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T ombstone Falls doesn’t need to make threats.

It just waits to bury the bodies.

The Outlaw Dome rises like a scar above the red clay, steel beams jutting into the Wyoming sky like broken ribs. The crowd’s already a frenzy of denim, beer, and bloodlust, chanting names like they’re spells meant to summon God.

But God ain’t here.

Only dead men walking.

And tonight, I might be one of them.

This is it.

The Iron Horn Championship.

The final ride. The final war. The moment we either burn the Syndicate to the fucking ground or get swallowed by the flames.

The boys move around me like a storm brewing—silent, focused, deadly. Jace’s jaw is locked tight. Blaze is pacing like a live wire. Weston sharpens his boot spurs like they’re knives meant for throats. Even Levi looks like he’s ready to put someone in the dirt.

The Savage Eight is more than a crew tonight.

We’re a weapon.

And I’m the one holding the fuse.

Willow’s voice crackles through the comms in my ear, clear, steady—her medic uniform hiding the recorder, her kit stashed with more than gauze and adrenaline.

“Rhett, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, darlin’. Everything in place?”

“Security grid’s patched. Ghost has eyes on the chute riggers. Elise just fed the first leak to RSN. It’s happening.”

I exhale slowly. "Then let's give 'em the kind of ending they’ll never outrun."

The locker room door slams open, and Marcus Reid struts in like he owns the place.

"Calloway," he says, voice smooth as rattlesnake venom. "Quite the spectacle you've put on this season."

I stand slowly, feeling every eye in the room lock on us. This is the man who's had cowboys killed, rigged competitions, and blackmailed half the circuit. His custom suit probably cost more than what most riders make in a year.

"Just doing what I do best," I say, flashing that cocky smile that's gotten me punched in more bars than I can count. "Riding bulls and making memories."

Reid's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, enjoy your last ride. I hear Butcher's been particularly... spirited in practice."

When he leaves, Jace sidles up beside me. "

"Tracker's in place. Butcher's saddle is rigged with the sensor." His voice is low, steady. Like we're not about to light the match that'll burn down an empire.

"Good." I roll my shoulders back, feeling the weight of what we're about to do. "Time to make these fuckers pay."

The walk to the chutes is my final march. Cameras flash. Fans scream. Announcers call my name like I'm some kind of legend. If they only knew what was really happening behind the roar of the crowd.

I catch Willow's eye across the arena. She's already at her station, med kit at her side, looking every bit the professional while she's wired with enough recording equipment to bring down the whole damn syndicate. One nod between us says everything words can't.

Be careful. I love you. We will finish this tonight.

Butcher waits for me in the chute like death on four legs—two thousand pounds of muscle and hate. His black hide gleams under the lights, scarred from battles with men who thought they could tame the untamable. The rigging on his back is subtle—you'd never see it unless you knew exactly what to look for.

And I do.

I swing my leg over, settling into position. The beast beneath me vibrates with rage, steel coiled and ready to explode. I wrap my hand in the rope, feeling the grit of the rosin against my palm. One, two, three wraps—tight enough to hold, loose enough to bail if shit goes sideways.

"Ten seconds," the gate man says.

I lean forward, mouth near Butcher's ear. "Let's show these bastards what happens when they fuck with the wrong cowboys."

My nod is sharp, and the gate flies open.

Chaos erupts.

Butcher explodes from the chute like he's been shot from a cannon, twisting midair with a violence that nearly tears my arm from its socket. The crowd roars, but it sounds distant, underwater. There's only me, this bull, and the truth we're about to expose.

He bucks hard left—I counter right. He drops his head—I shift my weight. Every move is a dance with death, but I've been dancing this dance since I was sixteen.

Three seconds in, I feel it. The slight buzz against my thigh. The sensor's picking up the electrical current running through Butcher's hide—the shock prods they've been using to make bulls buck harder, more violently, endangering riders for better ratings and fixed bets.

"Got it," I hear Willow's voice in my ear. "The data's transmitting live. Every official on our list is getting it right now."

Bull and rider, we're both weapons now. Every buck, every twist—it's evidence being broadcast across the country. I feel Butcher jolt beneath me, another shock making him rear violently. Bastards.

