Page 8

Rhett takes another step closer, and I'm trapped between his body and the kitchen counter. The heat of him radiates through my thin t-shirt, a stark reminder of what it felt like to be pressed against him. My body remembers even if my mind is screaming warnings.

"Everything's changed," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "And nothing has."

His hand comes up, hovering near my face but not quite touching. I hold my breath, torn between leaning into his palm and running for my life. The air between us crackles with electricity, with all the unspoken words and broken promises that have haunted me for two years.

"I should go," I whisper, but my feet won't move. The kitchen feels impossibly small suddenly, the air between us charged with everything we're not saying.

"Should you?" Rhett's voice is barely audible, his fingers finally, finally brushing against my cheek. The contact sends electricity racing down my spine, and I hate myself for the way my body still responds to him.

My bandaged hand throbs in time with my heartbeat. Pain grounds me, reminds me why I can’t do this again with him.

"Yes," I say, more firmly this time, ducking under his arm. "Good night, Rhett."

"Sweet dreams, Willow." His voice follows me down the hallway, wrapping around me like a familiar blanket I can't shake off.

The walk to my old room feels like traversing a minefield. Each step brings another memory—laughing with the boys in the living room, sneaking into Rhett's room after everyone was asleep, that horrible night when we gathered to mourn. My hand trails along the wall, muscle memory guiding me through the darkness.

My bedroom door stands at the end of the hall, closed tight like a time capsule. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the worn brass knob. Two years. Two years since I've been in this room, since I packed my things with shaking hands and tear-blurred vision, determined never to return.

The door creaks open, and the scent hits me first—dusty vanilla and faded lavender, my old perfume lingering like a ghost. Moonlight spills through the curtains I never bothered to close when I left, illuminating the room in silver and shadow. Everything is exactly as I abandoned it—clothes still draped over the chair, books stacked on the nightstand, photos I couldn't bear to take but couldn't destroy either.

I step inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels deafeningly final. Everything's the same—my rodeo posters still tacked to the walls, photographs of the Savage Eight in happier times lining my dresser, that ugly crochet blanket Knox's grandmother made me draped across the foot of the bed.

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room.

I strip down and climb into my bed, the soft comforter wrapping around me. And then, only then, do I let my walls down. Only then do I let the tears flood down my face.

And only then, when I have no tears left to cry, when my body is wracked by my silent sobs, do I allow myself to close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

T he morning comes too damn early, sunlight slicing through the curtains I forgot to close properly. For a disorienting moment, I don't know where I am—the ceiling above me is unfamiliar until it isn't. Then reality crashes in. The Savage Eight Ranch. My old room. Last night.

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. The bandaged one throbs in protest.

"Fuck," I mutter, inspecting Levi's handiwork from last night. The white gauze is spotted with traces of dried blood, but the swelling's down. Small mercies.

Sounds drift through the thin walls—the familiar cacophony of the Savage Eight morning routine. Shower pipes groaning, boots on hardwood, the low rumble of male voices arguing over coffee. The ranch waking up around me, continuing its rhythm as if I never left.

The floor is cold against my bare feet as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My duffel sits untouched in the corner where someone—probably Levi—dropped it last night. I dig through it for clean clothes, trying not to look at the photos on my dresser. The smiling faces are too much this early, with my defenses still sleep-weak.

I grab my toiletry bag and crack open my bedroom door, listening. The bathroom at the end of the hall seems vacant. No running water, no off-key singing that would signal one of the boys is in there. I make a dash for it, not ready to face anyone yet, especially not—

"Morning, sunshine."

Rhett. Of course it's Rhett, leaning against the doorframe of his room, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and that infuriating smirk.

I freeze, my sleep-shirt barely covering my thighs. "Morning," I manage, clutching my clothes tighter to my chest like some kind of shield.

His eyes travel the length of me, slow and deliberate, taking in my bare legs and messy bedhead. The way he looks at me—like he's memorizing every inch—makes the heat pool low in my belly.

