Page 6

"Nothing that'll get us banned from this place," Jace warns, though I can see the gleam in his eyes too. The Savage Eight protect their own, and Willow's been one of us since before we even had a name.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Knox says, his innocent tone fooling absolutely no one. He downs his shot, then nods to Colt. "Remember Tucson last year?"

Colt's grin turns feral. "Oh, I like the way you think."

I watch as they slide off their barstools in perfect sync, casual as can be, and make their way toward the far end of the bar. Jace shoots me a look.

"You staying put?"

“Fuck no.”

I push away from the bar, whiskey burning in my veins. Not drunk enough to blame what I'm about to do on the alcohol, but just enough to loosen the chains I've kept around myself since coming back.

Jace follows, muttering something about "damage control" that I pretend not to hear.

Colt and Knox are already working their magic, sliding up to the bar on either side of the good doctor. Their smiles are all teeth—the kind wolves flash before the kill.

"Dr. Reid!" Colt's voice booms, loud enough to make McDickhead startle. "Man of the hour! That shoulder reconstruction you did on Martinez was something else."

Knox flags down the bartender. "Another round for our medical miracle worker here!"

Willow's eyes narrow as she spots us approaching. She knows exactly what's happening.

I catch her eye over McDickhead's shoulder and for a split second, there's something there—a flash of the old Willow, the one who used to share silent jokes with me across crowded rooms. Then it's gone, replaced by that careful mask again.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Reid says, his voice carrying that polished East Coast education. "Calloway. That was some ride tonight."

"Thanks, doc." I slide into the space between him and Willow, not even pretending it's accidental. "Just doing my job."

Willow shifts slightly, but doesn't move away. I can feel the heat of her body, inches from mine. The vanilla scent stronger now, mixed with something darker, richer.

"Your job is getting yourself killed?" she mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

"We've all got our talents," I reply, matching her tone.

Colt pats his back, hard. “Gotta love those two, doc.”

McDickhead winces at Colt's heavy hand, trying to maintain his professional smile. "Yes, quite the talented group of athletes."

"Athletes," Knox repeats, dragging out the word like it tastes funny. "Hear that, boys? We're athletes now."

I feel Willow tense beside me. She knows the drill—has seen the Savage Eight close ranks around each other enough times to recognize the pattern. But for once, they're doing it for her.

"Marcus was just telling me about his fellowship at Johns Hopkins," Willow says, her voice deliberately casual.

"Fascinating," I drawl, not bothering to hide my disinterest. "Tell me, doc, you ever been stomped by two thousand pounds of pissed-off bull?"

McDickhead's smile tightens. "Can't say that I have."

"Shame. Educational experience."

Colt accidently spills some of his beer onto McDickhead’s jacket.

“So sorry there, bud.”

McDickhead winces slightly. "This jacket's Armani…"

"Oh, pardon me," Colt drawls, his smile widening. "Didn't realize we had royalty in our humble establishment."

Knox snorts, sliding a shot glass in front of the doctor. "Drink up, Doc. It's tradition."

I can feel Willow tense beside me, her arm brushing against mine as she shifts her weight. That simple contact sends electricity up my spine, making my fingers itch to touch her properly.

"I'm actually not much of a shot drinker," McDickhead says, his smile faltering slightly. "More of a scotch man."

"Is that right?" Knox's voice drops an octave, that dangerous edge creeping in. "Well, around here, when a man buys you a drink, you drink it."

McDickhead looks around at the wall of cowboys surrounding him, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His perfect white collar suddenly looks too tight.

"Of course," he says, reaching for the shot with fingers that don't quite stay steady. "When in Rome."

He throws it back, grimacing as the tequila hits. Colt slaps his back again, harder this time, making the doctor cough and sputter.

"Easy there, Harvard," Colt says, grinning. "Wouldn't want you choking."

"Stanford, actually," McDickhead corrects, like that fucking matters.

I feel Willow shift beside me, her hip brushing against mine as she turns to face me directly.

"Enough," she says, voice low but sharp as a blade. "I don't need a rescue squad."

Her eyes are dark fire, challenging me. Us. All of us. I've seen that look before—right before she does something spectacularly stubborn.

"Just being friendly," I murmur, close enough that my breath stirs the hair near her ear. "Making the new doc feel welcome."

She arches an eyebrow. "By marking your territory like a pack of junkyard dogs?"