Five seconds.

Six.

The world narrows to this moment. My muscles burn, lungs scream, but I hold on. Because this isn't just a ride. It's justice.

Seven seconds.

Butcher spins hard right, then drops his shoulder. I'm airborne for a heartbeat before slamming back down. Pain explodes through my ribs, but I don't let go.

Eight seconds.

The buzzer sounds, but I'm not done. I stay on one more second, two, then bail, rolling away as Butcher thunders past. The landing jars my bones, but adrenaline dulls the pain. I'm on my feet in an instant, dodging between bullfighters and barriers, making straight for the side tunnel where Willow waits.

The crowd is losing their fucking minds. They don't know if it's part of the show or a revolution. It's both.

"Rhett!" Willow's eyes are wild with victory as she pulls me into the service corridor. "It worked. Every bit of it. The live feed—"

I grab her face and kiss her hard, tasting sweat and triumph and the future. When I pull back, we're both breathing like we've run miles.

"Where's Reid?" I demand.

"VIP box. And he's running. Ghost says he's headed for the service exit."

We sprint through concrete corridors, past startled staff and security too confused to stop us. My ribs scream with each step, but pain's just noise now. Through my earpiece, I can hear the others converging. The Savage Eight, closing in like a noose.

We burst through the emergency exit into the cool night air just as Reid and three of his security goons pile into a black SUV. But they aren't going anywhere. Weston's truck is parked sideways, blocking the exit. Jace stands on the hood, shotgun resting casually against his shoulder.

"Evening, gentlemen," he drawls. "Going somewhere?"

Reid's face twists with rage as he steps out of the SUV. "You have no idea what you've done, Calloway."

"Actually," I say, advancing on him, "I know exactly what I've done. Same as what the syndicate did to Ethan. To Carter. To every rider you've had injured or killed because they wouldn't play by your rules."

The parking lot fills with headlights, as our crew rolls in one by one. Blaze, Weston, Levi, and the rest—surrounding Reid like wolves on a wounded deer. Colt hobbles out of the truck, a grin on his face.

“Surprise, motherfuckers. Did you really think I wouldn’t be here to watch this shit show go down?”

Behind them, blue and red lights flash. Turns out Sheriff Dawson isn't as corrupt as his predecessor.

"It's over," I say, watching Reid's face contort with the realization that his empire is crumbling. "The shocking devices, the fixed competitions, the deaths you covered up—it's all streaming live right now."

Reid lunges at me, but I see it coming. Always do with men like him—they're predictable when cornered. I sidestep, and Jace is there, driving him to the ground with one smooth move.

"You think this ends with me?" Reid spits blood onto the asphalt. "You have no idea how deep this goes, Calloway."

I crouch down, getting right in his face. "Maybe not. But it starts with you, and that's enough for tonight."

As the cops drag Reid away, Willow's hand slips into mine. Her fingers are steady, warm against my cold ones. The adrenaline's starting to fade, leaving behind the raw ache of my ribs and something else—something lighter.

"We did it," she whispers, and I pull her against me, not giving a damn who sees.

"We did it," I echo against her hair.

The Savage Eight gathers around us, a circle of battered warriors. No one speaks for a long moment. We don't need to. Everything that matters is in the air between us—victory, grief for those we've lost, and the beginning of something like peace.

Jace claps a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go get us some belt buckles we’ve earned.”

The stadium lights are still blazin when we return, casting long shadows across the dirt. The crowd doesn't know what to make of us—wild-eyed and bloody but walking tall. The announcer's voice booms through the speakers, trying to make sense of what just happened, but some stories can't be contained in a ten-second sound bite.

This one's written in scars and justice.

We line up at the podium like soldiers returning from war. In a way, we are. The championship belt gleams under the lights as they place it in my hands. It's heavy—gold and silver and leather—but not as heavy as what we've been carrying these past months.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice cracks with uncertainty, "your Iron Horn Champion... Rhett 'Razor' Calloway!"

The crowd erupts, but I barely hear them. I look at my crew. these men who've become more than brothers—and raise the belt high. This isn't just my victory. It's ours.

"For Ethan," I say into the mic, and my voice echoes across the arena. "For every rider who didn't make it home."

