▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance
There's a kind of wild you can't outrun.
Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
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My name crackled through the speakers, sharp and heavy, like the air itself was carrying the weight of it. The syllables sank into my bones, and suddenly the whole arena felt like it was holding its breath, waiting. The hum of the crowd swelled, pressing against my skin, but there was no thrill, no rush of adrenaline this time. Just the cold, sharp sting of something darker. Dread curling low in my stomach, twisting like a knife.
I pressed my heels into Honey's sides, a light nudge, and she responded with the ease of muscle and memory. Her hooves stirred the dirt beneath us, the sound of it muffled by the pulse thundering in my ears.
I glanced at the crowd, catching glimpses of faces blurred together in the harsh light of the afternoon sun. But I couldn't focus on them. I couldn't afford to. I forced my gaze forward, pushing everything else out of my mind. The murmurs, the stares, the whispers of failure pressed closer, wrapping around my throat like a noose.
And all I could think of was him. Dad.
How he'd strode into these arenas with that unshakable calm, like the world could burn around him and it wouldn't faze him. He'd give me that look, half grin, half wink, as if nothing was ever on the line but a good story to tell later. Fearless. Invincible. I'd spent years trying to mimic that calm. But it never fit me the way it did him.
I breathed in, forcing the memories aside, shoving them into the box where I kept everything I wasn't ready to face. It was just me and Honey now. It always had been. And in this moment, that had to be enough.
The buzzer sliced through the noise, a sharp, piercing sound that shattered the stillness. And in that split second, the world vanished.
Honey surged beneath me, her muscles rippling like a coiled spring finally let loose. The dirt kicked up beneath her hooves, the familiar rhythm of her strides syncing with my heartbeat. Everything else faded—colors, sounds, the weight of a thousand expectations dissolved into the wind.
We took the first barrel clean, the turn tight and smooth, just as we'd practiced for hours, for days, for years. I leaned into her, trusting her completely, feeling the pull of gravity as we pivoted and straightened, already setting our sights on the second barrel. Faster now. Always faster.
The second barrel loomed closer, but I was already ready. Honey was already ready. I shifted my weight just enough to let her breathe through the turn, her body gliding around it like she was made of air, like there was no resistance at all.
Only then, as we charged toward the third, did the world start to creep back in. A faint murmur, the roar of the crowd, distant but building. A low rumble that matched the thunder in my chest. The third barrel, the one that could break everything if we lost focus for even a second, came rushing toward us. But there was no hesitation. Honey didn't falter. She gathered beneath me, her power coiling once more as we hit the turn hard. Dust rose, swirling around us as we sliced through the air, faster than I expected, faster than I'd ever felt.
