I pause before climbing in, looking at him over the truck door. “It’s a crazy story. And you’re probably not going to like parts of it.”
His expression shifts, concern flickering across his face. “Not going to like it, why?”
“There’s some stuff I never told you. About why I left. About what happened before.” I swallow hard. “Before dad died and about Mark Felton.”
Caleb looks up at me, confusion and concern all over his face. “Felton?”
“Yeah.” I climb into the truck, suddenly grateful for the enclosed space. “That’s where it starts. With him.”
He closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side, his movements careful and controlled. When he gets in, he doesn’t start the engine. Just sits there, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.
“Tell me everything,” he says quietly. “And don’t leave anything out this time.”
“I will, but this is going to require a drink.”
He starts the engine and heads toward the road. As we merge onto the highway, he glances over at me with one eyebrow raised—the same look he’d use when we were kids to get me to confess whatever trouble I’d gotten into.
And suddenly, the secret weight of never telling him feels so stupid. So unnecessary. This is Caleb. My brother. The person who taught me to ride, who patched up my scraped knees, who always had my back even when I didn’t deserve it.
I should have told him from the beginning. Should have trusted him with the truth years ago instead of carrying it alone.
So I do.
And as the sun finishes setting and the stars come out one by one, I finally tell my brother the truth I should have told him six years ago.
FORTY-ONE
willa
Two months later
Thousands of peopleare packed into the Fort Worth Convention Center, all of them on their feet, all of them screaming. The noise is deafening—a wall of sound that makes my ears ring and my heart pound.
This is it. The final ride of the National Championship.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, “Beau McCrae has drawn Hellfire for his championship ride!”
The crowd roars at the name. Hellfire is legendary—a massive brindle bull with a 95% buck-off rate and a mean streak a mile wide. He’s never been ridden to the buzzer at a championship event.
“Oh god,” I breathe, my hands going clammy.
“He’s got this,” Charlie says beside me, his hand finding mine and squeezing tight. But I can feel the tremor in his fingers, smell the anxiety bleeding into his scent. “He’s got this.”
On my other side, Jake’s knee is bouncing so hard it’s shaking the entire row of seats. “Come on, come on, come on,”he mutters under his breath like a prayer. His scent is sharp with nerves—chocolate going bitter with stress.
I can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Because this is it, Beau’s final ride of his professional career—win or lose, he will never be here again. If he stays on for eight seconds, if he scores high enough, he’ll be the National Champion. The first rider in APBRA history to win ten back-to-back championships.
And if he doesn’t—if Hellfire throws him like he’s thrown everyone else—Knox Wilder takes the title.
Through the bond, I can feel Beau. Feel his focus, sharp and absolute. Feel the adrenaline singing through his veins.
“He’s ready,” I whisper, more to myself than to Charlie and Jake.
Down in the chute, I can see Beau settling onto Hellfire’s back. The bull is massive, easily the biggest bull to compete today.
Beau wraps his hand, threading the rope around his palm. His lips are moving—probably counting, making sure the wrap is perfect. One mistake, one moment of carelessness, and his hand could get caught. Could break bones. Could end his career.
My Omega whines in the back of my mind, wanting to go to him, to protect him, even though I know he doesn’t need protecting. This is what he was born to do.
