Page 2 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

Those flowers aren’t delicate or soft, they’re resilient, harsh, the kind that grows back after they’ve been stepped on. The kind that pushes through cracks in concrete, refusing to die. Wildflowers survive the worst.

Just like me.

I swallow hard and shift my focus back to my reflection, which is already halfway to someone else. The chest binder under my loose shirt flattens my curves. My body, built with years of training, has been reshaped. It’s the perfect disguise, the perfect plan, and everything is ready.

Everything except this.

Because once I cut it, she’ s gone. The girl who raced for the love of it, for the rush, and for the way the wind caught in her braid.

I shake my head and scoff at myself. She’s already gone. She died seven years ago, somewhere between the impact and the scream that never made it out. This life I’m barely living right now? It’s just the echo.

What’s left of me is only bones, speed, and a name I borrowed to survive. I’m a ghost in someone else’s skin, riding toward something that won’t ever feel like living again. After this, there’s only war.

I tighten my grip on the braid, scissors poised just below my ear. It’s just hair, just another sacrifice. So why the hell can’t I do it?

Fuck.

The old school bus creaks as someone steps inside.

It smells like chain grease, old wood, and the faintest trace of sweat in here, our home for the past couple of months.

It used to be standard yellow before Dane and I gutted and rebuilt it.

Now it’s blue, the same shade as my bike, with CREWS painted in bold white across the side.

We’re a ghost of the team we used to have, but our name still belongs here, even if it’s just the two of us now.

The back is crammed with my gear, spare parts, toolboxes, and my bike.

Past that are two narrow bunks next to each other, just wide enough for sleep but close enough that I can kick Dane when he snores.

Our bags are shoved into overhead bins, and whatever doesn’t fit there is crammed under the beds.

There’s a toilet, a shower that works only half the time, and a tiny kitchen setup in the middle with a refrigerator.

The table next to it doubles as a workspace and a place to crash. It’s cramped and a mess on most days.

But it’s ours.

“You good?”

Dane moves closer until he’s standing behind me, and his reflection appears in the mirror, arms crossed over his chest, brown eyes finding mine.

He looks exhausted. Older. At thirty-four, he’s not as lean as he was when we were both racing, but he doesn’t have to be anymore.

He’s my manager now, not my competition.

His job is to handle logistics, strategy, and keep me in one piece. His job was to get me here, and he did.

Now it’s my job to keep myself in the game .

I lower the scissors, my fingers going slack around the handle. “I can’t do it.”

Dane exhales through his nose, sounding half-amused, half-unsurprised. Then he shrugs. “So don’t. Just do what you’ve been doing. Never take your damn helmet off.”

I scowl, turning in my seat to face him. “That only worked because no one gave a shit about me.”

We’d spent the past few weeks racing, gathering enough points to qualify for the World Cup.

Unlike the factory teams, with riders backed by big bike brands, with salaries, mechanics, gear for days, and automatic invites, the privateers like us have to prove we even belong. Show up, race, win. Earn our spot.

After every race, I left immediately and never talked to anyone. Not that we knew anyone at those races. Well, except Mason Payne.

I watched him take podiums with no team backing him, no support, no sponsors. Just himself and a bike, fighting for every result and, lucky for me, Payne doesn’t talk to people, never has. Avoiding him wasn’t hard.

I roll the braid between my fingers, staring at it like it might cut itself off if I glare long enough, while Dane leans against the counter, eyes flicking over the scattered gear, the blue jersey I’ll wear in just an hour for the first World Cup race of the season.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better. He also knows exactly why we’re here and had to do it this way.

Seven years ago, we had a team— Crews Racing. It was the one thing Dad ever gave us, probably to keep us busy and from complaining. He didn’t support us in any other way, but he bought us a team and a damn bike factory .

We had mechanics, a line spotter, a big pit setup with a lounge, even a physio and a team manager, everything we needed to compete against the best.

But Crews Racing is gone now.

Dad still has plenty of money, more than ever actually.

He could have brought it back and funded a full team, with real resources, but he didn’t want this associated with his name, or rather, money, so he gave us just enough to get by as privateers.

A season on the road, a bike, and enough in entry fees to get me to the starting gate.

A hundred grand. More than most privateers could dream of.

But not enough to rebuild a legacy.

I hope it’s enough to destroy Isaac Raine , at least.

“Someone wanted to interview me after qualifying yesterday, and I had to bail before they got too close.” I grip the braid tighter. “I can’t keep doing that, people will think I’m insane.”

Dane smirks. “They will anyway.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather it be for my speed and not because they think I’m some feral raccoon who refuses to take off my helmet.”

“A privateer coming out of nowhere and suddenly kicking the asses of the top-ranked riders? You’re gonna be popular.”

I placed fourth in qualifying .

I have to fight back a grin. I knew I could keep up. It’s the only reason we’re here after all these years, because now, finally, I know. I’m fast enough, good enough.

I was even faster than Finn.

My stomach twists, but I shove the thought away. I can’t think about him right now.

“I don’t care.”

Dane gives me a look, one that says we both know that’s not entirely true. That at some point, I did care very much. About racing, about my name, about everything I lost when I crashed, but I’m not here to be popular.

I meet his gaze in the mirror. “I’m here to show Isaac Raine what happens when you fuck with the Crews siblings.”

He didn’t just end my career, he ended my brother’s too.

Dane should have won his fourth World Cup overall title that year.

He should have cemented his place in history.

Instead, he never even raced that day. He walked away and straight into the hospital.

Isla and Isaac Raine took the wins while I lay there, broken and barely breathing.

Dane never raced again, not a single run, all because of the Raines.

Because of you , a little voice whispers in my head.

Right.

Because of me.

Dane exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I hope you get everything you want from this, Alaina. But you know it’s not guaranteed, and fuck, I’m still not sure it’s worth it.”

I don’t answer right away because he’s right. It’s not guaranteed, but when I close my eyes, I can already see it. The moment I win and rip off my helmet to laugh in Isaac Raine’s stupid, punchable face when I tell him who just left him in the dirt.

The one he left for dead, only for her to come back and show him that no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries to keep us from racing, karma will always come back for him.

And karma wears the name Crews.

The simple truth is Isaac Raine can’t win if one of us is at the start.

And when the whole world sees what I did?

There will be consequences .

They won’t let this stand. The UCI will strip my name from the records, say my times don’t count, and they’ll probably sue me for fraud, rule violations, and whatever financial damages they can dream up.

Hell, they’ll probably try to charge me for emotional distress.

Isaac Raine’s, of course, anything to erase me from the sport entirely.

The MTB world will explode. Some will call me a legend, others a disgrace.

It won’t matter, though. I’ll never race again. They’ll make sure I can’t.

One more time, I stare at myself in the mirror, at the girl I used to be.

The one who loved racing for the rush, the freedom, and the feeling of flying before it became a mission, a fucking debt to be paid.

I should have died that day. I almost did.

And maybe I was supposed to. Maybe that was the ending I was meant to have crushed beneath shattered bones and broken breath, forgotten before I ever reached my peak.

But I didn’t die.

I lived.

For this.

And when I have it, when I take everything from Isaac Raine the way he took everything from me, I’ll finally end this, like it was supposed to end seven years ago.

Dane will have to put the blame on me to get out clean. That’s the plan, it has to be, but he doesn’t want to be in the MTB world anymore, anyway. He’s done. He’ll move on. He’ll be fine. Everyone will be fine.

And me?

I won’t be here to care.

My fingers tighten around the braid, and with a sharp breath and steady hands, I raise the scissors.

And cut.