Page 4

T he music blares with a relentless intensity, its pulsating rhythm reverberating through the air. The crowd roars like a turbulent sea, their voices blending into a cacophony that fills the expansive space. Amidst this vibrant chaos, my heart pounds fiercely, each beat thundering in my chest as if trying to synchronize with the frenetic energy surrounding me.

Rhett has seamlessly gotten under my skin once again.

I watch as he sits off to the side, alone and silent. His eyes watch every move the bulls and riders make.

Damn him and that brooding intensity. It's like he's calculating every twitch, every shift of weight, studying the animals like they're puzzles he needs to solve. I shouldn't be watching him. I should be focused on literally anything else in this godforsaken arena.

But here I am, like a moth to a flame…

The announcer's voice booms over the speakers, momentarily drowning out my thoughts. "Next up, ladies and gentlemen, Cody Jenkins on Midnight Terror!"

I force my gaze away from Rhett, back to the chute where another rider prepares to tempt fate. My fingers grip the medical kit beside me a little tighter. It's become a nervous habit—always ready for the inevitable crashes, the broken bones, the concussions that come with this life.

Eight seconds. That's all they need to survive. Eight seconds that can feel like an eternity or disappear in a heartbeat.

Jenkins doesn't make it to three before he's launched skyward, his body crumpling against the dirt with a sickening thud that makes even the veterans wince. The clowns rush in, distracting the massive animal while Jenkins scrambles toward the fence, favoring his left leg.

I'm already on my feet before my brain catches up with my body. Instinct kicking in. Dust billows as I navigate the familiar path to the edge of the arena, a medical kit clutched in my white-knuckled grip. The crowd's noise fades to background static as I focus on Jenkins, assessing his movements from a distance.

"Looks like we've got a man down! Let's hear it for our brave bullfighters, folks!" The announcer's voice echoes overhead, somehow both concerned and enthusiastic.

Jenkins limps toward me, face contorted in pain but eyes bright with adrenaline. Classic. They all wear that same expression—like they've cheated death and can't decide whether to be terrified or thrilled about it.

"How bad?" I ask, already kneeling beside him as he collapses onto the bench.

"Just twisted my knee. Nothing to worry about, Hayes!”

I shoot him a look that silences any further protest. "Sure you are. That's why you're white as a sheet."

As I work, I feel it—that prickling sensation of being watched. I don't need to look up to know it's Rhett, his gaze burning into me from across the arena. The weight of his attention is as tangible as the medical tape between my fingers. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

"Knee's definitely swollen," I tell Jenkins, probing gently around the joint. "You're done for tonight."

"Aw, come on, Willow," he groans. "I've got one more ride."

"And I've got one more fuck to give, but I'm saving it." I secure an ice pack against his knee, wrapping it tight. "Want to walk tomorrow? Sit your ass down."

Jenkins mutters something under his breath but doesn't argue further. They never do, not really. Behind all that bravado, they know I'm the gatekeeper between them and career-ending injuries.

I pack up my supplies, still feeling Rhett's stare like a physical touch. When I finally glance up, he's no longer alone. Knox has materialized beside him, the two of them huddled in conversation. The sight of my brother next to Rhett sends an uncomfortable jolt through my system.

Knox catches my eye and gives me that barely-there nod, the one that says he sees me but doesn't want to acknowledge me publicly. The Savage eight's code of cool detachment extends even to family, apparently. I return the gesture with equal indifference, though the familiar ache of our complicated relationship throbs beneath my practiced composure.

Rhett says something that makes Knox laugh—a rare sight—and I hate the spark of curiosity it ignites in me. What could he possibly be saying? And why do I even care?

"Hayes!" The shout comes from behind me.

I turn to find Liam, the event coordinator, jogging toward me with that pinched look he gets when shit's about to hit the fan. Great. Just what I need.

"We've got a situation with Doomsday." He's already moving back toward the holding pens, expecting me to follow. "He's refusing to load, and he's got the new vet cornered."

I mutter a curse under my breath. Doomsday—two thousand pounds of pure hatred wrapped in black hide and bad attitude. The bull's reputation for violence is well-earned.

