Page 39

S ilverdust smells like smoke, sweat, and sin.

The Dust Bowl lives up to its name—wind slicing through the open-air arena, kicking up grit that sticks to your skin like a second damn brand. The crowd’s louder here, rowdier. They don’t come for clean rides. They come to see a man break.

The Eight Seconds to Sin ain’t just another stop. It’s the kind of event that chews you up and spits out whatever’s left—and tonight, all eyes are on us.

The Savage Eight.

Legends, outlaws, threats.

And they’re watching us like we don’t belong here anymore.

Jace clocks it first—he always does. His spine straightens in that subtle way that means trouble’s brewing. Viper’s knuckles are white where he grips the rail. Blaze is pacing. Levi’s eyes dart around like a pinball machine. Dagger is watching the cameras on his phone.

Ghost hasn’t said a word since we rolled in, and that silence? It ain’t comforting.

Whispers follow us through the chutes.

They don’t trust us.

Not after the last few weeks. Not after the wrecks, the fights, the silence we’ve kept. Riders nod like brothers to our faces and then sharpen their blades the moment we turn our backs.

Good.

Let them.

Let them watch, wonder, whisper. Let them think we’re falling apart.

Because they have no goddamn idea how dangerous a man gets when he's already lost too much.

And I?

I’m about to give them a show they won’t forget.

I'm already climbing the chute when I spot her.

Willow.

Standing near the east entrance, arms crossed like she's holding herself together. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she positioned herself—back to the wall, eyes scanning. Always watching. Always ready.

Her gaze locks with mine across the arena, and something electric passes between us. A current that makes my fingers twitch against the rope.

"Razor, you with us?" Jace's voice cuts through my distraction.

"Always am." I tear my eyes away from her, focusing on the two thousand pounds of fury beneath me. Black Thunder. A beast with a streak of wins that's made him a legend in the circuit.

He shifts, muscles bunching under my legs. I can feel his rage, his power. We understand each other, this bull and I. Both of us are trapped in a system designed to break us down. Both of us are just waiting for our chance to explode.

The gate man looks at me with question marks in his eyes. I give him a short nod, and the world narrows to this moment.

The chute flies open.

Black Thunder erupts beneath me, launching into the arena like he's been shot from a cannon. His first jump damn near separates my soul from my body, but I sink my thighs in, one hand high.

Eight seconds.

That's all I need.

He cuts left, a move that unseated better riders than me. I shift, counterbalancing, feeling every muscle strain against the force. My vision tunnels, the crowd becoming nothing but white noise.

Three seconds in, and he tries to throw me with a spin that would make a tornado jealous.

I stay centered.

Five seconds.

He bucks high, then drops like a stone, jarring my spine so hard my teeth clack together. The impact rattles through my bones, but I'm still moving with him, still in rhythm with this dangerous dance.

Seven seconds.

The crowd is a blur of noise and color, but somehow, I catch her eyes again. Willow's watching me with that intensity that makes my blood run hotter than it should when I'm fighting for my life.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer sounds like salvation and damnation all at once. I dismount with a flourish that's more instinct than showing off, landing on my feet as the bullfighters distract Black Thunder away from turning me into a memory.

The roar hits me like a physical force. My score flashes—89.5. Not my best, but damn good for this beast.

I'm barely through the gate when Viper slaps my shoulder. "Fucking A, Razor. Making it look easy."

But I ain't listening. My eyes are already scanning the crowd again, looking for her. When I spot Willow moving toward the exit, I know exactly where she's headed.

Same place we always end up when the world gets too loud.

"I need air," I tell the guys, not waiting for a response.

The service corridor behind the arena feels like another universe. The roar of the crowd muffles to a distant thunder, the harsh arena lights giving way to dimmer fluorescents that flicker like they're running on borrowed time.

She's waiting for me around the corner, leaning against the concrete wall. That careful distance in her eyes—the one that says she's calculating every exit, every risk. But there's something else there too. Something that burns just for me.

"Impressive ride," she says, voice casual like we're just old friends chatting over a beer.

I close the distance between us, crowding her against the wall. Not touching—not yet—but close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her skin.

“Mmm. Was it?”

Her eyes flash, that spark of fire I can't get enough of. "You were reckless out there."

"I stayed on."

"Barely. You were distracted."

I plant a hand on the wall beside her head, leaning in close enough to smell the vanilla on her skin. "Wonder why that is."

Her breath catches, just slightly. That little hitch that tells me everything I need to know.

