Page 37

The crowd roars like thunder as another fighter leaps over the back of a pissed-off bull, dust rising in a thick haze beneath the halogen lights of Ironhide Arena. It’s chaos out there—whiplash-fast and soaked in bloodlust. My boots crunch over the packed dirt as I sprint across the arena edge, med bag in hand, eyes locked on a fighter limping hard toward the chute gate.

Every medic’s on high alert—no teams, no boundaries. You see a rider go down? You shout, you run, and you don’t wait for orders. The moment one fighter’s dragged out, another’s already sprinting in.

It’s reckless. It’s wild. It’s pure adrenaline.

"Down!" I scream just as a horn clips the back of his vest, spinning him like a ragdoll.

He hits the ground hard. I’m already moving.

"Shit, shit, stay with me!" I drop to my knees, gloves on before my brain finishes processing the angle of his leg. Dislocated knee. Torn ligaments. Probably a cracked rib judging by the wheezing rattle in his chest.

The siren blares; the signal for med, but I’m already there, already stabilizing.

This is the Bullfighters’ Gauntlet, the most brutal side event on the Iron Horn Tour. It’s not about the ride. It’s about dancing with monsters and hoping you don’t get gored. Every medic hates this stop. Every fighter loves it.

And tonight, it feels like something’s about to snap.

The tension’s been rising all day—thick as smoke and twice as toxic. The Savage Eight are on edge. Jace keeps scanning the crowd like he’s waiting for a sniper. Blaze hasn’t said a word since we pulled into Whiskey Bend. Ghost is shadow-quiet, too quiet, and Razor—Rhett—he’s riding that line between feral and focused, and I can’t tell which side’s winning.

I catch sight of him now, leaning against the rails, black hat pulled low, jaw clenched tight as the next bullfighter vaults over the horns.

God, he looks like war.

I should check the vitals on my patient, should radio for the gator to haul him off, but I’m still staring at Rhett like my pulse has forgotten how to count. Because no matter how many wounds I stitch, no matter how much blood I wash off my hands...

He’s the one I can’t stop bleeding for.

The gator finally arrives, its yellow lights pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong. I hand off my patient with clipped instructions, then grab my bag and push to my feet. The crowd's collective gasp hits like a physical blow—another close call, another rider barely dodging death.

"Willow!" someone shouts over the cacophony. "We need wraps in the staging area!"

I nod, already moving, weaving through the crush of bodies behind the chutes. The backstage area of Ironhide is a labyrinth of narrow corridors, equipment crates, and temporary partitions. It reeks of fear, sweat, livestock, and antiseptic—the unholy trinity of rodeo medicine.

That's when I see him.

A figure lurking near the bull pens, half-hidden in shadow. Not a handler. Not security. He's wearing a tour jacket, but it doesn't fit right—too new, too clean. And those hands—they're not a cowboy's hands. No calluses, no rope burns, just pristine fingernails that catch the light as he reaches into his pocket.

I freeze, watching as he pulls something small out—a syringe. My heart slams against my ribs as he approaches one of the holding pens where the next bull waits, a monster named Armageddon that Rhett's scheduled to face in twenty minutes.

Not thinking, just moving, I slip between two equipment crates and edge closer, staying in the shadows. The man glances around once, twice, then reaches through the bars toward the bull's haunch.

"Hey!" I shout, bursting from my hiding spot. "What the hell are you doing?"

He spins, eyes wide with shock, then bolts.

I sprint after him, but the bastard's quick, darting through the maze of equipment and disappearing around a corner. I follow the sound of his footsteps, lungs burning, until I burst through an exit door into the loading area.

Empty. Fucking empty except for idling trucks and equipment.

But I saw what I saw.

I sprint back to the bullpens, heart hammering against my ribs. The syringe lies on the ground, crushed under someone's boot—deliberate, not accidental. I pull a sample bag from my med kit and carefully collect what's left, making sure to avoid the broken glass.

"Rhett!" I shout, pushing my way back toward the arena. "Rhett!"

I spot him by the chutes, checking his gear, that focused intensity radiating off him in waves that make the air feel electric. His head snaps up at my voice, his eyes locking with mine across the crowded space. I must look like pure panic because he's moving before I can even wave him over, cutting through the crowd like a knife.

"Someone just tried to dose Armageddon," I blurt out, showing him the crushed syringe in my evidence bag. "Tour jacket, clean hands, definitely not crew. He ran when I caught him."

Rhett's face goes cold, that dangerous stillness washing over him that makes my skin prickle. "Show me."

I lead him back to the bullpens, explaining in quick, clipped sentences what I saw. His face hardens with each word, jaw clenched so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding.

"Which bull?" he demands.

"Armageddon. Your draw."

"Fuck." The word drops like a stone between us. He pulls out his phone, sending a rapid-fire text to someone. Within seconds, his phone vibrates with responses.

"We need to pull him from the lineup," I say, my voice tight. "If there's even a chance—"

"Can't. Not without proof." His eyes are flint-hard when they meet mine. "If we cry wolf, they'll bench us for the rest of the season. The syndicate wins."