"Why call me?" I ask, though I'm already trailing after Liam, my boots kicking up dust.

"Because you're the only one he doesn't immediately try to murder." Liam throws the words over his shoulder. "And the vet's about to piss himself."

I shouldn't go.

I exhale sharply, knowing I'm about to do something stupid. Again. Story of my damn life.

"Fine," I mutter, falling into step behind Liam.

The back pens are a world away from the glitz and glory of the main arena. Here, the air hangs heavy with the thick scent of livestock and anxiety. The narrow corridors between holding areas feel like a maze designed by someone with a sick sense of humor and no regard for human safety.

As we round the corner, I spot him immediately. Doomsday. The massive black bull paws at the ground, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling white with fury. The poor vet—some fresh-faced kid who looks barely old enough to drink—is pressed against the far wall, clutching his medical case like a shield.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe. "Nobody thought to warn the new guy about Doomsday's temperament?"

Liam shrugs, keeping a safe distance. "Thought everyone knew."

"Everyone who's been around more than five minutes," I mutter, setting my kit down slowly.

The bull's massive head swings toward me, nostrils flaring. Those dark eyes lock onto mine with an intelligence that sends chills down my spine. People who think bulls are just dumb animals have never stared one down in a confined space.

"Hey, big guy," I say softly, my voice dropping to the low, even tone I reserve for the most dangerous situations. "Remember me?"

The bull snorts, a plume of hot breath visible in the cooler air of the back pens. Behind me, I can feel Liam and the terrified vet holding their breath. Smart move. Doomsday can smell fear like it's cheap cologne.

"Miss, please—" the vet starts to whisper.

I cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't talk. Don't move. He hates sudden movements almost as much as he hates men in general."

I take a cautious step forward, then another. Doomsday's ears twitch, his massive head lowering slightly. Not a charge—not yet—but a warning. The distance between us feels like it's measured in heartbeats rather than feet.

"That's it," I murmur, maintaining eye contact with the bull. "Nobody's here to hurt you, you temperamental bastard."

A low rumble vibrates from Doomsday's chest. Behind me, I hear the vet's panicked breathing quicken.

"Miss Hayes, I really don't think—"

"No, you don’t," I snap without turning. "Your not thinking is what got us into this mess."

I edge closer, palms out, movements deliberately slow. Two thousand pounds of muscle and rage watches me with those obsidian eyes. We've done this dance before, Doomsday and me.

The massive bull huffs, his breath hot and damp against my skin as I inch closer. My heart slams against my ribs, but I keep my breathing steady, my face calm. Animals can smell bullshit faster than riders can hit dirt.

"Easy," I murmur, voice low and even. "Remember our deal? You don't kill me, I don't let them put you down."

Doomsday's right ear flicks—the slightest tell that he's listening. I've spent enough time around these beasts to know their language, the subtle shifts that signal their next move. Right now, he's deciding if I'm worth the effort of goring.

"That's it," I breathe, now close enough that one swing of his massive head could send me flying. "Nobody's sticking you with anything today."

A shadow falls across the pen entrance, and Doomsday immediately tenses, his massive shoulders bunching. I don't need to turn around to know who it is—the bull's reaction tells me everything.

"Back the fuck up, Calloway," I hiss through clenched teeth, never taking my eyes off Doomsday. "This situation's volatile enough without your testosterone making it worse."

"Just enjoying the show, Hayes." Rhett's drawl carries that infuriating hint of amusement. "Didn't realize animal whispering was part of your skill set."

Doomsday paws the ground, his hoof scraping against concrete with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. I can practically feel the tremor of the vet's fear behind me.

"Not now," I growl, raising my hand slightly in Doomsday's direction without breaking eye contact. "I need your ego gone in the next three seconds, or we're all going to be wearing our insides on the outside."

I hear him shift his weight against the metal gate, the soft creak betraying his movement. "You got this, Willow?" His voice drops, suddenly serious, the playfulness evaporating.

"I've got it," I confirm, steady and sure despite the thundering in my chest. "Just clear everyone out."