"We shouldn't," she whispers, but her body's already leaning into mine, contradicting every word.

"Tell me to walk away then." My voice drops low, private. Just for her. "Tell me you don't want this."

The corridor feels too exposed suddenly, the distant sounds of the arena a reminder that we're surrounded by people who'd pay good money to catch us like this. Willow's eyes dart to the left—she's spotted something I haven't. A metal door with a maintenance sign, barely visible in the shadows.

She moves first, fingers hooking into my belt loop, tugging me after her as she pushes the door open. The storage room is cramped, dusty, filled with cleaning supplies and forgotten equipment. The single bulb overhead flickers as she pulls the chain, casting everything in harsh shadows across her face. Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat, and I'm drawn to it like a man possessed.

I kick the door shut behind us, the lock clicking with a finality that sends a shiver through her body. One that I feel beneath my palms as I finally, finally touch her.

"Someone could come looking," she whispers, even as her fingers are already working at my belt buckle.

"Let them." I back her against the storage shelves, metal rattling dangerously as her body connects with it. "I need you now."

Her laugh is breathless, almost desperate. "Reckless."

"Only for you."

My mouth finds hers in the half-light, and that first contact is like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. The kiss isn't gentle. It's not supposed to be. It's teeth and tongue and the taste of something I can't get enough of. Something that feels like danger and salvation all wrapped up in one.

Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, under my shirt, nails digging into my back hard enough to leave marks. Good. I want her brand on me. Want to carry the evidence of this moment into the arena tomorrow.

"Hurry," she breathes against my mouth, and it's not just urgency I hear. It's need. Raw and unfiltered, the kind that matches the fire burning through my veins.

I lift her against the shelves, metal groaning in protest as her legs wrap around my waist. There's no time for slow. No space for gentle. Not here, not now, not with the echo of the crowd still ringing in my ears and the knowledge that any minute someone could walk down that hallway.

The danger makes it better. Makes it real.

Her jeans come off with a desperation that would be embarrassing if she wasn't matching me move for move. When I finally push inside her, the sound she makes should be illegal in all fifty states.

"Fuck, Willow," I growl against her neck, feeling her clench around me like she's afraid I might disappear.

"Don't talk," she gasps, head falling back against the metal shelving. "Just move."

So I do. Hard and fast and exactly how we both need it. The shelves rattle with each thrust, bottles of cleaning fluid and dusty boxes threatening to rain down on us. I don't care. The world could burn around us right now and I wouldn't stop.

She's close already—I can feel it in the way her thighs tighten around my waist, the way her breath comes in those short, desperate pants. I know her body better than I know my own. Know exactly what she needs when she's like this—teetering on the edge, desperate for release but fighting it every step of the way.

"Let go," I whisper against her ear, voice rough with my own need. "I've got you."

She comes apart around me with a broken sound that's half-sob, half-curse. Her body shudders against mine, nails digging crescents into my shoulders that'll sting for days. The pain is perfect. Real. Grounding.

I follow her over the edge seconds later, burying my face in her neck to muffle the sound. For a moment, we stay locked together, breathing hard in the dusty silence of the storage room. Her heart pounds against my chest, our rhythms slowly syncing in the aftermath.

Reality creeps back in with the distant roar of the crowd—a reminder that the world is still going on around us.

I slowly pull out, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Fuck, baby.”

She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my collarbone. "Real romantic, Rhett."

I help her down, steadying her when her legs wobble. There's something about seeing her like this—flushed, disheveled, wearing the evidence of what we just did—that makes me want to lock the door and start all over again.

But the announcer's voice booms through the concrete walls. Quarter-finals are starting.

"We need to get back," she says, already pulling her jeans up her legs. I catch myself staring, memorizing the curve of her hip, the small birthmark on her lower back.

She catches me watching and something flickers in her eyes—a vulnerability she rarely shows. "What?"

"Nothing," I lie, helping her straighten her shirt. "Just thinking we should do that again sometime."

"You're insatiable." There's a smile in her voice even as she tries to sound exasperated.

I tug her close once more, pressing my lips to the spot just below her ear that makes her shiver. "Only with you."

The hallway is mercifully empty when we slip out. Willow goes first, checking both directions with that careful precision that reminds me she's always watching, always prepared. I follow a moment later, keeping a respectable distance as we navigate back toward the arena.

The heat of the night hits us as we step outside, the Texas air thick enough to chew. Floodlights cut harsh shadows across the dirt pathways between tents and trailers between the main arena and the competitor area. The night is alive with noise—music thumping from the beer garden, the announcer's voice booming over the speakers, laughter and shouting from fans celebrating or commiserating their bets.