"And if that bull's been dosed with God-knows-what and kills you? They still win."

The muscle in his jaw ticks. "I'll tell the others. We watch each other's backs tonight."

I grab his arm, fingers digging into the solid muscle. "Rhett, for fuck's sake—"

"I ride." His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes something hot and electric spark in my veins. "I’ll be fine, Wills.”

I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I won’t cry. Not here.

Rhett gently takes my hand in his and pulls me toward our set up.

I let him lead me through the crowd, my mind racing faster than my heartbeat. We push through the back exit where our truck sits alone in the staff lot, away from prying eyes. The evening air hits my face, cooler than the overheated arena but still thick with summer heat and distant thunder.

Rhett opens the passenger door of his black F-350, the one with the custom Savage Eight decal across the back window, and helps me up like I'm made of something breakable. I'm not—we both know it—but his fingers linger on my elbow, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Five minutes," he says, climbing in beside me and shutting the door with a solid thunk that seals us away from the world outside. "Just five minutes of quiet before I have to go back in there."

The interior smells like him—leather and cedar and that faint hint of tobacco he won't admit to craving sometimes. The silence between us vibrates with everything unsaid, with the danger waiting just yards away, with the knowledge that no matter how many times we've been here—this precipice of fear and need—it never gets easier.

"Let me see your hand," I say, noticing the way he's been flexing his right fingers.

He offers it to me without argument, palm up, trust in the gesture that breaks me a little. I trace the lines there, the callouses, the small white scar across his knuckles from a fight in Tulsa two seasons ago. His pulse thrums beneath my touch, strong and steady when everything else feels like quicksand.

"I can't lose you," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can catch them. "Not to some syndicate bullshit, not to a drugged up bull, not to anything."

Rhett's fingers curl around mine, his grip tightening until our hands are locked together like the only lifeline in a storm. His eyes—those deep blue eyes that have seen too much violence and dealt plenty of their own—search my face like he's memorizing every detail.

"Come here," he says, his voice rough velvet in the darkness of the truck cab.

He pulls me across the center console, not giving a damn about the gearshift digging into my hip or the awkward angle of my legs. His hands frame my face, calloused thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.

"Look at me, Willow. Really look."

I do. Past the dangerous facade, past the reputation that follows him like a shadow. I look at the man beneath—the one who leaves his boots outside my door when he sneaks in after midnight, who holds my coffee mug in hands that could break bones but cradles it like something precious. The man who carries the weight of seven other lives on his shoulders and never complains.

"I'm coming back to you," he says, the words a promise branded into the air between us. "I always do."

Before I can respond, his mouth covers mine, and the world narrows to this—the heat of his lips, the scratch of stubble against my skin, the way his hand slides into my hair to cradle the back of my head. The kiss isn't gentle. It's desperate and claiming, tasting of fear and need and something deeper.

I kiss him back just as fiercely, my fingers digging into his shoulders, anchoring myself to him. My heart thunders against my ribs, and I can feel him doing the same, our pulses syncing like they've always belonged to the same chaotic rhythm. When we break apart, both breathless, his forehead rests against mine, our shared air hot and electric.

"I've never been afraid of dying," he whispers, words brushing against my lips. "Not until I found you. Now I've got something to lose."

My hands tremble as they frame his face, feeling the sharp edge of his jaw, the warmth of his skin. Outside, thunder rolls closer, echoing the storm building in my chest.

"I can't do this without you," I confess, voice cracking. "I've patched up every cowboy on this tour, but you're the one wound I can't close."

His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with something that looks like reverence. "I love you," he whispers, the words falling between us like a confession. Like a prayer. Like something he's been holding back for too long. "I fucking love you, Willow Hayes. Have since the day you told me to sit my ass down so you could stitch up my eyebrow in Denver all those years ago.”

“God, you are the biggest idiot. But fuck do I love you, Rhett. I never stopped.”

The words hang between us, honest and raw. His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me close again. The kiss this time is different—slower, deeper, like he's trying to make up for all the time we've wasted dancing around each other.

A sharp knock on the window shatters the moment, and we both jerk back like we've been caught doing something illegal. Jace stands outside, his face half-hidden by the shadows, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Razor! They moved your slot up. Armageddon's in the chute in five."

"Fuck," Rhett hisses, then presses one last hard kiss against my lips before pulling away. "I'm coming back to you," he repeats, like he's embedding the words into my skin.

I grab his wrist before he can open the door. "Wait. If they moved you up—"

"They're trying to catch me unprepared." His smile is all predator now, sharp and dangerous. "Too bad for them I was born ready."

We exit the truck, and the humid night air wraps around us like a wet blanket. Rhett doesn't let go of my hand as we stride back toward the arena, the thunder of the crowd growing louder with each step. Everything feels sharper somehow—the lights more blinding, the sounds more deafening, the danger more real.

Jace falls into step beside us, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. "Ghost caught someone messing with your rope. Swapped it out."

Rhett's hand tightens around mine. "The syndicate's making their move."

"They're getting desperate," I say, my medical mind racing through possibilities. "Whatever was in that syringe could make Armageddon unpredictable, more aggressive. You need to—"

"I need to ride," Rhett cuts me off, but his tone is gentle. "And you need to be ready with that medical bag of yours if things go sideways."

