~𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙸𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙲𝙻𝚈𝙳𝙴~

chapter fifty-four

hey lovelies, I just wanted to start this chapter off by saying I am so sorry that I took such a long hiatus from this book while I worked on another book but I finally got inspiration for this one. Please enjoy and hopefully I can keep up with this inspiration. Love y'all.
xoxo
Shelbee M'Lynn🥃💋

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A couple months had slipped by without any chaos from the club or fires to put out, and Bellatrix had redirected her focus toward something that made her feel alive again: barrel racing. It was the one thing, besides Tig, that could tame the wild static in her chest.

She was back in the ring, and damn if she didn't own every second of it.

The morning had started hot and dry, the kind of heat that soaked into your bones. But now it was dusk, and the golden light filtered through the arena like molasses, thick and slow. Dust still lingered in the air from her last run—her winning run. The announcer had just called it: first place, $25,000 purse.

Bellatrix stood beside her sleek black quarter horse, adjusting the brim of her felt cowboy hat. Her outfit was just as sharp as her tongue—an all-black get-up: a crisp button-down tucked into high-waisted, flared jeans with artful rips up and down the legs, paired with snip-toed cowboy boots finished in jet-black leather, polished to a shine. Her custom spurs glinted in the dying sun, as did the silver rings on her fingers. Her long braid peeked out from beneath her hat, and her mirrored sunglasses sat high on the bridge of her nose like armor.

She was chewing on a toothpick when she caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man weaving his way through the crowd toward her. He was dressed like trouble in Sunday clothes—dark-washed Wranglers, matching cowboy boots, a black felt hat, and a tailored blazer that hugged his frame like it had been stitched on by God himself. There was something old-school about the way he moved. Like someone who'd been raised to tip his hat and mean it.

He approached with purpose, stopping just a few feet away.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, voice smooth as bourbon. "Would you happen to be Bellatrix Trager?"

Bellatrix's lips curled into a grin, and those unmistakable 19-millimeter fang implants flashed like warning lights. "Is there another Bellatrix Trager with fangs," she drawled, "or are you just askin' stupid questions, cowpoke?"

He smirked, undeterred. "Name's Conway Carencroe. I'm originally from Louisiana, but these days I sponsor a team of barrel racers down in Texas."

He rubbed the back of his neck, like nerves were trying to crawl up his spine but he wasn't letting them win.

"I saw your winning run at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo a couple years back... been followin' your career since. Nothin' invasive, just social media and such. But I gotta say, I'm impressed. Very impressed."

Bellatrix's gaze narrowed slightly behind her shades.

Conway continued, "I'd like to offer you a spot on my team. Or, if you're open to it... a partnership. You're intimidating, Ms. Trager. And I like that."

Bellatrix gave a small, dry laugh and pulled her sunglasses down to look him directly in the eye.

"My husband tells me I'm intimidating all the time," she said. "Didn't realize it came from men who weren't already under my thumb."

Conway grinned. "Well, I ain't under nothin'. Yet."

She cocked her head. "Partnership how, exactly? Considering what I do—and the patch I wear—I'm not inclined to sign my name to anything without a little depth. So I'm gonna need you to clarify, Mr. Carencroe."