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Warnings â ď¸: its hell ... so hellish stuff, lecherous demons, canonâtypical violence, cussing, eventual smut, alcohol consumption, angst, blood, fluff, horse, torture, outlaw culture, criminal underworld, revengeâdriven behavior, emotional breakdowns, grief, morally grey characters, power imbalance, canon typical religious overtones, Wrath Ring wildlife danger, forced separation, witnessing a loved oneâs moral decline, x reader.
Part 9 | Part 11
Rescued Under Duress đ P.10
The kitchen was warm and bustling with activityâLin at the stove, Sallie May setting out plates, the smell of breakfast making your stomach rumble despite your protests that you weren't hungry.
"Hand me that pan, would you sweetheart?" Lin called over her shoulder.
You grabbed it from the counter, passing it over while Sallie May assembled what looked like enough food to feed a small army.
"Ma's convinced everyone's gonna starve if she doesn't cook for twice as many people as we got," Sallie May commented, stealing a piece of bacon from a plate. "Been that way since Millie left."
"I just like making sure everyone's fed properly," Lin defended, swatting at Sallie May's hand. "And you hush about your sister. She's doing important work up in Pride."
"Didn't say she wasn't." Sallie May grinned at you. "Just saying Ma goes overboard on the food front."
You helped plate up the breakfastâbiscuits, eggs, some kind of hell-meat that you'd learned not to ask too many questions about. The farmhands would eat inside with Joe and the boys, but Striker and Chet were already out in the far field working on something.
"Someone should bring them plates," Lin mused, loading up two generous portions.
"I can do it," you offered quickly.
Both women looked at you with knowing smiles.
"Of course you can," Sallie May said, far too innocently. "Make sure Striker actually stops to eat. Man works himself half to death if you don't make him take breaks."
You felt your face heat but took the plates anyway, balancing them carefully as you headed out toward the dry field where you'd seen them working earlier.
The Wrath sun was already climbing, promising another scorching day.
You found them near the fence lineâStriker and Chet working on repairs, shirts already sticking to them with sweat despite the early hour. Tools were scattered around, and Bombproof was grazing nearby, keeping a lazy eye on the proceedings.
"Breakfast!" you called out.
Striker looked up, and something in his expression softened when he saw you picking your way across the field toward them.
"You're a wonder," Chet groaned, immediately abandoning his work. "Been up since dawn and my stomach's been complainin' the whole time."
He took his plate with a grateful nod and settled onto the ground in the shade, shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in days.
Striker took his plate more slowly, eyes tracking over you like he was checking for... something. Making sure you were okay, maybe.
"You eat yet?" he asked.
"I picked while we were cooking. I'm fine."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "That ain't the same as eatin' a proper breakfast."
"I'm really not that hungryâ"
"Uh-huh." He didn't look convinced.
You looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't the dusty ground and spotted the fenceâround posts thick enough to perch on. You climbed up carefully, settling onto one with your legs dangling.
Striker moved closer without being asked, positioning himself between your knees. At this height, you were almost eye-to-eye with himâa novel experience when he was usually looking down at you.
"Better view from up there?" he asked, mouth twitching.
"Better than staring at your belt buckle all the time."
He huffed a laugh and started eating, using his hands in that efficient way people did when utensils weren't worth the trouble. It was a little grossâgrease on his fingers, crumbs in his mustacheâbut undeniably him.
He wiped his hands on his bandana between bites, tail swishing contentedly.
You were watching him eat when you realized you were squinting against the sunâit had shifted just enough to be directly in your eyes now.
Before you could move or adjust, Striker reached up and pulled his hat off, settling it on your head in one smooth motion.
The hat was too big, sliding down slightly, but it blocked the sun perfectly. And it smelled like himâleather and smoke and something sharper.
"Strikerâ"
"You were squintin'." He adjusted it slightly, tilting it back so you could see properly. "Can't have you goin' blind on my watch."
"But now you don't have a hat."
"I'll survive." He went back to eating, seemingly unconcerned.
You touched the brim self-consciously, hyperaware of wearing something of his. Something he wore every single day.
He glanced up at you, and something warm flickered in his expression. "Looks good on you."
Your face heated. "It's too big."
"Didn't say it fit. Said it looks good." He broke off a piece of biscuit, held it up. "Now open up."
You blinked. "What?"
"You said you ain't hungry, but you also said you didn't eat a proper breakfast. So I'm makin' sure you eat somethin'." He waved the biscuit slightly. "Open."
"I can feed myselfâ"
"I know you can. But my hands are already dirty and you're sittin' there lookin' all clean. So humor me." His eyes were steady on yours. "Please?"
The please got you.
You opened your mouth, feeling ridiculous. He popped the biscuit in, fingers barely brushing your lips before pulling back.
"Good girl," he murmured, going back to his own food.
You nearly choked.
He fed you three more bites before you insisted you were actually full, and he finished the rest himself with obvious satisfaction. When he was done, he wiped his hands one more time and tipped his head back to look at you.
"Farmhands are headin' into town later. There's a faireâwhole thing with events and such."
