Outlaw thundered forward, his massive hooves pounding against the dirt like an earthquake. The air itself seemed to tremble under the weight of his charge, a force of nature set loose, driven by fury, rage, or something more primal than either of us could comprehend. Colt turned, his body moving in a blur of panic and realization, but the bull was faster—too fast, too wild.

Time slowed, a terrible clarity washing over me as I watched. The distance between them collapsed in a heartbeat, the space between Colt and safety shrinking to nothing. He ran—boots skidding in the dirt—but there wasn't enough time, wasn't enough distance to outrun what was coming.

Outlaw slammed into Colt with the force of a storm breaking against the shore, all rage and wild, uncontainable power. The impact sent him flying, his body twisting in the air before crashing hard into the ground, face-first into the dirt. The breath that left me was sharp and painful, like it had been ripped from my chest as I watched Colt lie there, unmoving.

The bull didn't stop. Outlaw, all muscle and fury, kept coming, trampling over Colt's prone body with relentless, brutal force. Hooves pounded into his back, into his ribs—every strike punctuated by a sickening thud that echoed through the arena like a death knell.

"No." The word slipped out, barely a whisper, swallowed by the chaos of the moment. I could feel the cold grip of fear tightening around my heart, every instinct screaming that this was it. That I was watching him die.

"Move," I whispered to myself, the word trembling on my lips. "Move."

And then I did. My legs carried me over the rail before I even realized I was running, my boots hitting the dirt hard. The ground shook beneath me, dust swirling up in clouds, but I didn't care. All I could see was Colt—broken, bleeding, vulnerable. He wasn't wearing his protective vest. There was nothing between him and those hooves, between him and the sheer, unstoppable force of Outlaw.

I won't make it. I won't make it in time.

But I couldn't stop.

The bull's attention shifted for just a second—enough to break his focus, enough to pull him away from Colt. I clapped again, shouting louder, waving my arms like a lunatic. "Over here, you bastard!" I yelled, my voice breaking with the strain. I needed him to come for me, to leave Colt alone, to give me just a second—just one second—to get Colt out of there.

Outlaw's wild eyes locked onto mine, and I knew—knew deep in my bones—he would take the bait. That was never in question. The animal had rage bottled up inside him, and it needed an outlet. I was standing there, a willing target.

For a heartbeat, I thought I could outsmart him. Thought that I could draw him away, turn the rage into something I could control, something that wouldn't end with Colt dead in the dirt.

But rage... rage was never something you could control. Not really.

The second Outlaw charged, hooves pounding against the earth, the ground seemed to tremble, the air thick with dust and fury. My heart raced, pounding in time with his heavy steps as the beast bore down on me, massive and unyielding. Every instinct screamed for me to run, to dodge, to do anything but stand there and take the full force of that anger head-on.

And I did try.

I threw myself sideways, my boots slipping in the dirt as I tried to pivot, the world narrowing to the sound of his hooves pounding behind me, every breath ragged and sharp in my throat. I didn't have time to think—only to move, to get him far enough from Colt to make this worth it. Just one more second. I just needed one more second.

The bull's breath hit the back of my neck, hot and furious, and I barely felt the ground shift beneath me before his horns were there—before that blunt, relentless force caught me at my side.

Pain. Sharp and all-consuming, like I'd been ripped apart from the inside.

I hit the dirt hard, the impact rattling through my bones, but it was the searing heat along my ribs that took my breath. It felt like fire tearing through flesh, a white-hot scream trapped behind clenched teeth. The world spun for a second, dust choking the air, and I could barely register the weight of my own body as I hit the ground again, skidding to a stop against the steel barrier.

For a moment, I thought I was going to pass out. That maybe I had already, that this blur of sounds and shadows was the dream you slip into before the pain ends you completely.

But no. I was still here. Still fighting to breathe through the agony.

I pressed my hand to my side, fingers trembling as they met the torn fabric, the slick warmth of blood seeping through. The wound wasn't deep—not deep enough to stop me—but the pain of it... it clawed at me, curling around my lungs like a vice.

"Colt." His name barely made it out, more of a gasp than a word. My head swam, but I forced myself up onto my knees, biting back the whimper that threatened to escape as my arm screamed in protest.

I'd gotten Outlaw's attention. That much, at least, had worked. The bull had slowed, confused, snorting clouds of steam into the cold air as he stamped the ground. But I could see it, the way his head turned, the way his massive frame coiled again, ready to charge. I wouldn't survive another hit. Not like this.

But Colt—he was still on the ground. Still broken, bleeding. And I had to get him out.

I staggered to my feet, my legs weak beneath me, the edges of my vision darkening with each step I took. I could feel the pulse of blood from the wound, could hear it in the rush of my heartbeat. The thought whispered at the back of my mind, You won't make it. But I silenced it, pushed it down into the pit of fear where all my other doubts lived.

Blood coated my tongue, the metallic tang filling my mouth, mixing with the dust that seemed to cling to everything. I could taste the bitterness of fear, sharp and acrid as it bloomed in the back of my throat. My breaths came in short, shallow bursts, each one a reminder of how broken my body was, how fragile it had always been. Every heartbeat sent another rush of pain through my side, and I bit down hard, the taste of blood thickening, threatening to choke me.

"Keep moving," I rasped to myself, but my voice sounded foreign, like it was coming from someone else. The words barely made it past the searing pain that clawed up my spine, that pressed against my ribs like a knife being twisted deeper with every breath.

I stumbled forward, one step after another, every movement a struggle against the weight of the air that pressed down on me. It felt like the world was trying to pull me under, to make me part of the dirt I bled on. But Colt... Colt needed me. His broken form was all I could see, all I could focus on as I pushed through the haze of pain.