There's a moment's hesitation, then I hear Rhett's low voice commanding the others to back away. For once, I'm grateful for his authority—Liam and the vet retreat without question, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

But Rhett stays. Of course he fucking stays.

Doomsday's breathing has steadied somewhat, his massive head tilting slightly as he watches me. I reach into my back pocket slowly, fingers closing around the apple I'd stashed there earlier. It's my secret weapon with these animals—not standard practice, probably breaking a dozen rules, but effective. Doomsday's nostrils flare at the scent.

"That's right," I murmur, producing the fruit with deliberate care. "Same deal as always."

The bull's massive head dips slightly, his attention now fixed on the offering rather than goring me. Progress.

"You're bribing a two-thousand-pound killing machine with a snack?" Rhett's voice is lower now, barely audible.

"Shut up," I breathe, not sparing him a glance. "Everyone's got a price. His happens to be Granny Smiths."

I take another step, palm flat with the apple centered. Doomsday watches, calculating. I take another careful step, then another, until I can almost feel the heat radiating off Doomsday's hide. My fingers tremble slightly as I raise my hand, palm out.

"That's it," I murmur. "Nobody's your enemy here."

The bull snorts once, then lowers his massive head just enough that my fingertips brush against his rough forehead. Contact. The first victory.

"Good boy," I breathe, hardly daring to move. "See? We remember each other."

Behind me, I hear Rhett's low whistle of appreciation. "Damn, Hayes."

"Shut up," I hiss, but without the venom from before. I need to stay calm, and surprisingly, Rhett's presence isn't making that impossible. "There's a lead rope hanging on the post to your left. Slide it to me. Slowly."

I sense Rhett's hesitation, but then hear the soft slide of rope against wood. The coil appears in my peripheral vision, landing with a gentle thud just within reach. I don't acknowledge it, keeping my focus entirely on Doomsday.

The bull's dark eyes track my every movement as I offer the apple on my flattened palm. His massive head lowers further, hot breath gusting against my skin before rough lips delicately pluck the fruit from my hand. The careful gentleness from such a powerful creature never fails to amaze me.

While he's distracted with his treat, I slowly reach for the rope, my movements fluid and unhurried. One wrong move and I'll be painting these walls red.

"That's right," I murmur, voice pitched low. "Just you and me, big guy. Same as always."

I loop the lead around his massive neck with practiced ease, my fingers working the knot even as Doomsday finishes the last chunk of apple. He gives a huff, nostrils flaring, but doesn't pull away. Small victories.

"Now we're going to walk nice and easy," I murmur, giving the gentlest tug on the lead. "No drama today."

Doomsday shifts his weight, two thousand pounds of barely contained power adjusting to my request. For a moment, we're suspended in that fragile space between cooperation and catastrophe. Then, miracle of miracles, he takes a step. Then another.

"That's it," I breathe, guiding him toward the loading chute. "Nice and easy."

"I'll be damned," Rhett's voice comes from behind me, quiet enough not to spook the bull but filled with genuine amazement.

I don't respond, focusing entirely on the delicate dance of leading Doomsday forward. One misstep could turn this tentative truce into a bloodbath. The bull follows, surprisingly docile now, his massive hooves clicking against concrete as we make our way toward the loading chute.

"Open the gate," I say quietly to Rhett, still not looking back. "Slow and steady."

There's the creak of metal as he complies, and I lead Doomsday through, feeling the tension in the rope as the bull hesitates at the threshold. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he might balk, but then he huffs and continues forward, following me into the chute.

When the gate closes behind us with a solid clang, I exhale slowly, only now realizing I've been holding my breath. I secure the lead rope properly and step back.

Only when I've got Doomsday safely in the transport chute do I allow myself to exhale, my shoulders dropping as the adrenaline begins to ebb. The massive bull snorts once more, as if to remind me he's only cooperating because he chooses to.

"There," I murmur, giving his flank a gentle pat. "Was that so hard, you big baby?"