"A faire?"
"Yeah. Animals, food stalls, competitions. Gets pretty rowdy but it's fun. Whole ranch going apparently." He rested his hands on the fence on either side of your legsâcasual, but effectively caging you in. "We should go"
"Okay," you agreed, very aware of how close he was. "I'd like that."
"Good." He didn't move back. Just looked at you with those yellow eyes, hat still sitting on your head, the morning sun painting everything gold.
"Uh, boss?" Chet called from his spot in the shade. "We gonna finish this fence or you gonna keep makin' eyes at your girl?"
Striker's tail rattled in warning, but he stepped back, giving you space. "Get back to work, Chet."
"Yes, sir," Chet laughed, clearly not intimidated in the slightest.
You climbed down from the fence, reaching up to take off the hat.
"Keep it on," Striker said. "I'll grab it back once I get to the cabin."
"Are you sure?"
"Darlin', if you don't stop askin' me if I'm sure about things, I'm gonna start thinkin' you don't trust my judgment." But he was smiling. "Keep the hat on."
You ran your fingers over the brim and headed back toward the house with the empty plates.
Behind you, you heard Chet say something too quiet to catch, followed by Striker's sharp retort and the sound of good-natured scuffling.
The faire was loud, crowded, and completely overwhelming in the best possible way.
Stalls lined the main street of the settlement, selling everything from food to weapons to things you couldn't identify. Demons of all kinds moved through the crowdsâimps mostly, but other species too. Music played from somewhere, mixing with the general din of conversation and laughter.
"Stay close," Sallie May instructed, linking her arm through yours. "It's easy to get separated in this mess."
Rusty walked on your other side, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. "First faire?"
"First one I can remember," you admitted.
"Oh, you're in for a treat. They do these a few times a yearâusually someone dies, but it's all in good fun."
"Someone dies?"
"Rusty, quit scarin' her," Sallie May scolded, but she was grinning. "He's exaggerating. Mostly."
They led you through the crowds, pointing out interesting stalls and explaining the various competitions. There was going to be horse racing later, some kind of roping contest, andâ
"Rodeo!" Rusty announced excitedly. "Bull riding. Always the main event."
"With actual bulls?"
"Hell-bulls, yeah. Mean bastards, every one of 'em. Takes real skill to stay on for more than a few seconds."
You thought about the cattle Striker worked with every dayâthe massive, aggressive creatures with horns like weapons. The idea of someone voluntarily climbing onto one made your stomach turn.
"Come on," Sallie May tugged you toward a section with pens and enclosures. "Let's check out the animal yards."
The yards were full of creatures in various stages of adorable and terrifying. Baby hell-chicksâfluffy despite the small flames along their wingsâchirped and tumbled over each other in one pen. You couldn't help but smile at them.
"They're cute now," Sallie May commented. "Wait till they grow up. Mean as hell and twice as loud."
There were other animals tooâhell-pigs, some kind of lizard thing with too many legs, a pen of what looked like rabbits if rabbits had horns and glowing eyes.
And then you saw them.
The hell-bulls.
Massive didn't begin to cover it. They were the size of small buildings, all muscle and rage, with horns that could gore a person without trying. Their eyes glowed red, and when they snorted, actual flames came out. One of them slammed against the reinforced fence, making the whole structure shake.
You took an involuntary step back.
"Terrifying, right?" Rusty said cheerfully. "Those are the ones they use for the rodeo. Meanest of the mean."
"People ride those?" Your voice came out higher than intended.
"The crazy ones do. For glory, prize money, bragging rights." He grinned. "Your cowboy's ridin' in it later, actually."
Your blood went cold. "What?"
"Oh yeah. Striker and Chet both signed up. Should be a hell of a show."
You stared at the bulls, watching them ram the fences and breathe fire, and felt sick.
Striker was going to ride one of those?
A arm settled around your shouldersâwarm, familiar. You turned to find Striker himself, looking amused.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin'."
"They said you're riding in the rodeo." You gestured at the bulls. "Riding those in the rodeo?"
"That's the one." He didn't look concerned. If anything, he looked excited.
"Striker, those things are monsters."
"They're just animals. Angry ones, sure, but still just animals." He squeezed your shoulder gently. "I've handled worse."
"You could get hurtâ"
"I'll be fine." He tipped his hat back. "Done this kinda thing before. I know what I'm doin'."
"Butâ"
"Hey." He turned you to face him fully, hands on both shoulders now. "I promise, I'll be fine. Gonna win that competition and make the whole ranch proud. Including you."
"I'd rather you just be safe," you muttered.
Something soft flickered across his face. "I'll be both. You'll see." He glanced past you at the stalls. "Now come on. Let's enjoy the faire before the events start. I wanna show you around properly."
He offered his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, you took it.
Sallie May and Rusty exchanged knowing looks behind your back.
Striker walked you through the stalls, pointing out interesting things, handing you a skewer of something sweet and spiced that was better than it had any right to be. He was relaxed, happy even, in a way you'd rarely seen.