You won't make it. The voice in my head was louder now, insistent. Cruel.

But I ignored it. I had to.

The cold night air bit at the open wound along my side, sending shivers down my spine. My body was drenched in sweat, yet I felt cold—so cold that my teeth were nearly chattering. My knees buckled as I neared Colt, but I forced myself upright again, cursing under my breath.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain but still there, still fighting. Thank God. He tried to push himself up again, but his arm crumpled beneath him, a guttural cry slipping past his lips. Blood streaked across his skin, dark and terrifying under the dim arena lights, but even then, his eyes sought mine, locking onto me with a mix of fear and disbelief.

I fell to my knees beside him, my breath ragged, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. "Nice hat," he muttered through cracked lips, a weak, defiant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I blinked away the tears that blurred my vision, forcing a laugh past the pain. "You're an idiot," I whispered, reaching for his good arm. "Come on, we need to get out of here."

I could barely breathe, my lungs burning with every inhale, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from Colt. His blood slicked the dirt beneath him, dark and glistening like oil in the harsh light of the arena. It pooled around his broken arm, the bones twisted at an angle that made my stomach turn. His shirt was torn, soaked in blood that smeared across his back, across his side. I didn't know how much more his body could take.

"Come on, Colt," I whispered, my voice barely audible as I wrapped my shaking fingers around his good arm. His skin was slick, hot with sweat and blood, but his grip tightened around mine—just enough to let me know he was still here. Still fighting. But for how long?

The ground beneath me felt like it was falling away, my body so cold, so heavy, like the earth was swallowing me whole. The shouts from the others—the people who could handle this, who were trained for this—echoed somewhere in the distance, faint and far away, like I was trapped underwater. They were coming, I could see them, but it didn't feel like enough. Not with Colt lying broken in front of me, his life seeping into the dirt with every passing second.

The blood on the ground—it was everywhere, streaking my hands, staining my jeans, like it had soaked into me, like it wouldn't let go. Colt's blood. His life. And it was slipping through my fingers, and I was powerless to stop it.

I pressed my free hand to his chest, desperate to feel his heartbeat, to convince myself that it was still strong, that he wasn't fading. But his pulse was faint, fragile beneath my touch. Too fragile. Please, don't leave me. The words clawed at the back of my throat, but I couldn't say them aloud. I couldn't let him hear the fear, the desperation, the raw terror that had burrowed so deeply into my chest it felt like it was choking me.

He looked up at me, his eyes half-lidded, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His lips parted, but no words came out, just a ragged breath that sent another shiver of fear through me. He wasn't okay. He wasn't going to be okay. The truth of it crashed over me like a wave, and for a split second, I wanted to scream, to sob, to let the weight of it all crush me

A shout rang out from the edge of the arena—a voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. I turned, barely able to register anything beyond the blood on my hands, the slick warmth that coated my fingers and refused to let go. My body trembled as I saw men rushing toward us, one of them brandishing a rope, another waving his arms, trying to distract Outlaw.

They flanked the bull, moving with a precision that spoke of experience, of knowing how to handle the sheer, unbridled force of a beast like this. The tension in the air was thick and heavy as they corralled him, steering him away from us.

But I barely noticed. All I could see was Colt—his torn shirt, soaked in blood that spilled across his back, across his side. His arm, mangled and twisted, was like something out of a nightmare. The blood on the ground was a dark pool beneath him, seeping into the dirt, and I couldn't tell how much of it was still in him, how much life he had left.

"Told you... to run from danger next time," He rasped, his voice so rough and quiet it barely made it to me. It wasn't a joke, not really. It was him trying to stay awake.

I swallowed, my throat raw, the weight of his words punching straight through my chest. "You're the one who walked straight into it," I said, but my voice cracked halfway through. "I just followed."

He tried to smirk. Tried. But it twisted into something closer to a wince. His jaw clenched like he was bracing for another wave of pain, and for a moment, I thought he might pass out again. But then he opened his eyes, slow and hazy, and found me.

"Lemon." His voice was thinner now, like it had to claw its way out. "You gotta stop..." He winced. "...runnin' into fire for me."

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't. Because the truth of it hit harder than the blood or the sirens or the smell of iron in the dirt.

I wasn't running into fire for him. I was running because of him.

And I'd do it again.

"I won't stop," I said finally, my voice low, thick with the kind of hurt that lived too deep to show. "So don't ask me to."

His eyes fluttered again. He was slipping. I could feel it—like something in the air was shifting, thinning. I brushed his hair back, trying to focus on anything except the blood soaking through his shirt, the unnatural way his arm was bent, the dust clinging to his skin.

"Stay with me," I whispered, leaning closer. "Please, Colt. Stay with me."

His eyes cracked open again—barely. Just enough to land on mine. "Ain't quittin'... yet," he breathed. "But you gotta go... get outta the way... before they—"

He didn't finish.

Because that's when the hands came. I didn't even hear the boots this time—just felt them. A rough grip on my arm, then another pulling me back, trying to peel me away from him. My body screamed in protest, every nerve lit with fire, but I fought it. Fought them. Fought everything.

"No—no, don't take him—don't you take him from me—" The words were wild, cracked open and raw, but I couldn't stop. My hands reached for him, found nothing. The cold hit me all at once, like something sacred had just been torn away.

His name left my mouth in pieces. "Colt—!"

I couldn't see straight. Couldn't breathe. My side lit up, the pain roaring back like it had been waiting for its moment. I clutched at it, my blood warm and slick, slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I pressed. The taste of iron was back in my throat.

The lights above me blurred, then dimmed, then disappeared altogether.

And all I could think was—

God, just give me one more chance.

One more minute.

One more breath with him in it.