We step back into our tent and Jace looks up with a grin. “Where did you two run off to?”

"Getting some air," I answer, keeping my voice casual as I grab a water bottle from the cooler. "Unlike you sweaty bastards, I need to stay fresh for the cameras."

Willow slips past me without a word, making her way to the far side of the tent where Blaze is watching footage of the earlier rides. Her composure is perfect—you'd never know she was coming apart in my arms five minutes ago. She's good at that. Compartmentalizing. Keeping her worlds separate.

Jace isn't buying it, though. His eyes flick between us, that knowing smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. "Air, huh? Must be some special kind of air."

"Shut it," I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.

Ghost materializes beside me. "Something's up," he says, voice so low we all have to gather around him to hear. "Rumor mill churning overtime."

I follow his gaze across the tent where two riders from the River Valley crew are huddled together, shooting glances our way between whispers. Not just them—I notice it now. The entire competitor area has that electric tension, like the air before a lightning strike.

"What now?" I grab my gloves, keeping my movements casual though my muscles tighten instinctively.

Ghost's face gives nothing away, but his eyes are hard. "They're saying Black Thunder was drugged."

"The fuck?" The water bottle crumples in my grip.

"Apparently, he's never scored below a 90 against top riders. Until tonight." Ghost's voice remains flat, but I catch the dangerous edge to it. "They're saying someone tampered with him to make the ride easier.”

"That's bullshit." I lower my voice, conscious of the eyes tracking our every move. "I rode that bull fair and square."

Willow steps closer, her face carefully neutral but her eyes blazing. "Who's spreading this?"

"Everyone," Ghost says. "And no one. That's the problem."

Jace's jaw tightens, the vein in his temple pulsing. "They're trying to get in our heads."

"Well, it's fucking working," I spit, the taste of victory souring in my mouth.

"Calm down," Willow murmurs, not touching me but close enough that I can feel her presence like a physical weight. "That's exactly what they want."

She's right, and I hate it. I scan the tent again, cataloging faces, looking for the source. The River Valley boys. The Solo crew from Oklahoma.

I'm already moving before I realize it, heading straight for the River Valley boys, but Willow appears in front of me, hand firm against my chest. Her touch is like a lightning rod, grounding the fury that's threatening to consume me.

"Not here," she says, voice low and steady. "Not now."

Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. She's right, and I hate it. Making a scene would just feed into whatever narrative they're spinning about us.

Jace nods, his leadership coming out. “Wills is right. We keep our heads low, ride our fucking best, and watch each other’s backs.”

I clench my jaw so tight I feel a tooth might crack. They're trying to take this from us—the one fucking thing we've built that's ours. I've lost enough already.

"River Valley's up next," Logan says, eyes locked on his phone screen. "Guess who drew Pretty Reckless?"

"McCoy," I answer without hesitation. Their star rider. The golden boy with the custom boots and the toothpaste commercial smile.

"Bingo." Logan's lips curl. "Now we watch."

We move as a unit toward the viewing area, positioning ourselves where we can see the chutes clearly. The crowd roars as McCoy's name is announced, the favorite son mounting up. He tips his hat, all showmanship and swagger.

Pretty Reckless is already in the chute, massive and menacing. I study the bull carefully, looking for any sign that he 's been tampered with. But the animal looks the same as always—mean as hell and ready to fight. McCoy settles in, wrapping his hand in the rope with practiced precision. His concentration is absolute, face set in that determined expression that's graced a dozen magazine covers.

The gate flies open, and Pretty Reckless explodes into the arena.

I know in the first three seconds that something's wrong.

The bull's movements are too predictable, his pattern lacking the signature power that's made him famous on the circuit. McCoy rides him like he's on a goddamn carousel, making the whole thing look effortless.

"Bullshit," I hiss under my breath.

Willow's eyes narrow beside me. "You see it too?"

I nod, rage building in my chest. "That bull's not right."

Eight seconds later, McCoy dismounts with a flourish, landing on his feet with a cocky grin. The crowd erupts. The scoreboard flashes—94.5.

"Fucking rigged," Viper snarls from behind me.

My hands grip the rail so tight my knuckles go white. The pieces click together in my mind—the whispers about Black Thunder, McCoy's perfect ride, the way the other crews have been watching us.

They're not just trying to get in our heads.

They're setting us up.

