The quiet of Canyon Ridge felt like the first breath after drowning. After hours of noise, the crush of bodies, and the weight of countless eyes—always watching, always expecting—this silence soothed the frayed edges of my mind. The corridors before me stretched like a forgotten memory, dark and empty, yet humming with a life all their own. Out there, beyond these walls, the world was too loud, too unpredictable, sharp with unsaid words and expectations clinging to me like shadows. But here, wrapped in the calm, I could exhale. I could finally just... be.

I wasn't supposed to be here tonight. Not really. Honey's gear had been forgotten in the shared tack room, a chore for tomorrow that I should've just left behind. But something deeper tugged at me, something unnamed and persistent, drawing me back here. Maybe it was the familiar pull to avoid the usual post-rodeo routine—bar-hopping and drunken conversations that always seemed to end somewhere darker than I wanted. Caleb and Sean? They were harmless, their slurred teasing a part of the background noise I'd grown used to. But the others? The nights that dragged on until whiskey blurred the lines of regret? I wasn't in the mood to drown myself in that kind of oblivion. Not tonight.

Colt's hat sat a little too loose on my head, but its weight steadied me, grounding me as I walked through the empty halls. I tugged the brim lower, feeling the worn leather press against my forehead. The scent of him—sweat, dust, something earthy—clung to it, a quiet reminder of the day's moments. Small touches that tethered me to now, even when my mind wanted to drift.

Dinner had been surprisingly good. Better than I'd expected. Caleb and Sean had been relentless, their jokes sharp but harmless, flying across the table like arrows loosed from a bow. For once, I hadn't felt the need to brace myself or dodge their playful jabs. Instead, I found myself laughing—real laughter, the kind that untangled the knots in my chest, loosening the tension that had wound tight all day. Those fleeting moments, where I could just breathe, felt like rare glimpses of normalcy. Moments where I wasn't the weight of my name or the burden of living up to the Odell legacy.

After dinner, I excused myself, leaving Caleb and Sean at the table, their drinks clinking together as they pulled Colt deeper into their stories and laughter. The pull to walk back to Honey tugged at my chest, something instinctive, like I needed to be near her, to see her before the day truly ended.

The arena was quiet now, a peaceful contrast to the chaos that had unfolded earlier. The familiar scent of hay and leather greeted me as I reached the tack room, where Honey's gear was still neatly tucked away, waiting for the morning. I ran a hand over the worn leather, finding comfort in the routine, in the small act of checking that everything was in place. That everything was ready.

Because if things weren't perfect for her, how could I trust myself to be?

The stables had always been a place where the world slowed down. The soft shuffle of hay beneath hooves, the steady rhythm of horses breathing in their stalls—it was a pace that asked nothing of me, a gentle kind of calm that always seemed just out of reach in the rest of my life. Honey's stall was in the far corner, where shadows stretched and shifted with the dim light, but I knew she'd be there. Waiting. She always knew when I was close, like she could sense the parts of me I tried to hide from the rest of the world.

As I approached, she nudged my hand, her breath warm against the evening air, a comfort I didn't realize I needed until it was there. I pressed my forehead to hers, letting the steady rise and fall of her breath anchor me, her heartbeat a slow, grounding rhythm that seemed to still everything inside me. With Honey, there was no room for doubts, no weight of the name I carried. Just the quiet and the certainty of her presence.

I ran my hands down her coat, checking her gear, making sure her blanket was secure. Everything was as it should be, as I knew it would be. There was no real reason to feel on edge.

I was just finishing up when a sudden burst of laughter cut through the stillness, sharp as a whip crack. The sound rippled through the quiet air, and I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It wasn't the kind of laughter that came from joy—it was colder, twisted, like it had no business belonging here. A dark note that curled through the night and settled deep in my gut.

I set Honey's reins aside, my movements slow, deliberate, trying not to disturb the fragile quiet that had been shattered. The laughter came again, louder this time, edged with a tension that made my teeth clench. I moved toward the sound, careful to make my steps light, the crunch of dirt beneath my boots almost swallowed by the weight of anticipation pressing against my chest.

