Page 38

The kiss deepens, and I'm drowning in the taste of him—salt and adrenaline and something uniquely Rhett. My hands find purchase on his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his jersey. I dimly register the collective gasp of the crowd, the sudden hush followed by whoops and hollers that echo through the arena.

Camera flashes explode around us like lightning strikes, white-hot and blinding. They catch us from every angle—his hand tangled in my hair, my body arched into his, our silhouettes merging into one against the backdrop of dust and stadium.

When we finally break apart, the world comes rushing back—sounds, lights, the electric current of hundreds of eyes on us. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, but Rhett just grins, unrepentant and wild, his arm still locked around my waist like he's afraid I might bolt.

"Let's get out of here," he says, his voice a rough whisper against my ear that sends shivers racing down my spine.

I nod, unable to form words past the thundering of my heart. He bends down to grab my med bag, slings it over his shoulder, and then takes my hand. His fingers lace through mine, and he leads me through the throng of people, ignoring the shouted questions from reporters and the whistles from other riders.

"Razor! Comments on that ride?"

"Calloway! Is this official? You and the medic?"

“How does Knox feel about you dating his sister?”

But we keep our heads down and get back to our set up.

The tent flutters in the evening breeze, its canvas sides glowing amber from the lanterns inside. We duck under the entrance flap, and I'm immediately enveloped by the familiar smell of liniment, coffee, and the peculiar mix of leather and antiseptic that follows the Savage Eight wherever they go. It's home, in the strangest way possible.

Rhett's hand remains anchored to mine, his thumb absently tracing circles against my wrist as we step inside. The rest of the guys are already there—Logan hunched over his phone in the corner, Ghost meticulously cleaning his gear, Kade and Levi playing a game of cards, Jace and Knox arguing over something on a tablet. They all look up when we enter, and there's this moment of electric silence before Logan lets out a wolf whistle that makes my cheeks burn.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Look who’s trending all over the damn internet.”

He spins his phone around, displaying a blurry shot of Rhett and me locked in that arena embrace, dust swirling around us like we're the eye of a storm. The image is already racking up thousands of likes, comments flooding in faster than raindrops in a thunderstorm.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, heat crawling up my neck. "That was like thirty seconds ago."

"Thirty seconds is an eternity in internet time, sis," Knox says, his voice deceptively calm as he sets down the tablet and fixes Rhett with a stare that could freeze hellfire. "Interesting way to announce you're fucking my sister, Calloway."

The tent goes silent. Even the canvas seems to hold its breath.

Rhett doesn't flinch. He meets Knox's gaze head-on, shoulders squared, chin lifted in that subtle challenge I've seen before.

“Y'all already knew. It was time the world did too. I’m not hiding Willow.”

Knox slowly smiles. “About damn time.”

Knox and Rhett exchange a look I've seen a thousand times—that silent communication between men who've shared too many battles to need words. Whatever passes between them settles something, because Knox gives a slight nod before turning back to his tablet.

"We've got bigger problems," Jace cuts in, spreading a map across the central table. "Security footage shows our mystery man leaving through the west exit. Blurry as hell, but he was on the phone."

Rhett's hand tightens around mine. "They know we're onto them."

"And they're escalating," I add, pulling the evidence bag with the crushed syringe from my pocket. "I need to get this analyzed. Whatever they were trying to dose Armageddon with—"

The tent flap whips open, cutting me off. A blast of cool night air rushes in, followed by Elise storming into our tent.

“That bull was drugged.”

Every head in the tent snaps toward Elise, who looks like she just ran a marathon. Her auburn hair coming loose from its tight bun, and there's something clutched in her gloved hand.

"Lab results just came back," she says, striding over to the table. "Armageddon's blood work showed traces of a synthetic amphetamine. Whoever did this wanted that bull to kill someone."

"Not someone," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Rhett. They targeted his draw specifically."

Elise nods grimly. "The dose wasn't enough to be fatal to the bull, but it was enough to make him erratic, unpredictable—"

"Lethal," Rhett finishes, his jaw clenched tight.

I pull out the crushed syringe from my bag, placing it on the table. “I saw a guy injecting this into the bull. Ran after him and he dropped this.”

Elise picks it up and eyes it. “You all better get ready for the Chaos Cup, because this is just the beginning.”