Jace coughs to hide a laugh. McDickhead glances between us, that Ivy League brain finally catching up to what's happening.

"Willow," he says, his voice taking on that professional doctor tone, "perhaps we should continue our conversation somewhere... quieter.”

Before she can answer, Knox steps closer, his body now fully between them. "She's good right here, doc."

Something flashes in McDickhead's eyes—irritation, maybe a hint of fear. Smart man.

"I believe that's for Willow to decide," he says, straightening his spine like good posture might save him. “I don’t know what kind of relationship she has with each of you, but I think you're overstepping," McDickhead finishes, adjusting his collar.

The tension thickens, and I can feel the shift in energy as Knox and Colt exchange glances. These are dangerous waters the good doctor is wading into, and he doesn't even realize he's bleeding in a shark tank.

"Overstepping?" I repeat, my voice deceptively soft. "That's an interesting choice of words coming from a man whose hand was about two inches from her ass a minute ago."

Willow's eyes flash to mine. "I can handle wandering hands, Calloway."

"I know you can," I say, not breaking eye contact. "Question is, why should you have to?"

McDickhead clears his throat. "I assure you, my intentions toward Willow are entirely—"

"I don't give a fuck about your intentions," Knox cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. "My sister doesn't need your hands anywhere near her."

McDickhead's eyes widen slightly. "Sister? I wasn't aware—"

"Half-sister," Willow interjects, shooting Knox a look that could melt steel. "And as I was saying, I don't need rescuing."

I watch the muscle in her jaw tighten, that tell-tale sign she's holding back a storm. God, she's beautiful when she's angry—all fire and barely contained fury. Always has been.

"Maybe not," I say, leaning in close enough that only she can hear, "but the good doctor might. I give him about thirty seconds before Colt accidentally spills another drink. This time on those fancy chinos."

A flicker of something crosses her face. Amusement, maybe, before she schools her expression back to annoyance. She glances at McDickhead, then back to me, and I see the decision form in her eyes before she speaks.

"Marcus," she says, her voice deliberately soft, "I think I'd better call it a night. Early shift tomorrow."

The doctor's face falls slightly. "I could drive you—"

"No need," she cuts in smoothly. "I drove myself."

McDickhead looks like he wants to argue, but Colt chooses that moment to signal the bartender with an overly enthusiastic wave that sends the remains of his beer sloshing dangerously close to those pristine chinos.

"Another round for my friends!" Colt announces, slinging his arm around the doctor's shoulders with enough force to make the man stagger. "You're staying right here, my man! We’ll find you a nice buckle bunny to take back tonight.”

Doctor McDickhead mumbles. “I’m good.”

But Knox isn’t done. “Just wanted to take my baby sister home, huh?”

“Your sister is a grown woman who can decide who she sleeps with.”

All hell breaks loose.

I'm moving before I even process what's happening. Knox's fist connects with McDickhead's jaw with a sickening crack, sending him stumbling back against the bar. Glasses topple, liquid splashing across that fancy Armani jacket.

"Knox!" Willow shouts, but Colt's already stepping between them, not to break it up but to make sure nobody interferes.

The bar erupts into chaos—the kind that follows us wherever we go. Someone shouts for security. McDickhead rights himself, blood trickling from his split lip, eyes wild with shock and anger.

"You're insane!" he spits, backing away. "All of you!"

Knox advances, murder in his eyes. "Apologize to my sister."

"Fuck you," McDickhead snarls, abandoning his polished veneer. "She was practically begging for it all night.”

Willow pushes past me, that wild fire in her roaring now.

That's when something snaps in Willow. I see it happen—the precise moment when all that careful control she wears like armor fractures into a thousand pieces. Her eyes darken to obsidian, and time seems to slow as she lunges forward.

"You arrogant piece of shit," she snarls, voice dropping to a register I've never heard from her before. It's primal, dangerous—a sound that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

Her fist connects with McDickhead's perfectly straight nose with a sickening crunch that echoes through the suddenly silent bar. Blood sprays in a crimson arc, spattering across his pristine white collar. The impact sends him reeling backward, arms pinwheeling as he crashes into a table of empty glasses that shatter across the floor like ice breaking on a frozen lake.

The way she moves is pure poetry—all that controlled grace channeled into perfect violence. Her follow-through is textbook, the twist of her hips adding momentum to the punch just like I taught her years ago.