I turn to find Rhett leaning against the gate, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher. It's not his usual cocky smirk or heated stare. There's something else there—something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"What?" I snap, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing." He shakes his head slightly. "Just never seen anyone handle a bull like that before. Not even the handlers."

"Just doing my job."

"Bullshit." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the leather and cedar wood scent that clings to him. "That's not anyone's job. That was..." He pauses, searching for words. "That was like watching someone dance with a tornado and somehow lead."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the naked admiration in his voice. "He's not as bad as everyone makes him out to be. Just misunderstood."

"Like someone else I know," Rhett murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.

The air between us shifts, charged with something dangerous that has nothing to do with the bull watching us from the chute. I take a step back, needing distance from whatever this is.

"Don't," I warn, my voice sharper than I intend. "Don't try to make this into some moment."

Rhett's lips curve into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm not trying to make it anything, Hayes. Just calling it like I see it."

"Well, see it differently." I brush past him, deliberately avoiding contact even as every nerve ending in my body seems to vibrate with awareness of his proximity. "I've got to go. Good luck out there, Calloway.”

I hover by the railings as the next rider readies himself, my mind still back in that pen with Doomsday and Rhett. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory of Rhett's eyes on me—that look of genuine respect that somehow cuts deeper than his flirtation ever could.

The announcer's voice booms overhead: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for one of the Savage Eight, Rhett 'Razor' Calloway, taking on Widowmaker!"

My stomach drops. Widowmaker. The name alone sends a chill down my spine. Three riders hospitalized last season. One career ended. Ethan’s life gone.

And now Rhett's going to climb on his back like it's just another day at the office.

I shouldn't care. I tell myself I don't.

The crowd roars as Rhett appears, all swagger and confidence, one hand raised to acknowledge his fans. He's transformed from the man who watched me with quiet intensity in the back pens. This is Razor now—the showman, the daredevil, the man half the women in this arena fantasize about and the other half pretend not to.

I grip the railing tighter, my knuckles turning white. Widowmaker shifts restlessly in the chute, already agitated. Even from here, I can see the massive muscles rippling beneath his hide, coiled like springs waiting to explode.

My chest tightens as I watch him adjust his protective vest, his movements practiced and precise. He tips his hat to the cheering fans, playing the part of rodeo royalty to perfection.

But I see what others don't. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw tightens when he thinks no one's looking. Widowmaker isn't just another bull—he's a legend for all the wrong reasons.

"That magnificent beast stands unridden for thirty-seven straight outings!" the announcer bellows, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. "Will Razor be the man to conquer the unconquerable?"

Rhett settles himself on the bull's back, wrapping the rope around his hand with practiced precision. His face shows nothing but focus now, all traces of that teasing smile gone. He nods once, and the gate swings open.

What follows is both beautiful and terrifying.

Widowmaker explodes from the chute like he's been shot from a cannon, his massive body twisting mid-air in a corkscrew that would unseat most riders before they could blink. But Rhett—damn him—moves like he's part of the bull, his body anticipating each violent buck and spin.

One second.

Widowmaker slams his front hooves into the dirt, using the impact to launch his back end skyward. The force would snap a normal man's spine.

Two seconds.

Rhett's free arm sweeps up, his balance adjusting with a fluid grace that shouldn't be possible on the back of two thousand pounds of pure hatred.

Three seconds.

The bull changes tactics, spinning tight to the left before reversing direction without warning. I see Rhett's body jerk with the impact, his jaw clenching as he fights to stay centered.

Four seconds.

Widowmaker drops his head and kicks out his back legs in a move that's unseated champions. Rhett shifts his weight forward, compensating with an instinct that can't be taught.

Five seconds.

The crowd's roar is deafening now, sensing they might witness history. Widowmaker seems to feel it too, his fury intensifying as he realizes his rider isn't coming off easily.

Six seconds.

A violent twist sends Rhett dangerously off-center. My breath catches as I see him teeter on the edge of disaster. Somehow—impossibly—he recovers, his body snapping back into position through sheer will.

Seven seconds.

