He’s not just competition.He’s legacy.
The kind of old-money rancher who thinks the world owes him respect because he inherited his daddy’s land instead of earning his own.
If he’s the one pulling the Heathens’ strings, then this isn’t about business anymore.It’s personal.
By the time I get back to the hotel, the night’s gone black again.
Rooster’s bike is parked out front, Falcon’s leaning against the railing with a bottle of something cold in his hand, and Micah and Benji are hauling takeout up the stairs, handing one big bag to Falcon.
We look like hell—road dust, bruises, and adrenaline—but everyone’s alive.
And it’s more than I hoped for when the shooting started.
Inside, the room smells like fries, sweat, and old air-conditioning.
The MC boys are sprawled out in their own room—eating, sleeping, cleaning up—I assume.
My guys perk up when I walk in.
Micah raises a brow.“How’d it go?”
I drop the clipboard on the dresser, peel off my gloves, and finally let the grin I’ve been holding back break loose.
“Brentwood’s happy.Contract’s solid.”
Benji whoops low and tired.
“Hell yeah, brother.”
Micah smirks from the bed.
“Knew you’d pull it off.”
I nod, sink into the nearest chair, and rub a hand over my face.I can feel the road dust grinding into my skin, but the exhaustion doesn’t touch the spark under my ribs.
I should be dead on my feet, but my mind’s wide awake.
“I know who hired the Heathens,” I say quietly.
All eyes are on me.
“Who?”Falcon asks from the doorway, his voice low.
I look up, meet his gaze, then look back at my guys.
“Ace Gunner.”
Micah whistles low.“That son of a bitch.”
Benji leans forward, forearms braced on his knees.“Fuck!”
“Who’s Ace Gunner?”Falcon asks.
“He’s the owner of a legacy operation, some say the best seed bulls in the country,” I reply.
“He’s also my bastard of a father,” Benji growls.
“Shit,” Falcon says.