McDickhead crumples to the floor in a heap of expensive fabric and shocked privilege. Blood pours between the fingers he's clutching to his face, his eyes wide with disbelief above them.

This is Willow Hayes without the restraint, and it's fucking magnificent.

The entire bar has gone silent, frozen in collective shock at the sight of our five-foot-three medic laying out a man who towers over her. Then, like a dam breaking, noise erupts—whistles, cheers, the unmistakable sound of money changing hands as bets are settled.

Then chaos erupts.

Security pushes through the crowd. Jace is already moving, positioning himself between the approaching bouncers and Willow. Knox and Colt flank him, a human wall of muscle and attitude.

But Willow isn't looking at any of them. She's looking at me, her chest heaving, blood—his blood—splattered across her knuckles. There's something wild in her eyes, something I've seen before, in hotel rooms with drawn curtains, where she'd let that careful control slip for me and me alone. It makes my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Told you I don't need rescuing," she says, her voice steady despite the adrenaline I know is coursing through her veins.

"Never said you did." I can't help the grin spreading across my face. "But it sure is pretty to watch."

The bar's security team is pushing through the crowd now, faces grim with the promise of trouble. McDickhead is still on the floor, moaning something about assault charges and medical licenses. He looks pathetic, all that polished confidence leaking out with his blood.

"Time to go," Jace says, his voice carrying that quiet authority that makes even drunk cowboys listen. "Back exit. Now."

Knox grabs Willow's arm. "Let's move."

She yanks free, eyes still locked with mine. "I can handle myself."

"Never doubted it," Knox says, glancing at the approaching security. "But I'm not letting my sister get arrested for decking some asshole, no matter how much he deserved it."

I gently put my hand on the small of her back. “Wills, let’s get your hand wrapped then you can scream at us all. Okay?”

Her eyes trace my face, searching for something. The adrenaline is still there, making her pupils wide and dark against the hazel of her irises. For a moment, I think she might tell me to go to hell.

"Fine," she finally says, flexing her bloodied knuckles. "But only because I don't want to deal with the paperwork."

I guide her toward the back exit, keeping my hand light against her lower back. The contact burns through her thin tank top, a reminder of everything I've been missing. Knox and the others create a buffer between us and security, buying precious seconds.

The night air hits us like a slap, cool and sharp after the stuffy heat of the bar. Willow's shoulders tense under my touch as we emerge into the alley behind The Buckhorn, but she doesn't pull away.

"That was some right hook," I say as we hurry toward the parking lot. "You been practicing?"

"On a punching bag," she says, flexing her hand with a wince. "Less satisfying than Marcus's face, though."

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. This is the Willow I remember—fierce and unapologetic when pushed too far. The sound of shouting follows us as the bar's back door slams open again, spilling Knox, Jace, and Colt into the alley.

"Move your asses!" Knox calls, already at a jog. "Security called the cops."

Willow lets out a laugh as a big black truck pulls up. Another one of the Savage Eight, Levi "Breaker" Monroe, rolls down the window with a shit eating grin.

“Heard y’all were gettin’ rowdy without me!”

"You missed all the fun," Colt says, yanking open the back door of Levi's truck. "Little Willow just rearranged the good doctor's face."

Levi's eyebrows shoot up as he looks at Willow, who's still flexing her bloodied hand. "No shit? Guess I owe Weston twenty bucks. He said you'd snap before the month was out."

"You were betting on me?" Willow's voice rises with indignation.

"Get in the damn truck," Knox orders, practically shoving her toward the open door. "Argue about it when we're not about to get arrested."

I follow her into the back seat, our bodies pressed together in the cramped space as Colt and Jace pile in after us. Knox takes shotgun, slamming the door just as red and blue lights flash at the mouth of the alley.

"Go, go, go!" Colt shouts, and Levi guns it, tires squealing against asphalt as we tear out of the parking lot.

"Jesus Christ," Willow mutters, wedged between me and Jace. "You all are like teenagers running from the cops after a house party."

"Says the woman who just committed assault in front of fifty witnesses," Knox shoots back, but there's pride in his voice.

Levi laughs. “Just like old times, huh boys? We’re going to the ranch tonight.”

Willow stiffens beside me. “You can just drop me off at the hotel.”

Knox shakes his head. “No can do. We’ll hide out at the ranch house tonight and deal with that shit show in the morning.”

She sighs and leans her head back. “Fine. To the ranch house we go.”