Widowmaker unleashes his signature move—a brutal combination of spin, buck, and drop that's ended careers. Rhett's face contorts with the effort to stay mounted, every muscle in his body.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer sounds just as Widowmaker launches into a final, desperate buck that sends Rhett flying. For one suspended moment, he's airborne, his body silhouetted against the arena lights. Then gravity reclaims him, and he hits the ground with a sickening thud that cuts through even the crowd's roar.

I'm moving before I realize it, vaulting over the barrier despite knowing better. The bullfighters rush in, distracting Widowmaker while Rhett rolls to his feet with a stagger that tells me something's wrong.

"Eight seconds, ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice is frantic with excitement. "Rhett 'Razor' Calloway has done the impossible! The first rider to conquer Widowmaker!"

The crowd erupts, but I'm focused only on Rhett's uneven gait as he makes his way toward the fence. His right arm is tucked close to his body, and there's a grimace cutting through his victory smile that most wouldn't notice. But I do. I always do.

I intercept him before he reaches the exit gate, medical kit already in hand.

"Move," I command, positioning myself directly in his path.

Rhett's eyes meet mine, adrenaline making them impossibly bright. "Come to congratulate me, Hayes?" His voice is strained beneath the bravado.

"Shut up and let me see your shoulder."

"It's nothing."

"It's dislocated, you idiot." I can tell from the way he's holding it, the unnatural angle. "Medical room. Now."

The crowd continues to chant his name, oblivious to the fact that their hero is one wrong move away from screaming in pain. Rhett's jaw tightens, that stubborn pride of his fighting against the obvious agony.

"Awful concerned about me, Hayes," he drawls, but follows when I turn toward the medical room. "People might start to think you care."

"People might start to think your brain's as damaged as your shoulder if you don't shut up and walk," I snap, pushing through the crowd that's formed around him. Fans reach out, trying to touch the man who conquered Widowmaker, but I clear a path with elbows and glares.

"I need to acknowledge the crowd," he grits out. "Part of the job."

"Your shoulder is halfway to your spine," I hiss, stepping closer so no one else can hear. "You can wave with your good arm after I pop it back in."

Something flickers in his eyes—respect, maybe, or just resignation. He gives a barely perceptible nod.

"Two minutes," he says. "Let me take my score."

I want to argue, but I know how this works. The show must go on, even if you're bleeding internally. Especially then, actually—the crowd loves nothing more than a wounded warrior.

"Fine," I concede through gritted teeth, "but then straight to medical."

He tilts his head toward me, our faces close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

The announcer's voice booms overhead. "Let's see those scores for Razor Calloway on Widowmaker!"

The numbers flash on the big screen—93 points. Near perfect. The arena erupts again, a tidal wave of sound washing over us. Rhett raises his left arm in acknowledgment, his face a masterpiece of controlled pain beneath the victory smile. Only someone looking closely would notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tightness around his eyes.

I do. I notice everything about him. It's my curse.

"Time's up," I mutter as soon as the cameras turn away. "Let's go."

This time he doesn't argue. I guide Rhett through the chaos of the backstage area, one hand hovering near his good elbow without actually touching him. The last thing his ego needs is me playing nurse in front of the entire Savage 8 crew.

"You're lucky it's just dislocated," I mutter as we push through the swinging doors into the medical room. "The way Widowmaker threw you, it could've been your neck."

"Always looking on the bright side, aren't you, Hayes?" He winces as he lowers himself onto the examination table, sweat beading on his forehead. "It's what I love about you."

"Shut up." I snap on a pair of latex gloves, the snap echoing in the quiet room. "And take off your vest."

The ghost of his usual smirk appears. "Thought you'd never ask."

"I swear to god I will leave you here with your arm dangling if you don't stop with the innuendos." I keep my voice flat, professional, as I help him remove his protective vest.

The process is slow and painful. Each movement draws a sharp intake of breath from Rhett, though he tries to hide it. Beneath the vest, his shirt clings to his torso, dark with sweat. The shoulder is visibly distorted, the joint pushing against skin in a way that makes my stomach clench.

"This is going to hurt," I warn, positioning myself beside him.

