Page 7

L evi navigates the winding gravel road toward the Savage Eight Ranch, and my emotions are a tangled mess after tonight's events.

Marcus, Rhett, my brother, the boys, and now this ranch... I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears.

It's just a house. Yet it's more than that—it's the home we all own together. A place I haven't dared to visit in two years.

It's where Rhett and I created so many memories, where I found a family among these boys, and where we laid one of our own to rest. I'm torn between the comfort of familiarity and the pain of returning.

The truck bounces over a pothole, jolting me back to the present. I force my eyes open, focusing on the moonlit road ahead instead of the memories threatening to drown me.

"You still with us, Wills?" Levi's voice is low, his eyes fixed on the road. Unlike Rhett, Breaker doesn't waste words or fill silences with charm. He just... sees things. Always has.

"I'm here." My voice sounds stronger than I feel.

I can feel all the boys' eyes on me; Colt, Jace, my brother… Rhett.

Rhett's gaze burns the hottest—I don't need to look to know that. I can feel it like a brand on my skin, the way I always could.

"Home sweet home," Colt mumbles as the ranch house comes into view, its weathered facade catching the moonlight. The barn sits like a shadow against the Oklahoma sky.

My throat tightens. Two years have passed since I've seen this place, and it hasn't changed a bit. That's the problem with the Savage Eight—it's preserved in amber, a time capsule of everything I've been running from.

"Didn't think you'd ever come back," Jace says, not unkindly. He's always been the peacekeeper among us.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Well you four didn’t give me much choice now, huh?"

Levi softly chuckles. “She got you boys there. We’ll talk about this bar fight when we get inside.”

The truck rolls to a stop in front of the ranch house, and nobody moves. It's like we're all holding our breath, waiting for someone else to break first. The Savage Eight logo—that twisted figure eight with horns—gleams on the wooden arch over the driveway entrance, mocking me with its permanence.

"Let's get this over with," I mutter, yanking the door open before my courage fails.

The Oklahoma night hits me with its familiar scent—dust and mesquite, horses and hay. My boots crunch on the gravel, and for a split second, my legs wobble. Damn it, Willow. You're stronger than this.

"Need a hand?" Rhett materializes beside me, his voice rough at the edges. I don't need to look at him to know he's sporting that half-smirk that used to make my insides turn to liquid.

“Nope.’

Jace and Levi sigh as they look at each other. Jace is the one to turn around to face me.

“And you’ll let us look at that hand.”

I smirk. “I’m the medic. I patch you idiots up all the damn time.”

"I've seen your idea of self-care. A beer and electrical tape ain't proper medical treatment," Jace counters, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Inside. Now."

I roll my eyes but don't argue. Truth is, my knuckles are throbbing like a son of a bitch. The adrenaline from the bar fight is wearing off, and reality's setting in; both in my hand and in my head.

The porch steps creak under our weight, the same loose third board that nobody ever fixed. Some things never change.

The front door swings open, and the scent hits me like a physical blow—leather and coffee, gun oil and the faint trace of the boys’ cologne. Home. My chest constricts.

The boys make their way inside, all heading to their rooms to change. But I can’t move. My feet are frozen as the memories assault my mind.

I remain rooted at the threshold like some skittish horse while the others file past me. The living room sits in shadow, but I don't need light to navigate it. Two years gone, and I could still walk this place blindfolded.

"You planning on sleeping on the porch?" Rhett's voice cuts through my thoughts. He's lingered behind the others, watching me with those eyes that see too damn much.

"Just reacquainting myself," I mutter, finally forcing my feet to move.

The main room is exactly as I remember—worn leather couches surrounding a massive coffee table littered with rodeo magazines and bull riding schedules. Trophy buckles line the mantle above the stone fireplace. My gaze catches on the framed photo I've been avoiding—all ten of us after Rhett's first championship win. Before everything went to hell.

"Your room's still there," Rhett says, keeping his distance but tracking my every move. "Nobody touched it."

“Thanks.”

Levi sits at the long kitchen table and looks at me. I know that look and I slowly trudge over there. Jace takes his seat next to him.

We always joked, Jace may be our leader, but Levi is the one who really leads this wayward group. He’s the oldest of all the boys and has that ‘older brother who doubles as a dad’ vibe.

I slide into a chair across from them, wincing when my injured hand hits the tabletop.

"Let me see it," Levi says, extending his palm. No preamble, no lecture yet. That'll come after he's assessed the damage.

