Page 40

P hantom Springs, Utah lives up to its name—haunted, hollow, and heavy with ghosts. The Savage Ring sits like a wound carved into red rock, dust swirling like smoke as the wind howls through the canyon.

This place was built for blood.

The Branded in Blood Invitational is the last major stop before finals, and the energy thrumming through the air isn’t excitement.

It's a warning.

The boys feel it too. I see it in the way Jace surveys the arena like he’s casing a job. In the twitch of Viper’s jaw, the clench of Ghost’s fists. The way Razor hasn’t spoken more than a handful of words since he got cleared to ride again.

Everyone’s wound tight.

And I’m worse.

I can feel it—something’s coming. The Syndicate’s not done. Not even close. Their bullshit has escalated with every stop: sabotaged chutes, drugged bulls, tampered gear. We’ve reported what we can, documented the rest, but somehow, they stay one step ahead.

They want chaos.

And we’re standing right in the center of the storm.

I hover near the medic tent, eyes constantly scanning the grounds. I’ve already done two walkthroughs of the back pens, triple-checked the emergency gear, and warned every rookie EMT on-site that tonight’s not the night to fuck around.

Still doesn’t feel like enough.

My skin’s crawling. My chest is tight. And Rhett’s riding again tonight.

He says he’s fine, and maybe physically, he is—but that fall in Rattlesnake Hollow? It did something to him. I can see it in his eyes. There’s a darkness settling there again, like he’s climbing back into the version of himself he spent two years trying to outrun.

“I don’t trust it,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone.

Levi appears at my side, eyes on the arena. “Neither do I.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t need to.

Because this isn’t just about the bulls anymore.

It’s war.

And I’ve got a front row seat.

Three security guards I've never seen before move past us, black uniforms starched and stiff, earpieces glinting under the arena lights. That's the fourth new patrol I've spotted in twenty minutes.

"The hell?" I mutter, tracking their movements. "Since when does Phantom Springs roll this deep?"

Levi's eyes narrow. "They don't."

I grab my med kit and weave through the maze of pens toward the chutes. Something's off. The usual pre-event chaos has a different edge tonight—like everyone's holding their breath, waiting for the pin to drop.

When I reach the Savage Eight's prep area, Jace is already there, expression carved from stone as he watches a heated exchange between two officials near the judges' stand.

"What's happening?" I ask, setting down my bag.

"Marcus Reid showed up with his own security detail," Jace growls.

“He’s a… doctor? Why is he bringing security?”

Jace's jaw tightens. "He's a doctor with a side hustle in fixing competitions. Says there's been threats. Bullshit. He's the one making them."

I check the schedule pinned to the wall. Rhett's riding third tonight—a mean-as-hell bull called Deathwish. Perfect.

"Where's Razor?" I ask, scanning the prep area.

"Getting taped," Jace says, nodding toward the corner where Rhett sits alone, wrapping his wrist with methodical precision.

I cross to him, keeping my voice low. "You good?"

Rhett doesn't look up, just keeps winding the athletic tape around his wrist. "Always."

It's a lie, but I don't call him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Something's up," I tell him, crouching down beside him. "Reid's here with a private security detail. Something about threats."

Rhett's hands still for a half-second before resuming their steady rhythm. "Covering his tracks."

"That's what I'm thinking."

His dark eyes finally meet mine, and there it is—that dangerous glint, the one that says he's calculating risks and doesn't give a damn about the odds. "Good. Let him get sloppy. We need him to slip up."

"Just focus on your ride," I tell him, reaching for the tape to finish the job. Our fingers brush, and even now—with everything hanging in the balance—my pulse skips. "I'll keep an eye on Reid."

"Willow." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Don't take chances. If he's bringing muscle, it means he's scared. Scared men are dangerous."

"I know," I say, but there's no conviction in my voice.

Rhett sees right through me. He always has. His fingers wrap around my wrist, grip tight enough to anchor me. "Promise me."

I hold his gaze. "I'll be careful."

It's not the promise he wants, but it's the only one I can give. We both know it.

The first bull rider's name blares over the speakers. Rhett releases my wrist, returning to his prep. I step back, already scanning the crowd again. Something catches my eye—Reid slipping through a service door with one of his security guards. No medical bag. No reason for him to be heading toward the administrative offices.

Opportunity knocks.