I rounded the corner and stopped. There, leaning over one of the steel chutes, were two men—relaxed, but the gleam in their eyes betrayed something darker. Something hungry. I didn't know them, not really. They were the kind of men you might see on the edges of an event like this—saddle bronc riders, maybe. The kind who thrived on risk but carried with them a recklessness that went beyond the arena.

The taller one—Boone, I vaguely recalled—stood with his hands draped lazily over the chute's edge, his broad shoulders barely constrained by his worn jacket. His posture was casual, but the way his fingers hovered near the latch told a different story. Clive, smaller and wiry, had a grin that didn't reach his eyes, sharp in a way that made my skin crawl.

The metallic clang of the chute echoed, sharp and sudden, enough to send a jolt through me. I pressed myself back against the wall, my heart racing, pulse thrumming in my ears.

What the hell were they up to?

There was something wrong in the way they moved, the way their eyes flicked between the chute and each other, like they were waiting for something—waiting to set chaos in motion. The instinct that had pulled me back here in the first place was now screaming at me to leave, to get out before I found myself caught in the middle of whatever twisted game they were about to play.

But I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, watching as Boone's hand hovered over the latch, his eyes lighting with the thrill of impending destruction. A part of me knew I should yell, should do something, anything, to stop this before it spiraled out of control. But the words lodged in my throat, stuck fast in the rising panic, my fingers gripping my phone like it was a lifeline. I could record this—capture the evidence of whatever madness was about to unfold. But even as I considered it, I knew it wouldn't be enough.

Then came the sound—three sharp bangs, like something slamming against metal. The noise rattled through me, piercing the stillness, sharp enough to send a shockwave straight through my bones. Boone's hand tightened, just a hair's breadth from the latch, his eyes wild with anticipation. The kind of thrill that came from watching something break, knowing you were the one who made it happen.

My mouth was dry, my pulse hammering, and I tried to force the words to my lips, but nothing came. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if whatever was about to happen had already cast a shadow over everything.

Colt's voice cut through the tension like glass shattering in a quiet room, sharp and commanding. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I flinched, nearly dropping my phone as I spotted him striding into the arena. His silhouette, strong and sure, cut through the shadows like a lifeline. Boone and Clive turned, slow and deliberate, the grins on their faces faltering just enough for unease to slip through. Colt wasn't someone you ignored. Not when he was like this. Not when his anger simmered just beneath the surface, crackling like a wildfire waiting for the smallest spark. And right now, he looked ready to tear them apart, piece by piece.

"Langmore, we're just having some fun," Boone said, his voice stretching toward a casual arrogance that cracked under the weight of Colt's stare. The air thickened, the tension sharpening like the blade of a knife. Colt's presence turned everything dangerous, every breath, every heartbeat hanging in the air as if the world itself held its breath.

From where I stood, half-hidden in the shadowed edges of the arena, I could see the storm brewing behind Colt's eyes. His gaze locked on the chute, on the bull trapped inside. His voice, low and threaded with barely restrained anger, rumbled through the space like the first growl of thunder. "Outlaw? Are you insane? What the hell is wrong with you?"

The name hit me like a punch, dragging pieces of conversation from earlier to the surface—jagged fragments I hadn't pieced together. Outlaw. The bull Colt had mentioned over dinner, the one that had put a rider in the hospital for weeks. Broken ribs, collapsed lung. A bull that didn't just hurt you—it made you question whether you'd ever get back up again. Colt had ridden him earlier today, but there'd been something in his voice when he talked about it afterward—an edge, a wariness like he was still testing his luck.

And now, that same bull stood coiled with rage in the chute, muscles twitching beneath its skin, ready to unleash fury on whoever was foolish enough to release it. Boone's hand hovered over the latch, his fingers trembling with the thrill of it, with the reckless anticipation of tempting fate. His grin widened, and I saw it there—the wild gleam in his eyes, the hunger to see chaos unleashed, to flirt with disaster just for the rush.