"Sleep well?" he asks, voice rough with morning.

"Like the dead," I lie. We both know I didn't. The shadows under my eyes tell their own story.

Rhett pushes off the doorframe, and for one heart-stopping moment I think he's coming toward me. Instead, he stretches, arms reaching high above his head, showcasing the ripple of muscle across his abdomen. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"Bathroom's all yours," he says, that half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Unless you want company."

"In your dreams, Calloway," I snap, but the edge in my voice isn't as sharp as I'd like it to be.

"Every night," he counters, and the raw honesty in those two words stops me cold.

Before I can formulate a response that isn't just stammering, I duck into the bathroom and slam the door with more force than necessary. My heart's hammering against my ribs like I've just dismounted from a bull ride.

"Get it together, Willow," I mutter to my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks haunted—dark circles under eyes that have seen too much, hair a tangled mess, lips bitten raw from a night of restless sleep. I barely recognize myself in this place.

The bathroom hasn't changed either—same chipped tile, same temperamental shower that takes forever to warm up. I strip down and step under the spray, letting the hot water wash away the night's tension.

My mind drifts to Rhett standing in his doorway, all sleep-rumpled and dangerous. Two years, and my body still responds to him like a compass finding north. Pathetic.

I scrub harder than necessary, as if I could wash away the memories along with the dust of the arena. My knuckles sting under the water, a sharp reminder of why I'm here in the first place. One punch, and my carefully constructed life is collapsing around me.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, dressed in fresh jeans and a simple tank top, the smell of coffee and bacon pulls me toward the kitchen. My stomach growls, reminding me I barely ate yesterday.

The scene that greets me is so achingly familiar it stops me in my tracks. The boys scattered around the kitchen in various states of wakefulness. Colt at the stove, flipping pancakes with the expertise of a short-order cook. Knox and Dagger arguing over the sports section. Jace on the phone, pacing by the window, his voice low and serious—probably already handling the fallout from last night. Ghost silently nursing a coffee in the corner, observing everything. Levi, watching over it all like the patron saint of fuckups.

And Rhett, freshly showered, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand. His hair's still damp, curling slightly at the ends the way it always did. Our eyes lock for a heartbeat before I force myself to look away.

"Look what the bull dragged in," Colt calls out, pointing his spatula at me. "Thought you might sleep 'til noon."

"Not with you idiots making enough noise to wake the dead," I grumble, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

A mug appears in front of me before I can reach the pot—Rhett's hand, Rhett's coffee. Our fingers brush in the handoff, and I jerk back like I've been burned, nearly sloshing the hot liquid over my hand.

"Easy there, Wills," he murmurs, close enough that only I can hear. "It's just coffee."

But it's never just anything with Rhett. That's the problem.

I take a sip to cover my reaction, the bitter liquid scalding my tongue. Perfect. Now my mouth hurts as much as my hand and my head.

"How's the hand this morning?" Levi asks, materializing beside me with that silent step that always freaked me out.

"It's fine," I lie, flexing my fingers to prove it. Pain shoots up my arm, but I keep my face neutral. Years of hiding injuries on the circuit have made me a decent actress.

Levi raises an eyebrow but doesn't call me on my bullshit. That's the thing about Breaker—he knows when to push and when to let things lie.

Jace ends his call and tucks his phone into his back pocket, his expression grim. "That was our lawyer. Doctor McDickface is not pressing charges.”

Colt shakes his head. “What’s the catch?”

Jace sighs, running a hand through his hair. "He wants a public apology from Willow. Says he'll drop the whole thing if she admits to overreacting and apologizes to him in front of the entire circuit staff."

The kitchen erupts in a chorus of curses and protests. I just stand there, coffee mug frozen halfway to my lips, rage building like a slow-burning fire in my chest.

"Fuck that," Knox spits, throwing his napkin down. "That handsy bastard wants my sister to apologize to him? After what he did?"