I grab my kit and move casually toward the corridor, nodding to the event staff as I pass. "Checking supplies," I say when one looks my way. No one questions the medic with the Savage Eight patch. I've earned my place here, my right to move through spaces like I belong.

I follow at a distance, keeping my footsteps light against the concrete floor. The corridor's dim lighting works in my favor, casting shadows I can slip between. Reid and his guard take a right at the junction, heading toward what should be the promoter's office.

Interesting choice.

I hang back at the corner, listening as Reid's voice bounces off the walls.

"—tonight. Non-negotiable. The odds are set, and I've got investors waiting."

A second voice, lower, harder to catch. "—not possible with Calloway back—"

"I don't give a shit about Calloway." Reid's voice sharpens. "Make it happen. We're too close to let one cowboy fuck this up."

My blood runs cold. They're talking about fixing tonight's event.

I need proof. My phone's already in my hand, recording apps open. I inch closer, pressing against the wall, straining to hear more.

"The timing's perfect," Reid continues. "With the championship just weeks away, no one's watching the qualifiers closely. They're all focused on Vegas."

"And Savage Eight?" the second voice asks.

"Won't be a problem much longer. Their little crusade ends tonight."

The guard shifts position, and I flatten myself against the wall, heart hammering. If they catch me here...

"What about the girl? The medic?"

My breath catches.

Reid laughs, the sound sharp and cold. "She's a nobody. Just a girl playing nurse to a bunch of has-beens."

Fuck you very much, asshole.

"Still," the other voice persists, "she's been asking too many questions. She's taken photos."

"Let me worry about her." Something in Reid's tone makes my skin crawl. "By tomorrow, she won't be anyone's concern."

A door opens and closes. Footsteps fade. I wait another thirty seconds before peeking around the corner. Empty. I stop the recording and duck into an alcove to review it.

The audio's clear enough—not perfect, but damning. Reid's voice is unmistakable, discussing fixed events and making what sounds a hell of a lot like a threat against me. Against all of us.

My phone buzzes with a text from Levi: *Where the fuck are you? Razor's up in 5.*

Shit. I need to move.

I'm halfway back to the arena when I spot Reid emerging from a different corridor, tucking something into his jacket pocket. His security guard's gone. I duck behind a stack of equipment cases, watching him. He's moving with purpose, checking his watch, heading toward the main arena.

I pocket my phone and follow, keeping my distance. Whatever he's planning, it's happening now. The crowd roars as the second rider completes his run. Rhett's up next.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I need to get back, need to warn him, but I can't lose Reid either. Not when he's clearly making his move.

Reid pauses at the edge of the holding area, scans the crowd, then heads toward the chutes. Toward Rhett.

Fuck.

I cut through the prep zone, pushing past riders and wranglers. "Excuse me—medical—move—" My voice is steady even as panic claws up my throat.

I spot Rhett at the chute, strapping his glove, Jace at his side. I catch Jace's eye first, giving him a sharp look that says everything without a word. He straightens immediately, hand going to Rhett's shoulder.

I push through the final barrier of bodies just as Reid approaches from the opposite direction, that fake doctor smile plastered across his face.

"Calloway," he calls out, voice carrying over the arena noise. "Got a minute?"

Rhett turns, his expression hardening when he sees Reid. When his eyes flick to me, I shake my head slightly, tapping my pocket where my phone sits. His jaw tightens—he understands.

"Kind of busy," Rhett says, voice flat. "About to ride."

Reid steps closer, all smooth confidence and expensive cologne. "Just wanted to wish you luck. Big night for comebacks."

"Appreciate the concern," Rhett drawls, but something in his tone says the exact opposite.

I slip in beside Rhett, positioning myself between them. "Dr. Reid," I say, voice clipped professional. "Didn't expect to see you down in the trenches tonight."

Reid's eyes slide to me, a flash of something cold there before his smile widens. "Just being thorough, Ms. Hayes. Making sure our athletes are in top form."

"That's my job," I counter, meeting his gaze head-on.

"Indeed it is." He lowers his voice. "Though I wonder how much longer you'll be doing it."

The threat hangs in the air between us. Rhett stiffens beside me, his hand finding the small of my back—a warning, a promise.

"Rider up!" The announcer's voice booms through the arena. "Next out of the chute, making his comeback from last weekend… Rhett ‘Razor’ Calloway!”

Reid's smile tightens. "Good luck, Calloway. You'll need it."