The crowd falls silent, then erupts again—louder this time, understanding washing over them as phones light up with breaking news alerts. The corruption. The evidence. The truth we've blown wide open.

I find Willow's eyes in the crowd. She's standing at the edge of the arena, tears streaming down her face, pride radiating from her like sunlight. In that moment, I know—whatever comes next, we face it together.

T he Oklahoma sunset bleeds across the sky like spilled whiskey as we gather around the bonfire. Home. Our ranch. Safe. The Savage Eight sprawled in chairs, boots planted in the dirt that belongs to us. No more running. No more looking over our shoulders.

Jace raises his beer. "To Ethan."

"To Ethan," we echo, and the name doesn't cut like it used to. It's warm now, like remembering a good dream.

Willow leans against me, her body solid and real against mine. My arm tightens around her waist as I breathe in the scent of her hair—like sunshine and medicine and home.

"He would've loved this," she says quietly. "All of us here. The syndicate in handcuffs."

"He's here," I tell her, and I believe it. Feel it in the space between heartbeats. In the laughter that erupts when Weston trips over his own boots. In the way Colt's telling that same damn story about the bull in San Antonio for the fifth time tonight, and everyone's still laughing like it's the first.

Blaze tosses another log on the fire, sending sparks spiraling up toward the stars. "Y'all remember when Ethan stole Reid's prized stallion and painted its ass blue?"

"Took three men to hold me back from killing him," Jace chuckles, shaking his head. "And then the son of a bitch had the nerve to enter it in the county fair."

"Won third place too," Levi adds, and we're all howling now, the kind of laughter that heals something deep in your chest.

The night stretches long, stories flowing as easy as the whiskey.

One by one, the crew drifts off to bed, until it's just me and Willow under the vast Oklahoma sky. The fire's burned down to embers, casting a warm glow across her face. She looks at peace here—like she's finally shed the armor she's been wearing for so long.

"Come on," I whisper, taking her hand. "Let's go to bed."

We walk back to the house in comfortable silence, our fingers intertwined. The old farmhouse stands tall against the night, windows dark except for the porch light we left on. Our boots echo on the wooden steps as we climb up to the wrap-around porch.

Inside, the house is quiet. Just the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the distant sound of Colt's snoring from his bedroom. I lead Willow up the stairs, each step creaking with history beneath our feet.

Our bedroom door closes behind us with a soft click, and suddenly we're alone in the silver-blue glow of moonlight streaming through the windows. I don't bother with the light. There's something sacred about this darkness, about the way it softens all our edges.

Willow turns to me, her eyes reflecting starlight. "We really did it, didn't we?"

"We really did." I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger on her cheek. "Took down a criminal empire. Won a championship. Came home."

"Home," she echoes, and the word hangs between us like a promise.

I kiss her then, slow and deep, like we have all the time in the world—because we do now. No more racing against shadows. No more looking over our shoulders. Just us, building something that can't be broken.

Her hands slide under my shirt, warm against my skin as she pushes the fabric up and over my head. I do the same for her, revealing inch by inch the body I know better than my own. The moonlight turns her skin to pearl, highlighting every curve, every scar we've earned together.

"I thought I'd lost you," I whisper against her collarbone. "Back when—"

"Shh." She presses her finger to my lips. "We're done with the past. This is now. This is us."

She's right. Always is.

I lift her gently, laying her on our bed like she's made of something precious. In a way, she is. The mattress dips beneath our weight as I hover above her, drinking in the sight of her—wild and free and mine.

"I love you," I tell her, because it's the truest thing I know. "Every broken piece of you."

Her fingers trace the fresh bruises on my ribs, touch feather-light. "And I love you. Not despite the scars. Because of them."

Our bodies move together, slow and deliberate, like we're memorizing each other all over again. No rush. No desperate need to prove we're alive. Just the steady rhythm of two people who've walked through fire and found each other on the other side.

I kiss my way down her body, lingering at the places that make her breath catch—the hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast, the scar on her hip from that night in Dallas we never talk about. Her skin tastes like salt and sweetness and home.