Willow's hand finds my arm, her grip tight enough to bruise. She doesn't need to speak; I can read the warning in her touch. Don't make a scene. Don't give them what they want.

But Jesus Christ, the rage bubbling up inside me is a living thing, clawing at my insides, demanding release.

Jace sighs. “Well, we have another enemy on our list.”

"And meanwhile, we stay clean," I say, voice tight. "We ride better, we ride smarter, and we don't give them a single fucking reason to doubt us."

The guys nod, tight-jawed determination replacing the rage. This is what makes the Savage Eight different. We channel that fury, use it like fuel. Let it burn hot and bright inside where it belongs.

T he Warpath Classic doesn’t whisper your name.

It howls.

Rattlesnake Hollow, Colorado. Elevation so high it steals your breath, and an arena so brutal it steals everything else.

Steel Brim Arena sits like a scar carved into the mountain—sharp-edged, unforgiving. The kind of place where bones break harder, bulls buck meaner, and the crowd feeds off blood.

Tonight, the atmosphere’s not just electric.

It’s volatile.

We roll in under storm clouds—literal and metaphorical. Tension’s been simmering on the tour, and now it’s starting to boil. There’s bad blood between teams, unspoken grudges, whispered rumors that we’re not just cursed…

We’re dangerous.

And they’re not entirely wrong.

We’ve taken the hardest rides. Survived the worst wrecks. Buried the ones who didn’t make it. And now every step we take across this dirt feels like a challenge.

Steel Brim doesn’t want respect.

It wants blood.

And I’ve got just enough left to give it.

The smell hits first—burnt rubber and oil.

Not the usual kind. This is chemical. Artificial. Wrong.

I’m in the back pens, making my final checks before my ride on a bull named Grave Dancer—the meanest thing on four hooves this side of hell—when I notice the marks. Faint, but fresh. Sliced rope, just deep enough to fray under tension. Someone’s fucking with the gear.

I crouch beside the chute and run my fingers over the cut.

Not accidental.

Not the weather.

Sabotage.

Again.

It’s not the first time we’ve noticed things out of place—gear swapped, gate pins loosened, bulls reacting wrong. But this is intentional.

Deliberate. Aimed to maim, not just spook.

And now I’ve got the proof.

Tucked under the chute lever is a cigarette butt with a black brand burned into the paper. A serpent swallowing its own tail.

The Syndicate.

Motherfuckers always branded their messages.

My chest tightens. I slip the evidence into my vest pocket, my pulse pounding as the rest of the picture clicks into place.

They’re here.

They’ve been here.

And they’re targeting us.

Not just me.

All of us.

I don’t have time to warn others. My name echoes across the arena as the announcer hypes up the crowd.

"And now, the ride you’ve all been waiting for—Rhett Razor Calloway, facing off against Grave Dancer!"

I jog toward the chute, every step heavier than the last. I can’t back out now—not without raising suspicion. Not without tipping them off.

Jace catches my eye from across the rail. One look tells him everything—he knows something’s wrong. He nods once.

We’re on the same page.

I climb over the rails, jaw clenched. Grave Dancer is a beast—horns sharp enough to pierce bone, eyes wild with something that looks damn near sentient.

I mount up. Wrap the rope. Feel every nerve in my body scream at me to pull out, to sound the alarm, to do anything except drop into hell for eight seconds.

But I don’t.

Because that’s not who the fuck I am.

The gate bursts open.

And chaos erupts.

Grave Dancer doesn’t buck—he lunges, spins like he’s trying to tear the dirt in half. My body snaps with the motion, muscles locking as I try to stay centered.

Three seconds in, the flank strap rips. Clean off.

That’s when I know…

They sabotaged the bull.

Without the strap, he shouldn’t be able to buck. But he does. Harder. Unnaturally. He wasn’t just trained. He was triggered—jacked up on something that’s making his system overload.

Four seconds. I’m hanging on by instinct.

Five. Blood in my mouth—I must’ve bitten my tongue.

Six. A hoof clips my shoulder, sends pain lancing through my entire chest. Vision dims.

Seven. Everything slows.

Eight. I hear the buzzer but it sounds miles away. I try to dismount.

Too late.

The ground comes up hard.

I land on my side and everything goes white—sound gone, taste of iron, heat blooming across my ribs like fire. A scream from the crowd. Shouts from the boys. The thunder of boots hitting the arena floor.

Then Willow’s voice, cutting through it all like a lifeline: "Rhett! Rhett, stay with me!"