As he walks away, I lean in close to Rhett. "He's fixing the event. I recorded him. He threatened all of us, you specifically."

Rhett's eyes darken. "How bad?"

"Bad enough that we need to be careful. Very careful." I check his gear quickly, professional fingers moving with practiced efficiency despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "He mentioned investors, odds being set."

"Fuck." Rhett's voice is barely audible over the crowd noise. "Deathwish isn't just a name tonight, is it?"

I meet his eyes. "I don't know what they've done, but something's not right."

Jace appears at our side. "You riding or what?"

Rhett glances toward the chute where his bull waits, already snorting and kicking at the metal sides. He rolls his shoulders back, that mask of calm sliding into place. "I'm riding."

"Rhett—" My protest dies on my lips. I know that look.

"Listen to me," he says, voice pitched low enough that only Jace and I can hear. "They want me to fail, so I'm going to give them a fucking show instead. Keep an eye on that bull. If they've drugged him, I need to know how he's moving."

I nod, throat tight. "Be careful."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Where's the fun in that, sweetheart?"

Then he's climbing the chute, settling onto Deathwish's broad back. The massive bull jerks beneath him, already sensing what's coming. I can see it in the way the animal's muscles bunch and coil—this bull isn't drugged. He's fucking furious.

The gate crew takes position. Rhett wraps his hand, the leather straps disappearing beneath his fingers as he secures himself to the beast. His focus narrows, that laser-sharp concentration that makes him one of the best. He nods once, jaw set.

"Gates!"

Metal clangs. The world explodes.

Deathwish erupts from the chute like he's been shot from a cannon, twisting midair in a move that would unseat most riders on the first jump. But Rhett—goddamn Rhett—moves with him, his body fluid yet powerful against the bull's massive frame.

The crowd roars. I hold my breath.

One second. Two. Three.

Deathwish spins hard left, a move that seems to defy gravity. The bull's massive body twists in a corkscrew that would snap a lesser rider's spine. But Rhett matches him beat for beat, his body responding to every shift and buck with uncanny precision.

Four seconds. Five.

I scan the arena, spotting Reid near the judges' stand. He's watching with narrow eyes, body tense. Not the look of someone enjoying the show—the look of someone whose plans are falling apart.

Six seconds. Seven.

Deathwish rears, nearly vertical. For a heart-stopping moment, I think Rhett's going over the back. But he compensates, his center of gravity shifting so smoothly it looks like he's part of the bull.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer blares, and the crowd erupts. Perfect ride. Fucking perfect.

The bullfighters swarm in, waving flags to divert Deathwish as Rhett dismounts with practiced grace. He lands on his feet, adrenaline radiating off him like heat. His eyes find mine immediately, something primal and victorious in his gaze that steals my breath.

I'm moving before I realize it, cutting through the chaos as Rhett strides toward me. We meet in the center of the arena, dust swirling around our boots, the roar of the crowd fading to white noise.

"Told you," he says, voice rough with exertion. "Fucking show."

And then his hands are in my hair, pulling me to him with a urgency that matches the thunder in my chest. His mouth crashes against mine, hot and demanding and perfect. I taste sweat and triumph and something that's just uniquely him. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, public display be damned. This moment—this victory—belongs to us.

When we break apart, the world crashes back in. Whistles and cheers from the crowd, Jace's slow clap somewhere behind us, and Reid's thunderous expression as he storms away from the judges' stand.

"Save it for later, lovebirds," Elise says, appearing at my side with her tablet in hand. "We need to talk. Now."

I pull back, reluctantly breaking contact with Rhett, but his hand stays at the small of my back as we follow Elise through the crowd. She leads us to the Savage Eight's private tent where the rest of the team is already waiting.

Elise slams the tent flap closed behind us, casting a sharp glance at Ghost as he secures the entrance. "We've got ten minutes before they come looking."

I pull out my phone, already queuing up the recording. "Reid's making his move tonight. I caught him in the administrative corridor." My fingers tremble slightly as I hit play, the evidence of what I've just done—recording a private conversation, following a man who's just threatened me—suddenly hitting home.

Reid's voice fills our small space, tinny but unmistakable: "—tonight. Non-negotiable. The odds are set, and I've got investors waiting."

The team clusters closer, faces grim as Reid's threats about Rhett, about me, about all of us spill into the air. When it ends, the silence is deafening.