"Your bedside manner is remarkable," he says through gritted teeth. "Ever consider a career change to grief counseling?"

I ignore him, focusing on the task. "On three. One—"

I wrench his shoulder back into place before reaching "two." The sudden movement catches him off guard—exactly as intended.

Rhett lets out a strangled curse, his body going rigid under my hands. For one unguarded moment, raw pain flashes across his face before he locks it down behind clenched teeth. His free hand shoots out, fingers digging into my waist like he needs an anchor in a storm.

"What happened to three?" he gasps, breath coming in short bursts.

"You would've tensed up." I don't apologize, keeping my hands steady on his shoulder, feeling the joint settle back where it belongs. "Makes it worse."

His fingers are still pressed against my hip, burning through the thin fabric of my shirt. I should step away. I don't.

"Fuck," he breathes, the tension gradually easing from his body as the worst of the pain subsides, but Rhett's hand remains at my waist, his fingers relaxing slightly but not letting go.

His touch burns through my shirt, sending unwelcome heat spiraling through me.

"You can let go now," I say, my voice coming out huskier than intended.

His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilated from pain and something else that makes my stomach flip. "Can I?"

The double meaning hangs between us, heavy as the dust in the air. I step back deliberately, breaking the contact and busying myself with grabbing an ice pack from the small freezer.

"You'll need to ice it," I say, all business now. "Twenty minutes on, twenty off. And no riding for at least a week."

Rhett barks out a laugh that ends in a wince. "Sweetheart, I've got three more events this weekend."

"Then you'll ride one-handed," I snap, wrapping the ice pack in a thin towel before placing it against his shoulder. "Because if you try to use this arm in the next seventy-two hours, you'll tear your rotator cuff. Then you can kiss your precious career goodbye."

His jaw tightens, that stubborn pride warring with the reality of his injury. I've seen it a thousand times—these men would rather destroy themselves than admit weakness.

"Hold this in place," I instruct, guiding his good hand to the ice pack.

"Concerned about my well-being, Hayes?" His voice softens, the teasing edge giving way to something more genuine. "That's almost sweet."

"I'm concerned about not having to scrape what's left of you off the arena floor when Widowmaker finishes the job next time." I secure the ice pack with an elastic bandage, my fingers working quickly to avoid prolonged contact with his skin. "Professional courtesy."

Rhett catches my wrist as I'm pulling away, his grip gentle but firm. The unexpected contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with medical concern.

"Professional courtesy," he repeats, his thumb brushing lightly over my pulse point. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

I yank my hand away, ignoring the electric current that races up my arm. "We're not calling it anything because there is no 'it.' There's me doing my job, and you being an insufferable pain in my ass."

His laugh is low and warm, wrapping around me like smoke. "You sure about that, Willow?"

My name on his lips hits differently than 'Hayes'—more intimate, somehow. More dangerous.

"Positive." I turn away, snapping off my gloves and tossing them in the trash with more force than necessary. "Take ibuprofen for the swelling. I'll find Knox to help you back to your trailer."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Could've fooled me." I busy myself organizing supplies, anything to avoid looking at him directly. The intensity in his gaze is too much—like staring into the sun. You know it'll burn, but something in you wants to do it anyway.

"Your brother's busy with his own ride prep," Rhett says, his voice closer than I expected.

I turn to find him standing, the ice pack still held against his shoulder. He sways slightly, and I step forward instinctively, my hands coming up to steady him before I can stop myself.

"Sit down before you fall down," I order, but there's less bite in my voice than before.

"Make me." The challenge in his eyes is unmistakable, that infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

We're too close again, close enough that I can see the faint scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, close enough that I can smell the leather and sweat and something distinctly him that makes my pulse quicken against my better judgment.

"You're impossible," I mutter, but my hands remain on his good arm, steadying him.

"Part of my charm." His voice drops lower, a rumble that I feel more than hear.

The door to the medical room swings open with a bang, shattering the moment. We jump apart like guilty teenagers as Knox strides in, his calculating gaze taking in the scene in an instant.

"Interrupting something?" My brother's voice is cool, but there's an edge to it that raises my hackles.