I blink up at her, face swimming in and out of focus. Her hands press hard against my chest, voice low and panicked but controlled—always controlled. My girl never shakes. Not even when I’m bleeding all over her boots.

“You stupid, reckless asshole,” she whispers, her forehead resting briefly against mine. “Don’t you dare die.”

I choke out a half-smile. “Not today, darlin’.”

The EMT’s swarm around me like flies to fresh meat. Hands everywhere, voices overlapping. I try to focus on Willow's face but the world's gone fuzzy at the edges.

"Possible rib fracture, contusions to the left shoulder and torso," someone says.

I push up on my elbow, ignoring the screaming pain. "I'm fine."

Willow's hand presses me back down. "Like hell you are."

The crowd's a blur of noise and movement, but I catch the flash of cameras, the hungry eyes. They're eating this up—another Savage Eight rider down. More fuel for the fire. More proof we're cursed.

"Get him backstage," Jace orders, and suddenly I'm being lifted onto a stretcher.

I grab Willow's wrist before they can wheel me away. "The cigarette," I rasp, the words fighting to escape through the pain. "In my vest. Get it."

Her eyes flash with understanding, hand already slipping into my inside pocket. She palms the cigarette butt with practiced smoothness, tucking it into her own jacket without missing a beat.

"I've got it," she murmurs, eyes locked on mine. "Now shut up and let them help you."

The medics wheel me through the arena, the crowd's roar fading to a dull thunder as we push through the service corridors. Every bump sends lightning through my side. Breathing feels like swallowing glass.

The medical room is too bright, too sterile compared to the grit of the arena. I'm fighting to stay conscious, not because I'm about to pass out—though that's a distinct fucking possibility—but because I need to tell them what I found.

"Clear the room," Jace says the moment they've got me on the exam table, his voice brooking no argument. The EMTs exchange glances but clear out, leaving just the Savage Eight and Willow huddled around me.

Willow leans over me. "Three broken ribs," she announces, pressing careful fingers against my side. "Maybe four. And your shoulders dislocated."

"Fucking fantastic," I grit out. "Pop it back and tape me up."

"They're here." My voice drops low, eyes scanning for any recording devices. "The Syndicate. I found proof."

Willow pulls the cigarette butt from her pocket, holding it up so everyone can see the snake symbol burned into the paper.

"Found it under the chute," I explain, each word a battle against the pain in my chest. "They sabotaged the flank strap on Grave Dancer."

"Jesus Christ," Viper hisses, running a hand through his hair. "They could've killed you."

"That was the point," I say, wincing as Willow probes my shoulder. "They're escalating."

Jace takes the cigarette, examining it with narrowed eyes. "This matches the ones we found in Oklahoma last month. And at Silverback."

"They've been following us," Ghost says, his usual silence broken by the gravity of the situation. "Tracking our every move."

Willow's hands pause on my shoulder, her eyes meeting mine with that silent communication we've perfected. I nod once, bracing myself.

"On three…" she says, positioning herself. "Three.”

She doesn't wait for one or two. The pain explodes through my body as my shoulder snaps back into place, a white-hot burn that has me biting down on a scream. Sweat breaks across my forehead as I breathe through clenched teeth.

"Fuck," I pant, the room spinning for a moment before settling. "Thanks for the warning."

"You're welcome," she says, already reaching for the tape. "Now shut up and let me work."

While Willow wraps my ribs tight enough to make breathing an exercise in masochism, Jace paces the small room like a caged predator.

"We need to get ahead of this," he says, voice low and dangerous. "They've been three steps ahead the whole time."

Willow nods. “I’ll get in touch with Elise. Hand over all this info to her and we head to the next stop.”

Jace and her share a look and the rest of the crew takes a seat. We all know better than to get in the way of a Jace and Willow plan.

"We don't have a choice," I grunt, trying to sit up straighter despite the fire in my ribs. "Next stop is the Branded in Blood Invitational in Phantom Springs utah. Three days. They're expecting us to bail."

"Then we show up," Willow says, her fingers gentle despite the tension radiating off her. "We show up stronger."

"You're not riding," Jace states, not a question.

I open my mouth to argue, but Willow's hand presses down on my ribs—not hard, just enough to remind me of the damage. The pain that flares up makes my argument die in my throat.

"Four days minimum for broken ribs," she says. "And that's if you're not planning on getting stomped again."

"We need to play this smart," Viper adds, leaning against the door frame. "Let them think they've won this round."

Levi stands up. “Then let’s show them what the Savage Eight is all about.”