The horse flicked an ear. Not calm but listening. He stepped forward, caught the girth strap, and checked it with a casual tug, tightening it without comment, hands moving with practiced ease. Ryker watched him.
Breakneck moved to the stirrup, swung himself up in one clean, fluid motion.
For half a second, everything went still.
Then the world exploded.
The horse shot straight up, back arched, hind legs snapping off the dirt as it bucked with a violence that would have thrown most men in the first three seconds. Breakneck’s thighs clamped instinctively, his core locking down like he was bracing for recoil. His hands stayed light on the reins, not pulling, not fighting, letting the animal burn through its fury.
The horse twisted hard left, and Breakneck countered right. It lunged forward and kicked, but he rode the movement like a wave. Dust spun around them in a choking cloud, the rails shaking under the rhythmic pounding of hooves.
“Damn,” someone muttered at the gate.
Breakneck didn’t know who or care. He heard only the animal’s breath, wild and ragged, the thud of hooves, the hiss of dust, and his own slow, measured inhale. Focus. Anchor. Center. Control.
The horse reared again, front legs slashing the air, trying to send him flying. Breakneck leaned forward, hand sliding up the neck, steady pressure, a dominant gesture without force. The horse came down hard, shaking, sweat flinging from his body, sides heaving.
“Come on,” Breakneck whispered, breath brushing the animal’s ear. “I’m right here.”
Another buck, but weaker. Then another twist. Then the shuddering beginning of surrender.
Breakneck felt the moment the horse’s energy broke, not snapped, not crushed, but bent, reshaped by calm, not violence. The stallion slowed to a hard, blowing jog, then a trot, then finally stopped, trembling under him.
Breakneck stroked the neck once.
“Good,” he murmured. “You did good.”
When he swung down, the ranch hands stared at him like he’d performed witchcraft. Ryker’s expression wasn’t admiration. It was calculation laced with something darker.
“You didn’t mention you were a horse whisperer,” Ryker drawled.
Breakneck shrugged, dusting dirt from his jeans. “Didn’t mention I wasn’t.”
Ryker studied him, that thin smile never reaching his eyes. “Boss’ll be pleased.”
Breakneck met his gaze without blinking. “You testing me again?”
Ryker stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Everyone gets tested, Cross. Only question is whether you pass or die in the process.”
Breakneck held his stare, not moving even an inch. “Maybe test someone else next time. I’m getting bored.”
Ryker’s smile faded, replaced by a flicker of something Breakneck recognized instantly.
Respect, and fear.
A volatile combination.
“Looks like we have ourselves a real live cowboy here, boys.”
Breakneck turned to find a man that always seemed to be in the distance watching. Ryker might be threatening, but this guy called the shots, his hard, dark gaze not assessing at all. It was locked on Breakneck with dangerous intent. “Dylan Cross, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Break said, going for respect when he felt anything but.
“Walk with me.”
Break walked to the fence and vaulted it like a pommel horse, landing next to the man who could only be the boss.
Ryker moved and the man sliced him a look. “Just him.”