"Absolutely not happening," Dagger adds, his normally quiet voice razor-sharp.

I set my mug down with deliberate care, afraid I might shatter it otherwise. "What are the alternatives?"

Jace meets my eyes, his expression softening slightly. "He files assault charges against you and Knox.”

Rhett moves past me to refill his mug, his arm brushing against mine. The contact sends electricity racing up my spine, and I shift away, earning a knowing look from Levi that I pretend not to see.

"So I either humiliate myself in front of the entire circuit or face assault charges." My voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears. "Some choice."

"You're not apologizing to that piece of shit," Rhett says, his voice deceptively calm. I know that tone, it's the one he uses right before all hell breaks loose. "Not happening."

"Last I checked, this was my career on the line," I snap, turning to face him. "Not yours."

His eyes darken, jaw tightening. "You think I don't know what's at stake for you?"

"I think you've always had the luxury of not giving a damn about consequences."

The kitchen falls silent, tension crackling between us like lightning before a storm. The other boys exchange glances, a silent conversation happening around us.

I turn to the rest of the boys. “Fine. I’ll do it. He’s sorta my boss and I need to work with him the rest of the season. And one of you dumbasses may need him so you wanna be on his good side.”

"The hell you will," Rhett growls, slamming his mug down so hard coffee splashes onto the counter. "He put his hands on you, Willow. He doesn't get an apology for getting what he deserved."

"This isn't your call," I say, my voice dangerously quiet. The boys all go still, recognizing the calm before the storm. "This is my career, my life. Not some bull you can just climb on and conquer."

Rhett's eyes flash. "Is that what you think this is? Me trying to control you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," I throw back, the words carrying more venom than I intended.

The kitchen falls deadly silent. Two years of unspoken accusations hang in the air between us.

"Alright, that's enough," Jace cuts in, stepping between us like he's separating us.

I shove off the counter and storm to my room, slamming the door behind me.

I pace my room like a caged animal, fury and frustration building with each step. Who the hell does Rhett think he is? Two years of silence, and now he thinks he gets a say in how I handle my career?

My bandaged hand throbs in time with my heartbeat as I yank clothes from my duffel, not even seeing what I'm grabbing. I need to get out of this house, away from him, away from the suffocating weight of memories and mistakes.

A soft knock on my door makes me freeze.

"Go away, Rhett," I call out, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

"It's Ghost." The quiet voice surprises me.

I hesitate, then cross to the door and crack it open. Ghost stands in the hallway, his expression unreadable as always. Of all the Savage Eight, he's the hardest to read, the most mysterious. The others say he earned his nickname because he can appear and disappear without a sound, but I know it's more than that. There's something haunted about him, something that recognizes the same quality in me.

"What?" I ask, not inviting him in.

Ghost studies me for a long moment. "Walk with me."

It's not a question, and something in his tone makes me nod. I grab my boots, following him silently through the house. We pass the kitchen where I can hear the low murmur of the boys' voices—Rhett's distinctive growl rising above the others. Ghost leads me out the back door, across the yard to the paddocks where the horses graze in the morning sun.

We walk in silence along the fence line, the only sound is our boots crunching on gravel and the occasional soft nickering of horses. Ghost doesn't speak for what feels like forever, just walks beside me in that comfortable silence that's always been his specialty. The morning sun beats down on us, already promising another scorching Oklahoma day.

"You know why I don't talk much?" he finally asks, his voice barely carrying over the sound of distant hoofbeats.

I glance at him, surprised by the personal question. "Because you're the strong, silent type?"

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Because words are weapons when used wrong. And once they're out there, you can't take 'em back."

I see where he's going with this. "If you're about to lecture me about what I said to Rhett—"

"Not lecturing." Ghost stops at the fence, resting his forearms on the top rail. "Just observing that you and Rhett have always fought with words the way the rest of us fight with fists. And you both aim to draw blood."

I lean against the fence beside him, watching a chestnut mare graze peacefully in the morning light. "He started it."