I keep kissing down her neck, to her collarbone, her stomach, the inside of her thigh. Her sharp inhale when my tongue finds her center is the sweetest sound I've ever heard. I take my time, savoring her, as she arches beneath me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, not pushing or pulling—just holding on, like I'm her anchor in a storm.

When she comes apart, it's with my name on her lips like a prayer. I crawl back up her body, claiming her mouth with mine, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

"Rhett," she breathes against my lips. "I need you."

Those four words undo me completely. I align our bodies, pushing into her with one slow, steady stroke that has us both gasping. The feeling of her around me—tight and hot and perfect—never gets old. Never becomes something I take for granted.

We move together in the darkness, finding that rhythm that belongs just for us. Slow, then faster. Deep, then deeper. I savor every sensation, dragging out each movement, unwilling to rush toward the end. Her hands map my back, my shoulders, tracing every ridge and valley like she's claiming territory.

"Stay with me," she whispers, eyes locked on mine. "Just like this."

I slow down even more, barely moving now, just the slightest rock of my hips against hers. The friction is exquisite torture. Every cell in my body screams for release, but I hold back, suspended in this perfect moment where nothing exists but the two of us.

"Always," I promise, my voice rough with emotion.

Minutes stretch like hours. I watch her face in the moonlight—the flutter of her eyelashes, the part of her lips, the flush spreading across her chest. I memorize it all. The way she feels wrapped around me. The way she whispers my name. The way her body trembles when she's close.

When I can't hold back any longer, I pick up the pace, driving into her with renewed purpose. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper. Our bodies move in perfect sync, like we were made for this—made for each other.

"Let go," I tell her, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I've got you."

Her release triggers mine. The wave crashes over us both, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the past, the future, even the present. There's just this. Us. Together.

I collapse beside her, pulling her against my chest. Our breathing slowly returns to normal as I trace lazy patterns on her back. The moonlight paints silver streaks across the bed, across our tangled limbs.

"This is what it feels like," I whisper into her hair, "to win something that matters."

Willow shifts against me, her hand coming to rest over my heart. "Better than any championship belt?"

"Infinitely." I brush my lips against her forehead. "This is the real prize."

We lie there in comfortable silence, listening to the night sounds filtering through the open window—crickets chirping, the occasional distant lowing of cattle, the rustle of wind through the oak trees that have stood sentinel over this land for generations before us.

"Remember that first night?" Willow asks, her voice soft with memory. "In that crappy motel outside of Cheyenne?"

I chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. "When the headboard broke and we had to explain it to that ancient desk clerk?"

"And you told him we were practicing rodeo moves."

"Technically, we were," I laugh, pulling her closer. "Just not the kind they teach in the arena."

She smiles against my chest, and I feel it more than see it. "We've come so far since then."

"And we've got further to go." My fingers trace the curve of her spine. "Together."

The grandfather clock downstairs chimes twice—2 AM. The house settles around us, creaking and sighing like it's finally at rest too. Outside this room are the men I'd die for, sleeping under a roof we all fought to protect. Beyond these walls is a future we've earned the hard way.

"What do you think happens now?" Willow asks, her voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

I think about it for a moment. About the rodeo circuit being cleaned up. About the ranch we're rebuilding. About the justice we've delivered. About the open road ahead, no longer shadowed by threats and corruption. About how it feels to finally be able to breathe.

"We live," I tell her simply. "We ride bulls. We build something lasting. We honor Ethan by living the kind of life he'd be proud of."

Willow's breathing slows, deepens. She's drifting off, safe in my arms. As it should be.

"And we love each other," she murmurs, the words slurring slightly with sleep. "That's the most important part."

"That's the easiest part," I whisper back, pressing a kiss to her hair.

The night wraps around us like a blanket, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something close to peace settling in my bones. Not the kind that makes you soft—never that. But the kind that comes from knowing exactly where you stand and who stands with you.

Tomorrow, there'll be decisions to make. Plans to set in motion. A future to build.

But tonight? Tonight, we rest.

I close my eyes, Willow's heartbeat steady against mine, and let sleep claim me. No nightmares waiting. No battles to fight. Just the promise of morning, of coffee on the porch with my crew, of Willow's smile in the sunrise.

We've earned this.

Every goddamn second of it.

And I'm never letting it go.