B lackthorn Stadium looms ahead of us like some concrete monster, its massive silhouette cutting against the Missouri sky as our caravan pulls into the reserved lot. The place is infamous on the circuit—newer than most venues but somehow more menacing, with its sharp angles and industrial facade. Razor Creek's pride and joy, they call it. The perfect setting for The Chaos Cup.

I've barely stepped out of the truck when the first drops of rain hit my face—fat, warm splashes that promise a storm. Perfect. Because what this day needs is biblical-level weather to match the shitstorm we're walking into.

"Looks like we beat the worst of it," Rhett says, coming around to my side and grabbing our bags from the truck bed. His eyes scan the darkening sky, calculating. Always calculating. "For now."

The parking lot already a maze of trailers, trucks, and equipment vans, the rodeo family setting up for what promises to be the most brutal event of the season. I spot the Savage Eight banner already flying from our designated tent area—black with silver lettering, the stylized "8" that's become our calling card rippling in the strengthening wind.

"We should get set up before this hits," I say, shouldering my medical duffel. It weighs a ton, packed with extra supplies after what happened at Ironhide. I'm not taking chances. Not anymore.

The first crash of thunder rolls overhead as we make our way through the maze of vehicles. Riders and crew nod at us as we pass—some with respect, others with barely disguised hostility. The viral photo of Rhett and me has drawn battle lines I wasn't prepared for. His hand finds the small of my back, a silent claim that makes my skin warm despite the cooling air. The air around us feels charged with more than just the approaching storm.

We're halfway to our setup when I hear it—a shout followed by the unmistakable sound of someone in distress. My head snaps toward the sound before my brain fully processes what I'm hearing.

"MEDIC! We need a medic NOW!"

My body shifts into autopilot. I'm already sprinting toward the voice before Rhett can grab me, med bag clutched against my chest like a lifeline. The rain picks up, fat droplets splattering against my face as I weave through equipment and people, following the increasingly frantic calls.

I round the corner of a trailer and skid to a halt. Two men are on the ground—one curled in on himself, clutching his throat, face turning an alarming shade of purple. The other is frantically trying to help him, panic written across his features.

"Move!" I shout, dropping to my knees beside them. My training kicks in, hands already working before I consciously catalog the symptoms. Swollen lips. Hives spreading across exposed skin. The desperate, wheezing struggle for air.

Anaphylaxis. Severe.

"EpiPen," I bark, ripping open my bag and digging through it with practiced efficiency. "How long has he been like this?"

"I don't know—two minutes? Three? We were just checking equipment and he suddenly—"

I tune him out, focus narrowing to the man struggling to breathe. Mid-thirties, bull rider judging by the calluses on his hands and the logo on his shirt. Jonny Walsh. I've patched him up before—dislocated shoulder in Tulsa last season.

"Jonny, I'm going to give you epinephrine," I say, my voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I pull out the auto-injector, uncap it with my teeth, and drive it hard into his outer thigh, holding it for a count of three. "This will help, but we need to get you to medical, now."

His friend is already on the radio, calling for emergency transport. I keep my fingers on Jonny's pulse—too fast, too thready—while monitoring his breathing. The epinephrine works fast, opening his airways, but his lips still have that bluish tinge that makes my stomach clench.

"What did he eat? Was he stung by something?" I ask, already prepping a second dose in case the first isn't enough.

"Nothing! We were just unloading equipment and—" His friend stops suddenly, eyes widening. "Wait. He drank from that togo cup of coffee.”

I snap my head up, eyes locking on the discarded cup lying in a puddle a few feet away. "Don't touch that," I order, turning back to Johnny.

His breathing's improving, but he's not out of danger. The rain is coming down harder now, soaking through my jeans as I kneel on the asphalt. Lightning flashes overhead, illuminating the growing crowd of concerned onlookers.

"Step back," Rhett's voice cuts through the murmurs, commanding and unyielding. I don't need to look up to know he's creating a perimeter, giving me space to work. "Let her do her job."

The emergency team arrives with a stretcher, and I brief them rapidly, hands never leaving Jonny as we transfer him. "Severe anaphylactic reaction, administered 0.3mg epinephrine four minutes ago.” I turn to his friend. “What is he allergic to? Does he have a med bracelet?”

"Peanuts," the friend replies, his face chalk-white. "Severe peanut allergy. He always checks his food."