We reach the chutes, and the air around us feels supercharged with electricity—or maybe that's just the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The other Savage Eight members materialize like shadows, forming a protective circle around Rhett as he gears up. I hang back, med bag clutched to my chest like a shield, watching him transform into Razor—the legend, the champion, the man who dances with monsters for a living.

"Got eyes on our mystery man?" Rhett asks Ghost, who shakes his head once.

"Vanished. But we've got people at every exit."

Rhett pulls on his gloves, flexing his fingers with methodical precision. His movements are calm, practiced, but I can see the coiled tension in his shoulders. He's not just preparing to ride; he's preparing for war.

The announcer's voice booms overhead: "AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! EIGHT SECONDS OF PURE HELL ON HOOVES! GIVE IT UP FOR THE MAN THEY CALL RAZOR, RHETT CALLOWAY, TAKING ON THE BADDEST BULL ON THE CIRCUIT —ARMAGEDDON!"

The crowd erupts, the sound hitting me like a physical force. Rhett turns to me one last time, his eyes finding mine across the chaos.

"See you on the other side, Wills," he says, and then he's climbing the chute, swinging his leg over Armageddon's massive back.

The bull is already agitated, slamming against the metal sides of the chute, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling white with rage. Something's off. I've watched hundreds of bulls in these moments.

Jace sees it too. His face goes hard, and he steps forward, hand raised to signal the gatekeepers. "Hold! Don't open that gate!"

But it's too late. The chute flies open, and Armageddon explodes into the arena like a demon unleashed from hell.

Everything slows down. My breath catches in my lungs as Rhett's body snaps back, then forward with the first violent buck. Armageddon isn't just angry—he's wrong. His movements aren't the calculated fury of a champion bull. They're erratic, vicious, driven by something unnatural. The crowd doesn't notice, mistaking madness for spectacle, but I see it in the foam at his mouth, in the crazed roll of his eyes.

"Something's wrong with that bull," I whisper, but no one hears me over the roar.

Four seconds in and Rhett is still in perfect form, his body moving in sync with Armageddon's violent twists. The muscles in his thighs flex as he grips tighter, one hand raised high. He's not just riding—he's fucking dominating. Even with whatever drug is coursing through that bull's system, Rhett's controlling the chaos like he was born for it.

Five seconds.

Armageddon spins sharply, a move that would unseat most riders, but Rhett adjusts with fluid grace. The crowd is on their feet now, sensing they're witnessing something extraordinary.

Six seconds.

The bull slams into the side rail, a desperate move to dislodge his rider. My heart lodges in my throat, but Rhett's anticipating it, shifting his weight at the perfect moment.

Seven seconds.

Armageddon rears up, nearly vertical, pawing at the air with hooves like battering rams, and for a heartbeat I think this is it—the moment he falls. But Rhett shifts again, his body folding and extending with the violent motion.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer blares like salvation, but Rhett doesn't jump yet. He rides Armageddon for two more seconds, a deliberate "fuck you" to whoever tried to sabotage him, before he launches himself off the bull's back in a perfect dismount.

The crowd loses their collective mind, the roar so deafening it feels like the stadium might collapse. Rhett lands on his feet, a goddamn cat with nine lives, and immediately dances backward as Armageddon charges. The bullfighters rush in, distracting the raging animal while Rhett jogs toward the exit, one fist raised in victory.

His eyes meet mine and it’s like there isn’t another soul in this crowded arena.

He's moving toward me now, cutting through the safety crew and reporters like they're nothing but smoke. The arena lights catch in his sweat-slicked hair, turning ordinary brown to burnished gold. There's triumph in every step, but something else too—something wild and untamed that has nothing to do with the ride he just conquered.

I'm frozen in place, med bag still clutched in my hands, heart hammering so hard I can barely hear the crowd anymore. There's blood on his chin from where he bit his lip during the ride, a smear of dirt across his cheekbone, and his chest heaves with exertion beneath his protective vest. He's beautiful in the most dangerous way possible—like watching a storm roll in across the plains, knowing it could destroy everything and still being unable to look away.

"Rhett," I start to say, but his name dissolves on my tongue as he reaches me.

The world around us fades to white noise as he closes the distance, his boots kicking up dust that hangs suspended in the arena lights like gold flecks in amber. His eyes never leave mine—blue fire burning with something primal and possessive. There's no hesitation in his stride, no doubt in his expression. Just pure, undiluted intent.

"Willow," he breathes my name like a prayer when he reaches me, and then his hands are on my face, calloused palms framing my cheeks with a gentleness that contradicts the storm in his eyes.

"You did it," I whisper, the words hardly making it past the knot in my throat. "You crazy son of a—"

He cuts me off, crushing his mouth to mine with a ferocity that steals my breath. The med bag slips from my fingers, hitting the dirt with a dull thud as his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him with a strength that leaves no space between us. This isn't the careful, desperate kiss from the truck. This is claiming. This is a declaration. This is Rhett Calloway telling the whole damn world I'm his.