I reluctantly place my hand in his. My knuckles are swollen, blood dried in the cracks, turning purple around the edges. Levi's weathered fingers probe gently, and I bite back a hiss.

"Nothing broken," he pronounces after a moment. "But you sure as hell tried."

Jace pushes himself up, retrieving the first aid kit we've always kept under the sink. Some things are muscle memory in this house—where the medical supplies live, which floorboards creak, which windows stick in the summer heat.

Another truck pulls up outside and then I’m surrounded by the Savage Eight. All the boys now sit at the table. Somebody brings some beers out, another grabs the bags of chips, another pops some slow and low country music on.

Jace looks around and lets a small grin out. “Alright, everybody is here. Knox? Wanna fill the rest of the crew in about what happened tonight with your sister?”

Knox shrugs. “New circuit doc got too handsy, then he got too mouthy.”

Colt chuckles. “So Wills gave him the ole Savage Eight right hook.”

I roll my eyes but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "He deserved worse."

"Always did have a mean right hook," Rhett murmurs, his voice carrying across the table even though he's barely speaking above a whisper. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before I look away.

Levi's cleaning my knuckles with antiseptic that stings like a bitch, but I don't flinch. Won't give Rhett the satisfaction of seeing me weak. Not after tonight.

"So what exactly did this doc say?" Kade "Dagger" Dawson asks, popping the tab on his beer. Kade is our quiet one, but has a mean streak when it comes to those close to him.

I shift in my seat, not sure how the rest of the boys will handle the doc’s words well.

“Well… he suggested I can make my own choices about who I uh, sleep with. Knox obviously didn’t take that well.”

Logan "Blaze" Carter clears his throat. “And what else?”

“He made some other comments. Then I punched him.” The last of the group, our resident ‘ghost’ clears his throat. “What did he say, Wills?”

I sigh, playing with the beer bottle in front of me. “It was nothing, Ghost. Really. I had some alcohol in me and-”

“Willow.” Levi’s voice cuts through me.

“Fine! Fine. He said I was practically begging for it all night. So I decked him.”

Some of the guys get upset, those who were there - Colt, Jace, Knox, and Rhett -

"He said WHAT?" Dagger is on his feet before I can blink, beer forgotten. His chair scrapes against the hardwood floor with a sound that makes me wince.

"Sit down," Levi commands, not looking up from wrapping my hand. "It's handled."

"The hell it is," Blaze mutters, his eyes dark with fury. "Is Doctor McDick still breathing?"

I can't help but laugh despite everything. "Unfortunately."

"He won't be if he comes near you again," Ghost says quietly. That's the thing about Ghost—he rarely speaks, but when he does, everyone listens. The deadliest of us all, and the most loyal.

"Alright, enough," Jace says, his voice carrying that unmistakable authority. "We're not killing anyone tonight."

"Tomorrow's wide open though," Colt mumbles, earning a few dark chuckles.

Rhett hasn't said a word, but I feel his tension from across the table. His jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth don't crack. When our eyes meet, I see that dangerous glint—the one that appears right before he climbs on the back of a two-thousand-pound bull with murder in its eyes.

Levi finishes wrapping my hand, his work neat and efficient. "Keep it clean. Ice it. And next time, hit with your thumb outside your fist."

"Well, we've got another problem," Jace says, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table. "Doc McDickhead called the cops. So I’m sure we’ll be dealing with that tomorrow. Knox put hands on him as well. We’ll need bail or the lawyer for the Hayes family duo here.”

I groan, slumping back in my chair. "Perfect. Just fucking perfect."

"Wouldn't be a Savage Eight reunion without bail money," Colt says, raising his beer in a mock toast. "Welcome home, Willow."

The words hit me harder than I expected. Welcome home. Is that what this is? Some twisted homecoming where I'm right back in the thick of their chaos?

"I didn't ask for this," I mutter, flexing my bandaged hand. "Any of it."

"Nobody ever asks for the shit that finds us," Ghost says quietly. "But we handle it together."

"I'm already on thin ice with the circuit board. One more strike and—"

"And nothing," Rhett cuts in, voice tight as a wire. "That asshole put his hands on you. No one's getting fired over defending themselves."

"Yeah, well, the ObrA doesn't exactly see it that way when you're the 'difficult female' in a man's sport." I make air quotes with my good hand. “Marcus is an asshole and is sleeping his way through the circuit. But he knows people high up. I shouldn’t have hit him and dragged you all into this.”

"So what?" Knox leans forward, all protective big brother energy. "You supposed to just let some jackass paw at you because he's got connections? Fuck that."

