. "He's getting away."

"And that's exactly what they want." Her eyes lock with mine, steady as steel. "You chase him now, you're playing right into their hands. Bloodied and alone? That's how they want you."

The truth of her words cuts through the red haze of my anger. I exhale slowly, feeling the adrenaline shift from rage to something more controlled, more dangerous. Willow's hand moves to my face, her palm cool against my feverish skin.

"We do this together," she says, "or not at all."

The rest of the Savage Eight materializes around us, a living wall of protection and purpose. Knox's eyes track Reid's escape route while Jace scans the crowd for other threats. They're all here, all in this fight with me.

"You're right," I admit, the words coming easier than they used to. "We need to be smart about this."

The corner of Willow's mouth quirks up—that almost-smile that feels like victory every time I see it. "Let's regroup, then. The night is young."

We slip away from the chaos, finding our way back to our tent where the rest of the crew waits. By the time we arrive, my shoulder is throbbing like a son of a bitch, blood soaking through my shirt and running hot down my arm.

"Sit," Willow commands, already pulling out the first aid kit we've learned to keep stocked with more than just band-aids. "Shirt off."

I comply, wincing as the fabric peels away from the wound. The tent falls quiet as everyone gets their first good look at the damage—a four-inch gash curving along my shoulder, deep enough to need stitches but not life-threatening.

"Bastard got me good," I mutter, watching Willow's face as she cleans the wound with practiced efficiency. Her touch is gentle despite the hard set of her jaw, a contradiction that sums up everything about this woman who's somehow become my anchor in a storm I started.

"You'll live," she says, threading a sterile needle. "Though you might wish you wouldn't in a minute."

I grit my teeth as she starts the first stitch, the burn of it nothing compared to what Red Dust put me through. "Worth it. That ride was—"

"Pure insanity," Knox finishes, shaking his head. "Even for you, Razor."

"Got everyone's attention, though," Jace points out, his voice low. "Perfect distraction for whatever Reid was up to."

I lock eyes with him, understanding immediately. "The brawl wasn't random."

"Not a chance," Knox agrees. "Three guys started it, right after your score flashed across the screen. Planned for sure.”

Willow finishes up and steps back. “There, good as new. Now, let’s pack up and get the fuck on the road. I don’t wanna wait another second here.