My breath caught in my throat, every instinct screaming at me to do something—stop them, yell, anything. But the fear held me in place, a vice around my lungs that refused to loosen. I knew bulls like Outlaw. They didn't just run—they charged, obliterating anything in their path until there was nothing left standing. Until something broke.

Colt stood there, still as stone, his face set like he was daring them to cross that line. His boots crunched in the dirt as he moved, slow, deliberate. And then, the shift—the moment when his hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed. I knew what he was doing—ready to capture whatever madness was about to unfold. He wouldn't let But Clive, sharper than Boone, quicker, saw the shift first. He lunged before Colt could react, snatching the phone from his grip, his fingers curling around it like it was a victory, and with a wild, reckless grin, he hurled it across the arena. I watched as it spun through the air, skidding across the dirt, swallowed by the shadows. The sound—a dull thud—was muted in the tense silence that followed.

Colt's expression didn't shift—not immediately. His face stayed stone, but his voice was low, a growl of thunder that rippled through the air. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

Colt stood frozen for a moment, his jaw clenched tight, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface. He didn't speak, didn't need to—his presence alone cut through the tension like a blade. His body radiated a fury so controlled, so tightly coiled, that even Boone's casual bravado seemed to falter. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the weight of an impending disaster none of us could yet see.

"Come on, man, we were just messing around," Boone's voice cracked, the forced laughter hanging limp in the stale air. But Colt wasn't listening. His eyes had already flicked to where his phone lay discarded in the dirt, and I knew—I knew—he'd already made his decision.

Each step he took was slow, deliberate, as though he were walking across a minefield, fully aware that any wrong move could trigger something far worse. I wanted to scream at him—to drag him back from the precipice he was so close to tipping over—but the fear had me in its grip, choking the words before they could reach my throat. My pulse hammered in my ears, deafening, as I watched him stride toward the center of the arena, toward his phone, toward something dark and dangerous I couldn't fully see but could feel all around us.

Don't do it. Don't go.

But I couldn't speak. The words stuck, thick and useless in my mouth, as if they'd never existed at all. I could only watch, helpless, as the scene unfolded in slow, unbearable motion.

Boone and Clive exchanged a glance, and I saw it—the shift in their eyes, the way their boldness twisted into something darker. Something reckless. Boone's hand hovered over the latch, the way a predator circles its prey, testing the limits of its strength. My heart seized, dread sinking its claws into my chest as I realized what they were about to do.

I thought, for a fleeting second, of bolting. Of finding someone who could stop this before it spun completely out of control. My gaze flicked to the exit, my mind calculating the steps, the time it would take to find security, to get help. But even as I considered it, I knew it was useless. I wouldn't make it in time. And the thought that tore at me, the one that held me frozen in place, was simple—by the time I come back, it'll be too late.

Colt bent down, brushing his fingers through the dirt in search of his phone, and for a moment, everything held still. The air, the arena, my breath—it all suspended, waiting for the inevitable. Then, with a slow, almost mechanical motion, Boone's fingers curled around the latch, pulling it free.

The sound of the gate creaking open shattered the silence like a scream.

"Colt! Run!" The scream tore from my throat, but it felt like it wasn't mine, like it was coming from somewhere deep within, from the part of me that knew how fragile life could be, how easily it could be snatched away.

Colt's head snapped up at the sound of my voice, confusion flashing across his face for the briefest moment, his eyes finding mine in the dim light of the arena. There was concern there—an instinctive flicker of surprise that I was even there, that I had followed him into this chaos. It was a look I'd seen before, but this time, it was laced with something sharper, something darker. His body moved before his mind could catch up, instincts kicking in as his gaze shifted from me to the shadow looming behind him—the massive shape of Outlaw barreling toward him, an unstoppable force.

But it was too late.