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Every biker in the barn office watches me like I might break. But I don’t flinch. I channel every blue ribbon, every press interview, every time I’ve stood tall in heels and high society and pretended my world wasn’t crumbling. Let them see a steel spine under the silk.

Legend stands off to the side, arms crossed, eyes dark under the brim of his cap. He hasn’t said more than two words to me since he told me we couldn’t be together, and those two words were "stay safe." Ironic, considering what we’re up against.

Fighting the urge to confront him about Becki, I face the full table, Oaks, Rye, Derby, Royal, Whiskey, Bullet, Vandal, Lex, and a few others, Wildcat, Holler, Bluff, Ash.

Kernel and Whip, linger in the background, too green to speak but smart enough to listen.

Even Critter’s here, cleaned up and quiet, trying to earn back slivers of trust after what he did.

Seems Legend can give him a second chance but not us.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Derby Week is officially upon us.”

That gets a few grunts, a few nods. Derby flicks his lighter twice before actually using it.

“There are media events, owner dinners, photo ops, sponsor meetings, and the Gala on Friday night. It all leads to the Derby itself on Saturday. We’ve got appearances at Churchill Downs, a press breakfast, and a luncheon at the Seelbach Hotel. It’s a circus.”

“You need protection at all of ’em?” Oaks asks, warming his hands.

“I need y’all to blend in. Or at least not get arrested.” I try to smile. Only Royal cracks a grin. At least he won’t be the only guy in a suit and face tattoos. Most the celebrities attending have them nowadays.

Legend stays silent.

I can’t let it bother me.

“I’ll send a schedule to your phones,” I add, clicking through my tablet. “Each event has guest lists, media presence, and a hell of a lot of eyes. Which means I need you professional. Not... whatever that was last time we went into town.”

Bullet scoffs. “You mean when we took care of the Sinners?”

“Right,” I say dryly. “Let’s try not to stab anyone at the bourbon tasting.”

There’s a low chuckle from Derby and Holler.

I close the meeting quickly, too aware of Legend’s silence burning holes into my back. When the others file out, I catch Wildcat mouthing something to Royal. Royal elbows him, hard.

I stay behind. But Legend doesn’t. He walks out like I’m no one. Like I’m not the woman he kissed like a lifeline just days ago.

The opening night of Derby Week is electric. Louisville’s lit up, champagne flowing, hats towering, and egos clashing.

I chose the silver dress for a reason. It hugs my curves like it was stitched onto me, liquid silk that catches the light with every step I take. The neckline dips scandalously low, the kind of cut that dares ‘em to look and promises trouble if they do.

Thin straps loop behind my neck, leaving my back bare, and there’s a slit up one thigh that nearly reaches my hip. Paired with strappy heels and a red lip sharp enough to cut glass, I look like sin wrapped in satin.

Perched at a tilt on my crown is a silver fascinator, a spray of netting, satin ribbon, and jet-black feathers that dance with every turn of my head.

It wasn’t sweet. It was sharp, dramatic.

A warning label in headpiece form. Mama always said your hat mattered more than your heels on Derby week. This one is war paint in disguise.

Let Legend try to pretend he doesn’t care. He’ll see me, and he’ll know exactly what he gave up. This dress isn’t armor. It’s a dare.

On my arm? Sam Worthington. My ex.

Sam used to own horses, but now he’s reinvented himself as the PR director for the Kentucky Breeders Alliance, media darling, damage control expert, and the guy you call when a sponsor gets cold feet or a scandal needs spinning.

He’s clean cut, all polished charm and expensive cologne, exactly the kind of man who makes Derby Week headlines for all the right reasons.

Too bad he never made my pulse race like one glower from Legend does.

He grins down at me as flashes pop from photographers lining the carpet. "You sure this is just a friendly date?"

"Don’t make me regret it," I whisper.

Inside, everything is white tablecloths and bluegrass charm. Derby elites mingle with celebrities and political stars. I spot a few of my rivals, owners and breeders who’d rather see Paradise Falls in ashes than crowned at Churchill Downs.

And then I feel him.

Legend walks in like the world shifts to make space for him. Black button-down, dark jeans, biker boots. No tie. No apologies.

The room stirs. People sense danger before they understand it.

He zeroes in on me. His eyes rake over my body, stopping just long enough at the leg slit to make my breath hitch.

He doesn’t care about Sam. Sam takes my hand, and Legend flinches. I see it from all the way across the damn room. He cares that Sam’s touching me.

“Dance with me,” Sam says, pulling me toward the floor.

We move in rhythm, but my heart’s nowhere near the beat.

That’s when Legend strides across the floor. Oaks and Rye trail behind him like storm clouds.

“You look like pure trouble,” Sam says.

“Funny,” I mutter. “Trouble’s headed this way.”

Legend doesn’t stop at the edge of the floor. He storms straight up to us, eyes murderous.

“Dance is over,” he growls.

Sam’s brows lift. “Excuse me?”

“She’s coming with me.”

“No, I’m not,” I say sharply, stepping between them. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Sophie,” he warns. “You’re in danger.”

“You made it pretty damn clear I’m not your problem anymore.”

He flinches. Good.

Oaks tugs at Legend’s arm. “We got a problem.”

“What now?” Legend snarls.

“There’s movement. Rear exit. Depraved Sinners patch spotted.”

The blood drains from my face as I realize Legend’s not just jealous. He’s serious. “Sam, we need to go…”

Except I never finish the sentence.

Sam tenses, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to protect me or protect his suit.

The lights cut. Glass shatters. A woman shrieks. Somewhere, someone’s shouting orders. But all I feel is a hand, rough, gloved, slamming into my mouth before I can scream again.

I fight. I scream. I bite.

But the last thing I see is Legend shoving through the crowd, teeth bared like a wolf, before everything goes black.