My stomach drops as I glance at the coffee cup again. The medical team loads Jonny onto the stretcher, and I rise to my feet, rain streaming down my face. "Take that cup with you," I tell them, pointing. "Bag it for testing. This wasn't an accident."

As they wheel Jonny away, I turn to survey the scene. The crowd's dispersing now that the drama's over, returning to their setups before the storm hits full force. But something feels wrong. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I scan the faces around us, searching for... what? A smirk? A lingering gaze?

"You okay?" Rhett asks, his hand finding mine, anchoring me as lightning cracks overhead.

"No," I answer honestly, watching the medical team disappear into the main building. "That was deliberate, Rhett. Someone put peanut oil or something in his coffee."

Thunder rolls above us, the storm matching the darkness settling in my chest. I'm still scanning faces in the crowd, looking for someone watching too intently, someone who doesn't belong, but the rain is driving people toward shelter, faces blurring together in the downpour.

"Come on," Rhett says, guiding me toward our tent. "You're soaked."

We make it to the Savage Eight setup just as the sky truly opens up, rain hammering against the reinforced canvas like a thousand tiny fists. Inside, the team is already assembled, gear spread across tables, the portable heater fighting against the damp chill. They look up as we enter, conversation dying when they see my expression.

"What happened?”

I strip off my soaked jacket, tossing it over a chair as words spill from my mouth in a rushed torrent. I tell them about Johnny, the coffee cup, the deliberate nature of it all.

"But Jonny's not Savage Eight," I point out, accepting the towel Levi hands me. "He rides for Silver Spurs. What's the connection?"

Knox pulls up something on his tablet, fingers flying across the screen. "Jonny Walsh... ranked sixth overall... recently turned down an offer to join Western Stars Alliance."

"The syndicate's pet project," Rhett murmurs, pacing the length of the tent like a caged predator. The sound of rain pounding on the canvas roof drowns out everything but his voice. "They're sending a message. Refuse us, and we'll take you out."

A chill settles in my bones that has nothing to do with my rain-soaked clothes. I've been patching up these cowboys for years, seen every kind of injury the sport can dish out, but this—this calculated malice—makes my blood run cold.

"But why now?" Jace asks, his normally stoic expression creased with concern. "Why escalate to attempted murder?"

"Because we're getting close to something," I say, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "The syndicate's getting desperate."

Lightning flashes, illuminating the tent in stark white for a split second, casting our faces in sharp relief. In that flash, I see something pass across Rhett's features—recognition, maybe. Or revelation. His eyes lock with mine across the tent, and that silent communication we've perfected over years passes between us.

"Check your gear," he orders the team, his voice cutting through the rumble of thunder. "Every inch. If they're targeting riders, no one touches anything until it's been inspected."

The guys move immediately, no questions, no hesitation. This is why the Savage Eight works—complete trust in each other, in Rhett's leadership. I grab my backup med bag and start doing inventory, mentally preparing for what might be coming.

"Willow," Rhett's voice is closer now, pitched low for my ears only. "I need you to stay sharp. If they're targeting riders, the medical tent will be ground zero."

I nod, not trusting my voice. He's right. The syndicate knows the fastest way to control the circuit is through fear—and what better way to create chaos than by making everyone question whether they're safe even in the medical areas?

The tent flap whips open, letting in a gust of wind and rain along with Elise, who looks like she just swam here rather than walked. Her eyes are wild, hair plastered to her skull, but it's the tablet clutched in her white-knuckled grip that makes my stomach drop.

"You need to see this," she says, not bothering with greetings. "All of you."

She sets the tablet on the central table, and we crowd around as she pulls up what looks like security footage. The time stamp shows it's from less than an hour ago, near the main entrance to Blackthorn.

"This was Johnny's coffee," she says, pointing to a figure in a black rain jacket, face hidden by a cap pulled low. The figure approaches a row of to-go cups sitting on a table, casually picks up the one labeled with Jonny's name, and adds something from a small vial before replacing it.

"Son of a bitch," Knox breathes, leaning closer. "Can you enhance the face?"

Elise shakes her head. "Already tried. The angle's wrong, and they knew exactly where the cameras were."

"This wasn't random," I say, the pieces clicking together in my head. "They had to know which cup was his, and had to know about his allergy."

"Which means they have access to medical records," Rhett finishes, his voice deadly quiet.