I take a long pull of my beer, letting the cold liquid soothe my parched throat. "You don't get it. None of you do. You're the golden boys of the circuit. I'm the girl who has to work twice as hard for half the respect."

The silence that follows is heavy, uncomfortable. Because they know I'm right. In their world, a bar fight is just Thursday night entertainment. In mine, it's career suicide.

"We'll handle it," Jace says finally, his tone brooking no argument. "First thing tomorrow, I'll call our lawyer. Circuit can't touch you if the doc was harassing you."

Rhett's still watching me, that intensity in his gaze making my skin prickle.

"It's not that simple," I say, but my voice lacks conviction. The beer's going to my head faster than I'd like, and the familiar comfort of being surrounded by the Savage Eight is making me soft. Dangerous territory.

"It is that simple," Rhett finally speaks up, his voice like gravel. "Man puts his hands on you without permission, man gets his jaw rearranged. End of story."

"Says the guy who once rode with a broken collarbone because the alternative was missing finals," I snap back. "Some of us can't afford your particular brand of recklessness, Reck."

The nickname slips out before I can catch it, and something flickers in Rhett's eyes. Something raw and hungry that makes my stomach flip. Damn it.

"Some things are worth the risk," he says quietly, and we're not talking about the bar fight anymore.

The air in the room shifts, tension thick enough to slice with a knife. I tear my gaze away from Rhett's, focusing instead on the rim of my beer bottle, tracing it with my finger like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Alright," Levi says, pushing back from the table with a scrape of chair legs against hardwood. "It's late, and we all need sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day of damage control."

Nobody moves at first. That's the thing about the Savage Eight—we're all too stubborn for our own good, too proud to be the first to back down from whatever invisible challenge hangs in the air.

"Go to bed, children," Ghost says with unexpected humor, his lips quirking in a rare smile. "Dad says it's past our bedtime."

That breaks the tension, earning a collective chuckle and eye rolls from around the table.

One by one, the boys push back from the table, gathering empty bottles and tossing them in the recycling bin with practiced ease. The routine is so familiar it makes my chest ache—these small moments of domesticity among men who face death for a living.

I should follow, find my old room and collapse into whatever dusty bed awaits me there. But my legs won't cooperate, and my mind's racing too fast for sleep. The kitchen empties until it's just me, nursing the dregs of my beer and staring at nothing.

Or so I think.

"You planning on sitting there all night?" Rhett's voice startles me. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with those eyes that always see too much.

I shrug, aiming for indifference.

"Maybe." I take another swig of my beer, ignoring the way my bandaged hand throbs in protest. "Not exactly eager to face whatever ghosts are waiting in my old room."

Rhett pushes off the doorframe and moves to the refrigerator, the familiar squeak of its hinges a time machine taking me back to countless late nights in this kitchen. He grabs two fresh beers, sets one in front of me, and takes the seat across the table.

"Your ghosts and my ghosts," he says, twisting the cap off his beer. "They've been having one hell of a party here without us."

The moonlight streams through the kitchen window, casting silver shadows across the planes of his face. I'd forgotten how the night changes him—softens the hard edges, reveals the boy beneath the bull rider's armor. The boy I used to know. The one I used to love.

"To ghosts," I murmur, clinking my fresh bottle against his. The glass makes a hollow sound in the quiet kitchen.

We drink in silence, the only sounds are the distant chorus of cicadas and the occasional creak of this old house settling into the night. The ranch has its own heartbeat—always has. It's alive in ways city apartments can never be.

I finish my beer and push away from the table. “I’m heading to bed.”

"Yeah, me too." Rhett stands, his movement fluid despite the long day. His eyes never leave mine as he circles the table, coming to a stop just close enough that I can smell the familiar scent of him—leather and whiskey and something uniquely Rhett that no amount of time or distance has erased from my memory.

We stand there, suspended in this moment between past and present, neither moving. The moonlight casts half his face in shadow, and I'm struck by how much older he looks than when he left. Not just physically—though the new lines around his eyes tell stories of hard rides and harder falls—but in the way he carries himself. The wild boy I knew has hardened into something more dangerous, more controlled.

"Willow," he says my name like a prayer, and something inside me fractures.

I take a step back, my hip bumping against the counter. "Don't," I whisper, the word barely audible over the thundering of my heart. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?" His voice drops lower, that gravelly timbre that used to send shivers down my spine. Still does, if I'm being honest with myself.

"Like nothing's changed. Like you didn't leave. Like we didn't break into a thousand pieces."