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Chapter 2 - Prologue Cont. ...

At Wren's sharp bark, the gate banged open, and Tornado blasted into daylight like a powder keg catching flame. The bull bawled deep in its chest, a sound that rattled bone, twisting and snapping against the rope as if it could tear the world in half.

Ryder rolled with the violence, not against it — spurring in clean, timed strokes, his hips loose but his core locked tight. Every lesson his daddy ever beat into him in the practice pen came rushing back — the way you ride the storm by becoming part of it, the way you never, ever blink before the bull does.

Tornado pitched hard to the left, shoulders high, then dropped and swapped directions without warning. The spin was vicious, dust boiling up around them, the whole arena blurring at the edges. Ryder kept his chin tucked, hat cinched low, free arm cutting the air like a counterweight. Beneath the roar of the crowd, Wren's voice came sharp and clear: "Take him down, Ryder!"

He didn't think about the boardrooms, the deals, the billions parked in accounts with his name on them. Out here, none of that bought him a damn thing. Out here, it was eight seconds, his daddy's ghost, and a bull that wanted him gone.

Tornado came with a high kick, back legs snapping up like a whip crack, but Ryder matched it beat for beat — his balance a perfect blend of muscle memory and cold calculation. Man and beast locked into a savage rhythm, each move an answer to the other's challenge.

When the buzzer screamed, the arena detonated in cheers. Tornado blew out one last defiant snort before pulling up, lathered and winded. Ryder's chest heaved, adrenaline burning like good whiskey in his veins.

But the celebration fractured. Something in the pit of his stomach coiled tight — not fear exactly, but that old, familiar sense that the ride wasn't over just because the whistle had blown.

Ryder glanced down and felt the bottom drop out of the world. His hand was still locked in the bull rope, leather biting deep, his wrist bent at an angle no man's body was meant to go. Tornado's fury snapped him sideways, his body whipping like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane.

The crowd's roar strangled into a stunned, collective silence. Hundreds of eyes locked on him — not the billionaire in the hidden skyscraper life, not the champion cowboy they'd cheered for — but a man one heartbeat away from being dragged into the dirt for good.

Over the loudspeakers, the announcer's voice cracked like a gunshot: "He's hung up!" The words cut through the arena, heavy with the weight of what they meant. No more rhythm, no more dance — just a raw, primal fight between flesh and fury.

The seconds stretched cruelly, each one a lifetime as Ryder yanked, twisted, felt the hot burn of hemp on skin. His thoughts splintered — not of money, not of legacy — just survival and the hard taste of failure he refused to swallow.

In a blur, the bullfighters launched into the ring. Three men with the speed of instinct and the courage of the half-mad, circling Tornado like wolves trying to pull down a storm. They feinted, slapped at the bull's shoulder, tried to draw the beast's murderous focus away from Ryder's dangling body.

At the rails, fellow riders swarmed the chute gate, hands working fast and desperate on the knot that had turned into a noose. Their faces were tight with fear, their movements pure muscle memory — the kind of work that could mean the difference between walking out and being carried.

The air was heavy enough to choke on, thick with dust and dread, as the whole damn arena seemed to hold its breath. Ryder's gaze stayed locked on his twisted wrist, his face carved tight with pain. Every pull against Tornado's iron grip sent a white-hot jolt screaming up his arm, the burn setting fire to the bruises and breaks already blooming beneath his skin.

The bullfighters worked the ring like men born to dance with death — boots digging, hats low, eyes sharp. They darted in and out, reading Tornado's every twitch the way Wall Street sharks read a market swing.

Ryder braced for one more wrench, but the pain came first — a lightning bolt straight through his shoulder, stealing the breath right out of him. His cry tore across the arena, raw and unguarded. Still, the bullfighters didn't falter. They moved in close, hands and hooks working in ruthless rhythm, until one last twist and yank tore his hand free from the rope's vise.

They hauled him back, boots scraping dirt, the world tilting in dust and noise. But Tornado wasn't done.

The bull blew out a sound like thunder cracking against stone, sides heaving, eyes dark with pure, feral intent. He spun once, hard, then set his gaze on Ryder — that unblinking, hell-bent glare that said this fight wasn't finished.

The bullfighters stepped in, but Tornado's power was a freight train on four legs. He lunged, horns low, catching one man square and launching him skyward in a blur of denim and daylight before pivoting, deadly and sure, back toward Ryder.

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