"Your timing's perfect," I say quickly, stepping further away from Rhett. "Your friend needs a handler. Dislocated shoulder."

Knox's eyes narrow, flicking between us with that unsettling perception he's always had. "Heard you conquered Widowmaker," he says to Rhett, ignoring me completely. "Ghost wants to talk strategy for tomorrow."

"There won't be a tomorrow if he doesn't rest that shoulder," I interject.

Knox finally acknowledges me with a dismissive glance. "He's ridden through worse."

"And that's why half your crew has the joint mobility of eighty-year-olds by thirty-five," I snap, frustration bubbling over. "But sure, go ahead. Destroy your bodies for eight seconds of glory. What do I know? I'm just the one who puts you back together."

"This isn't about glory," Rhett says, his voice suddenly hard. "It's about survival."

The words hang in the air between us, weighted with meaning I can't fully grasp. Knox shifts uncomfortably, something passing between the two men that excludes me entirely.

"Ethan would've been proud of that ride," Knox says quietly.

The name hits like a physical blow. Ethan Moore. Rhett's best friend. The one person who could always talk sense into him when the recklessness threatened to consume him completely. The rider who didn't get up after his last fall on the very bull Rhett just conquered.

The medical room suddenly feels too small, too airless. I see Rhett's face drain of color, and it has nothing to do with his shoulder.

"Don't," he says, his voice barely audible.

I stand frozen, caught in the crossfire of grief so raw it has its own gravitational pull. Ethan's name hangs in the air like a ghost, summoned by my brother's careless words.

My chest tightens, memories flooding back unbidden. Ethan Moore. The quiet one among the Savage Eight. The peacemaker. The one who'd slip me a coffee after long nights patching up riders, who'd defend me when the others got too rowdy. The only one who ever saw through my carefully constructed walls.

"Don't bring him into this," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Knox's eyes snap to mine, surprise flashing across his face. He hadn't expected me to react. Why would he? I've spent years perfecting the art of not caring, of keeping my grief locked away where no one could see it.

But Ethan was the only one who ever got close enough to understand. The one with the easy smile and steady presence—the brother I always wanted Knox to be. I used to think he was reckless, all of them were, but now I know better. He was the heart of this crew, and they all felt it when he stopped beating.

Something sharp twists in my chest at the thought. I can't hold Rhett's gaze. Not when I know what losing Ethan did to him.

"I'll help him back," Knox says after a long, tense moment, his voice unnaturally quiet. He steps forward, reaching for Rhett with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Come on, man. Ghost is waiting."

Rhett doesn't move immediately, his eyes still locked on mine. In them, I see a storm of emotions—pain that goes deeper than any physical injury, anger that burns hot enough to consume, and beneath it all, a grief so profound it takes my breath away.

"Willow—" he starts, but whatever he means to say dies on his lips.

"Go," I say, the word barely audible. "Just... go."

Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or resignation. For a heartbeat, I think he might stay, might push back against the current pulling us apart. Then his walls slam back into place, that impenetrable mask sliding over his features like a professional putting on his game face.

"Thanks for the patch job, Hayes," he says, voice carefully neutral. "I'll consider your medical advice."

I nod stiffly, not trusting my voice. Knox's arm comes around Rhett's good shoulder, supporting him as they move toward the door. Neither of them looks back as they disappear into the hallway, leaving me alone with the scent of antiseptic and the echo of Ethan's name.

The moment they're gone, I sink onto the metal stool, my legs suddenly boneless. My hands tremble as I methodically clean up the space, muscle memory taking over when my brain can't function past the hollow ache spreading through my chest. I fold gauze pads that don't need folding. Reorganize supplies that are already in perfect order. Anything to keep moving, to outrun the memories that threaten to drown me.

The medical room feels too quiet now, the distant roar of the crowd a muffled reminder that the world keeps turning while I'm stuck in this moment, trapped between what was and what can never be again. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile counters.

"Damn it, Ethan," I whisper to the empty room. "Why'd you have to leave us all in such a mess?"

No answer comes. There never is one.