"Fuck me," Knox breathes, running his hand through his hair.

“You need to pack up now and go.” Elise shakes her head. “Event is over and you need to be on the road now. Don’t stay a second longer than you need to.”

Jace is already packing up his gear. "We roll out in twenty."

"But we haven't even—" I start.

"Fuck the scores," Rhett cuts in, eyes hard with determination. "Reid's people will be watching. We need to disappear before they realize what you've got."

I stare at the phone in my hand, suddenly aware of how dangerous this little device has become. "I should send this to someone—the commissioner, the police—"

"Not here," Ghost warns, voice low as he peeks through the tent flap. "Network's probably compromised. Wait until we're clear."

My stomach twists as the reality of our situation sinks in. We're not just whistleblowers anymore. We're targets.

The guys get to work and within twenty minutes, we’re on the road and heading to The Devil’s Playground.

S in River doesn’t pretend to be anything but what it is.

Corrupt. Cursed. Crawling with shadows.

And tonight, the darkness feels alive.

Midnight Hollow Arena isn’t built for sport—it’s built for spectacle. Cages line the holding pens like prison blocks. Spotlights slice through the smoke, casting long shadows that slither across the dirt. The crowd is drunk, bloodthirsty, and louder than I’ve ever heard.

This is the last real stop before the finals.

The Devil’s Playground.

And the name’s not just for show.

Chaos breaks before we even hit the halfway mark. A bull snaps inside the chute, not from adrenaline—but from something else. Something chemical. I can smell it in the air—burnt and bitter, clinging to the animal’s foam-flecked breath.

It bucks early, tearing through steel like its tissue, and before the gate even swings fully open, a rider is down.

And he’s not getting up.

I run.

Boots pounding across blood-soaked dirt. The screams from the stands echo like sirens. I drop to my knees next to the crumpled body—one of ours. Not the Eight, but someone we’ve patched up before. A good kid.

I scream for backup. My hands shake. Not from fear—but from rage.

Because this wasn’t an accident.

This was sabotage.

Again.

Behind me, the crowd keeps roaring.

And somewhere out there, the Syndicate is watching.

Smiling.

The night doesn’t slow—it spirals.

After the bull’s rampage, the entire arena devolves into barely contained panic. Security’s overwhelmed. Riders are scattered.

Breaker confirmed it with a scowl and a low, “That’s not a coincidence.”

I know.

Because twenty minutes ago, I stepped behind the pens to grab fresh gauze and caught two circuit officials whispering by the electrical box. Thought they were arguing about bull placement.

Until I heard “plant it at finals” and “make it look like a chute malfunction.”

Until I heard Rhett’s name.

Until I heard them hide photos and plans in a fake locker.

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Just listened—heart pounding loud enough to drown out every word except the important ones:

Iron Horn Championship. Graveyard heat. Sabotage orders already issued. Make it look like he went down trying to prove something.

They’re not just gunning for the circuit’s golden riders anymore.

They’re aiming straight for the Savage Eight.

Straight for Rhett.

I waited until they left. Snuck forward. Took photos of the plans stashed in a fake medical locker. Ripped off the false panel. Snagged a burner phone loaded with messages. Took it all back to Ghost, who scanned the whole thing in less than five minutes and backed it up twice.

And now we’re gathered in a locked office above the Midnight Hollow Arena, the door barred, the lights low, the fire back in our eyes.

All of us.

Jace. Levi. Knox. Logan. Weston. Kade. Colt on a video call. And Rhett, hand in mine.

The full weight of what we’re facing crackles in the air like lightning just before a strike. But no one flinches. Not now.

“This isn’t just a crooked official or a bad sponsor,” I say, pacing the room, the burner phone tight in my hand. “It’s the Syndicate. Embedded. Protected. And they’re planning to take out Rhett—maybe others—at the championship.”

“They want a collapse,” Jace says grimly. “Take down the strongest riders, rattle the circuit, seize control of the chaos.”

“And turn us into martyrs or cautionary tales,” Rhett mutters, leaning forward. “Fuck that.”

“We need a plan,” Ghost says simply. “And we need help.”

"We've got enough evidence to burn them ten times over," I say, dropping into a chair beside Rhett. "The recordings, the photos, the burner phone—"

"It's not enough," Ghost counters, voice steady. "Not against people with this much influence. They'll claim the recordings are doctored, the phone was planted. We need something bulletproof."

