“Easy there, big boy,” one of the flank guys mutters, though we all know there’s nothing that’s gonna calm this savage.
I drop down into the chute, and my focus narrows, and the noise fades as I settle onto his back. My gloved hand finds the rope, fingers working instinctively—pulling it tight, adjusting until it feels just right in my grip. My other hand braces against his shoulder as he shifts beneath me. Power rolls off him like a storm cloud ready to break open.
This is the moment.
The calm before the battle begins.
I lean forward, pressing my chest down, locking myself in. My thighs clamp tight, and my boots find their position, my heels turned in. I take a deep breath. Then another.
“Ready?” the gate man yells.
“Yep,” I call back.
He slams his hand against the chute.
I lift my free hand and give the nod, and the gate explodes open.
Hade’s Ransom launches forward like a battering ram, and all hell breaks loose.
The first jump is a straight-up blast of pure energy, his front end hitting hard while his hindquarters kick high, snapping me forward and back in a violent rhythm. I stay centered, hips loose, arm locked in, attempting to ride the momentum instead of fighting it.
Second jump, he twists hard to the left. I feel it coming half a second before it starts, and I shift my weight, keeping my shoulders square while my body follows the spin. My rope hand burns as it tightens, but I don’t loosen my grip.
The crowd is a distant roar now, drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the rush of blood in my ears.
Three seconds.
He bucks again, higher this time, then spins the opposite direction, trying to throw me off-balance. He’s fast and erratic. Unpredictable. Every calculated move is designed to toss me.
Four seconds.
My legs scream as I clamp down harder, muscles on fire. My free arm whips through the air, counterbalancing every violent shift beneath me.
Five seconds.
He drops his front end and launches his hind legs sky-high, and for a split second, I am completely weightless before gravity slams me back onto his back. And I feel the impact travel from my tailbone to the base of my skull.
Six seconds.
I’m still on him. Still centered and in control. Much to his displeasure.
Seven seconds.
As if he knows our time is almost up, he gives everything he’s got—one last brutal combination of spins and kicks that would send a lesser rider flying across the arena.
But not me.
Eight seconds.
The buzzer sounds.
Relief hits sharp and fast, but there’s no time to celebrate.
I release my grip and push off. But the fucker gives me one last high kick and sends me airborne.
I hit the ground hard. Face-first. And pain explodes through my cheekbones the second I land.
I can’t get my hands up in time before the jarring crash. Dirt fills my mouth, and the tang of iron floods in almost instantly.