The implication hangs heavy in the air between us, punctuated by another crash of thunder that seems to shake the very ground beneath our feet. If they can access medical information, no one is safe. Every vulnerability, every weakness, laid bare for exploitation.

"Marcus.” I shake my head. “He has access, nobody would ever second guess someone on the medical team.”

"That smug bastard." Ghost mutters, voicing what we're all thinking.

Elise taps the screen, pulling up another image—this one of Marcus talking to a man I don't recognize, heads bent close together in what looks like the service corridor behind the VIP boxes at Thunder Valley last month.

"This is Jackson Mercer," she says, her finger hovering over the second man. "CEO of Western Stars Alliance and rumored kingpin of the syndicate. Official record shows they've never met, but I've found them together at four different events in the past year."

My pulse quickens as everything slots into place. The syndicate's been operating under our noses the whole time, using medical staff as their eyes and ears.

"Motherfucker," Rhett growls, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"Jonny's stable," Elise continues, swiping to a text message. "But this wasn't the only incident today. Two riders from different teams collapsed during practice. One with severe stomach cramps, the other with dizziness and disorientation."

"Poisoned?" I ask, already mentally cataloging symptoms and treatments.

"Looks that way. Both had access to the same refreshment station."

The tent falls silent except for the relentless drumming of rain. I can almost hear the gears turning in everyone's heads, calculating risks, planning countermoves. This is what the Savage Eight does best—adapt and overcome. But even they look shaken by this new development.

"So, The Chaos Cup just turned literal," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat. "They're trying to create enough incidents that they can swoop in and take control of the circuit."

Rhett nods, his expression hardening into something dangerous. "And we're the only ones standing in their way."

Outside, the storm unleashes its full fury, wind howling against the canvas walls like some wounded beast. Inside our tent, we're scrambling—preparing for a different kind of storm. The guys check their gear with methodical precision, testing ropes, examining gloves, inspecting every buckle and strap for signs of tampering. I'm doing the same with my medical supplies, cataloging each vial, syringe, and bandage like they're precious gems.

My hands are steady even though my heart isn't. That's the thing about medicine—it gives you something to hold onto when everything else feels like quicksand.

"Willow." Rhett's voice cuts through my concentration. He's standing at the tent entrance, silhouette backlit by a flash of lightning that makes him look otherworldly for a heartbeat. "Need you for a minute."

I follow him outside where the overhang offers minimal shelter from the downpour. The rain slants sideways, misting my face despite the protection. Rhett's shoulders are hunched against the storm, tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. He leads me to a small alcove between trailers where we're partially shielded from both the elements and prying eyes.

"I need you to promise me something," he says, voice barely audible over the drumming rain.

Water beads on his eyelashes, drips from the brim of his hat. I've seen this man bloodied and broken, seen him triumphant and wild, but I've never seen him look quite like this—raw vulnerability mixed with fierce determination.

"Anything," I answer without hesitation, because it's true. For this man, I'd promise the moon and then figure out how to lasso the damn thing.

His hands are warm despite the chill in the air, steady despite the chaos swirling around us. Those hands have broken bones and built dreams, have held me through nightmares and traced my spine in the dark. Those hands know every inch of me.

"Stay close to me today," he says, rain dripping from his jaw as he speaks. "Whatever happens in that arena—whatever the syndicate tries—I need to know you're safe."

"I'm not hiding in some corner while the rest of you face this," I counter, my chin lifting in that stubborn tilt he both loves and hates. "I'm the medical lead. I need to be where the action is."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "I know. I'm not asking you to hide." His thumbs brush against my cheekbones, gentle despite the intensity burning in his eyes. "I'm asking you to remember that you're not just our medic—you're my heart, Willow. And if anything happened to you..." His voice breaks, the raw emotion stripping away the carefully maintained facade of Razor Calloway, leaving just Rhett—the man who's been loving me since Denver.

Rain streams down my face, mingling with tears I didn't realize I was shedding. "Nothing's going to happen to me," I promise, reaching up to cup his face. "Or you. Or any of us. We're going to expose the syndicate and end this."

Lightning flashes again, illuminating his face in stark relief—the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the determined set of his jaw, the fierce love burning in his eyes. In that electric moment, something shifts between us, cementing what began in that arena kiss. We're in this together, come hell or high water.