Ghost gives me a sidelong glance that makes me feel about five years old. "Really? That's what we're going with?"

I sigh, scuffing my boot in the dirt. "Fine. We're both assholes. Happy?"

"Ecstatic." His dry tone almost makes me smile. Almost. "Look, I don't give a damn what happened between you two. That's your business. But this thing with the doc? That's Savage Eight business."

“And I’m keeping the peace by saying sorry. It’s my staff and they know what an asshole he is already. There’s only a few of us girls back there so we have each other’s backs. And the other guys on the med staff? Loathe Marcus.”

Ghost shakes his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "You don't get it, do you? This isn't just about keeping the peace. It's about setting precedent."

I let out a frustrated sigh. "I punch the guy, I take the consequences. That's how it works."

"No." Ghost's voice is uncharacteristically firm. "That's how it works for normal folks. Not for us. Not for the Savage Eight."

He turns to face me fully now, and the intensity in his eyes makes me straighten up.

"You apologize to that man, and you're telling every other asshole on the circuit it's open season. That they can put their hands on you and the worst they'll get is a bruised jaw and a public apology." His voice drops lower. "Is that the message you want to send?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. “No! But I don’t have the fucking privilege to get away with anything! You guys can do no fucking wrong in the circuit’s eyes. The golden boys of the ObrA. You eight are headlining the goddamn Iron Horn Tour!”

Ghost leans in, his usually quiet demeanor intensifying. "And you think that happened by accident? That we just fell into being untouchable?" His laugh is short, harsh. "We built that reputation brick by bloody brick. We made ourselves too valuable to touch, too dangerous to cross."

I cross my arms, wincing as my injured hand protests. "Well, I don't have that luxury. I'm the token female medic they hired because I wouldn’t fucking leave you all alone."

"Bullshit. You're the best damn medic on the circuit and everyone knows it. How many riders have you put back together when the other docs said they were done for the night?"

I look away, unable to hold his gaze. He's right, and we both know it. I've patched up more cowboys than I can count, gotten them back on bulls when any other medic would've benched them. I've set dislocated shoulders in equipment rooms, taped ribs in the back of pickup trucks, and stitched up gashes by flashlight when the power went out at an arena in Oklahoma.

"That's different," I mutter.

"No, it isn't." Ghost pushes off the fence. "The circuit needs you as much as it needs any of us. More, maybe. But they'll only value you as much as you demand to be valued."

I stare out at the pasture, letting his words sink in. The mare has moved closer to the fence, her liquid brown eyes watching us with mild curiosity.

"So what's your brilliant plan then?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Because I'm fresh out of options that don't end with me getting fired or charged with assault."

Ghost's smile is slow, dangerous. "You really think we'd let either of those things happen?"

I roll my eyes. "What are you gonna do? Beat up the circuit board?"

"If necessary." The casual way he says it sends a chill down my spine. "But we have other methods."

"I'm listening," I say cautiously.

Ghost leans back against the fence. "You will not apologize. You will make him regret ever asking for one."

"And how exactly do I do that without ending my career?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.

"You think we've survived this long without having dirt on every important person in the circuit?" Ghost reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his phone. "While you were sleeping, I made some calls."

He scrolls through something, then hands me the phone. On the screen is a series of text messages between Marcus and someone named Tiffany—messages that make my eyebrows shoot up and heat rise to my face.

"Jesus," I mutter, scrolling through. "Is this his wife?"

"Nope." Ghost takes the phone back. "That's the circuit president's eighteen-year-old daughter."

My mouth falls open. "Holy shit."

"Marcus has been a busy boy. Now, if we’re all calmed down, can we go back inside and make a plan?”

"You devious bastard," I say with genuine admiration.

Ghost's mouth quirks up at one corner—the closest thing to a full smile I've ever seen from him. "One of my many charming qualities."

I stare at Ghost, a slow smile spreading across my face. For the first time since I threw that punch, I feel something like hope fluttering in my chest.