"And we need to survive long enough to use it," Elise adds, eyes flicking to the door as footsteps pass outside.

Rhett's fingers tighten around mine. "So we catch them in the act."

The room goes quiet. I can practically hear everyone's minds working, calculating risks, mapping out scenarios.

"Iron Horn Championship," Jace says finally. "We let them think their plan is working."

"You want to use Rhett as bait?" I snap, heart rate soaring. “I just got him back!”

Rhett's eyes meet mine, something fierce and determined burning in their depths. "Not bait. A trap." He leans forward, voice steady. "We know they're coming for me. Let's use that."

"No," I shake my head, panic clawing up my throat. "Absolutely fucking not."

"Willow." My name on his lips is gentle but firm. "This is bigger than me. This is about every rider in the circuit."

"Razor's right," Jace says, his voice cutting through the tension. "We can set a trap, but we control the terms. We choose the battlefield."

I look around the room at these men—these brothers forged in dust and danger—and see the same resolve etched on every face. They're with him. With this insane plan.

"And what happens when their plan goes sideways and that bull crushes your skull and I’m screaming for you to not fucking die! It’s like Ethan all over again!”

I’m hyperventilating now, my hands shaking as Rhett's name and Ethan's blur together in my mind. The room goes silent, everyone frozen by the raw fear in my voice.

Rhett stands slowly, pulls me up with him. "Everyone out," he says, voice quiet but leaving no room for argument.

No one questions it. They file out silently, Jace giving Rhett's shoulder a firm squeeze as he passes. The door closes with a soft click.

And then it's just us.

"Willow." Rhett's hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't know I was shedding. "Look at me."

I can't. If I look at him now, see the determination in his eyes

"I do." His forehead presses against mine. "But this isn't like Ethan." His voice drops, raw with emotion. "I need you to trust me. I need you to believe I'm coming back."

I finally look up, meeting his eyes. The determination there hasn't wavered, but there's something else—a vulnerability he rarely shows, even to me.

"You can't promise that," I whisper. "No one can."

"You're right." His hands slide down to my shoulders, grip firm. "But I can promise I'm not riding blind into this. We're setting the trap, Willow. We control the variables."

"And what if they change the game?" My voice cracks. "What if—"

"Then we change with it." He pulls me closer, his heartbeat steady against mine. "This is what we've been working toward. All of us. The chance to take down the Syndicate before they destroy everything we care about." His eyes burn into mine, fierce and determined. "Before they hurt someone else. Before they come for you."

The last words hang heavy between us, raw with a truth we've both been dancing around. I can see it in the tight lines around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders—he's not just fighting for the circuit or the team.

He's fighting for me.

And suddenly, all the fear tangled in my chest shifts, transforms into something else entirely. Something equally terrifying but infinitely more powerful.

"I can't lose you," I whisper, my hands fisting in his shirt. "Not now. Not after everything."

His fingers thread through my hair, cradling the back of my head. "You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I know that I'm not going anywhere without a fight." His voice drops lower, rougher.“And I know that if I die out there, it'll be with your name on my lips. But I swear to God, Willow—if I come back bloody, broken, on my knees—I'll still crawl back to you.”

My breath catches, sharp and aching.

He presses his forehead back to mine, voice thick with that deep, gravel-soft reverence that only Rhett Calloway can conjure—like promise soaked in whiskey and wildfire.

"I love you, Willow Hayes. Not with some clean, pretty kind of love. No—mine’s all dirt and desperation. Mine’s carved into my ribs. Mine howls your name every damn night I’m not holding you. You want sweet? You want simple? That ain't me. But if you want forever—I’m already yours.”

I’m crying now, full body and shameless.

He cups my cheeks like I’m something holy. “I’d burn the whole goddamn circuit down if it meant keeping you safe. But if walking into hell means taking the Syndicate out for good? Then I’ll ride that bull with fire on my back and your name in my chest.”

I reach up, pulling him into a kiss that’s less soft and more survival. It’s heat and heartbreak, fury and forgiveness. It’s a promise made in every shattered breath we share.

When we finally break apart, I don’t ask him to stay. I just say the only thing I know will keep him tethered.

“Then come back to me, Rhett. Come back or I swear, I’ll ride into hell and drag you back myself.”

His smile is all grit and devotion. “That’s my girl.”