You tried to enjoy it. Tried to focus on the here and now instead of worrying about what was coming later.
But every time you saw those bulls in the distance, your stomach twisted.
The stands were packedârough wooden bleachers overlooking a dirt track that circled the main faire grounds. You'd found spots near the middle, giving you a good view of the whole course.
The atmosphere was electric. Demons shouted and laughed, placing bets with each other, passing around drinks in clear violation of several safety rules. It felt alive, chaotic, dangerous in the way Wrath always felt.
"First race is starting!" Rusty announced, pointing toward the starting line where hell-horses were being wrangled into position.
You watched the first race with mounting excitementâthe horses were beautiful and fast, flames streaming behind them as they tore around the track. The crowd roared with every turn, every near-collision.
The second race started.
You were cheering for a horse Sallie May had pointed out when something caught your eye. There, at the starting line for the raceâ
Bombproof and Striker, both looking perfectly at easeâ
"He's racing!" You grabbed Sallie May's arm, pointing. "Look!"
"Oh yeah, did I forgot to mention that ?" she said casually. "Reckon your cowboy'll do pretty well."
The starting bell clanged.
The horses exploded forward.
You were on your feet immediately, leaning over the railing, screaming Striker's name like your voice could somehow make them go faster.
Bombproof was in the middle of the pack at firstâletting the other horses tire themselves out in the early sprint. But as they rounded the first turn, you saw the strategy unfold.
Striker leaned low over Bombproof's neck, and the horse surged forward. Flames blazed brighter, hooves barely touching the ground. They passed one horse. Then another. Striker was grinningâyou could see it even from hereâlooking like he was having the time of his life.
They came around the final turn in second place, neck-and-neck with a massive black stallion. The crowd was deafening. You were screaming yourself hoarse.
Bombproof's flames flared one last time, and he pulled aheadâjust barelyâcrossing the finish line half a length ahead of the stallion.
The crowd erupted.
"HE WON!" You were jumping now, shaking Sallie May's shoulder. "DID YOU SEE THAT? HE WON!"
"I saw, I saw!" Sallie May was laughing at your enthusiasm. "You can congratulate him yourselfâhe's comin' this way."
Indeed, Striker was walking Bombproof toward the stands, cooling the horse down. He was covered in dirt and sweat, grinning wider than you'd ever seen.
You didn't think. Just leaned way too far over the railing, waving frantically. "STRIKER! THAT WAS AMAZING!"
He looked up, spotted you, and that grin somehow got bigger. He guided Bombproof closer, stopping just below where you were leaning.
"Hey darlin'," he called up. "Havin fun?"
You reached down to scratch Bombproof's neck "That was incredible! You were so fast Pretty boy! And that wasâ" You stopped, nose wrinkling. "Oh my fuck, Striker you stink."
He laughedâfull and genuine. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you work up a sweat."
"It's so badâ"
"I'll clean up after the rodeo." He patted Bombproof's neck, and the horse preened, absolutely basking in the attention. "You proud of us?"
"So proud," you said immediately. "Even if you smell terrible."
"I'll take it." He started to turn away, then paused. "Oh, by the wayâme and Chet are up for the rodeo next. Should be startin' in about twenty minutes."
Your smile froze. "The... rodeo."
"Yep! Bull riding. Should be fun." He said it so casually, like he wasn't about to climb onto a literal monster.
Sallie May leaned over beside you. "Can't wait to watch! Try not to get trampled!"
"I'll do my best," he called back, already leading Bombproof away.
Sallie May saw your expression "Aw, he'll be fine." She patted your arm. "Besides, even if he does get thrown, they got medics standing by. Probably."
"Probably?"
Rusty leaned around Sallie May, grinning. "The trick is not to think about all the ways it could go wrong. Just enjoy the show!"
You were definitely going to be sick.
The rodeo arena was smaller, more containedâa circular pen with reinforced fencing and what looked like an escape route for riders who got thrown.
Which, based on what you'd seen so far, was everyone.
The first few riders didn't last more than a couple seconds before being violently launched from the bulls. The crowd loved itâcheering when riders got thrown, groaning when they didn't get trampled, treating the whole thing like entertainment instead of the life-threatening event it clearly was.
"Chet's up next," Sallie May announced.
You watched with your heart in your throat as Chet lowered himself onto a massive gray bull. The creature was already bucking in the chute, clearly furious about having something on its back.
The gate opened.
The bull exploded into the arena like a natural disasterâtwisting, bucking, trying to scrape Chet off on the fence. Chet held on with grim determination, one hand in the air, the other death-gripping the rope.
He lasted maybe six seconds before the bull gave a particularly vicious twist and sent him flying.
He hit the dirt hard, rolled, and scrambled toward the fence as the bull turned to charge. The safety ridersâimps on fast horsesâcut in front of the bull, giving Chet time to climb to safety.
The crowd cheered anyway. Six seconds was apparently decent.
Chet limped out of the arena, waving to acknowledge the applause. He was going to be bruised tomorrow.
"And now," the announcer's voice boomed, "we got Striker on Hellfire! Let's see if he can beat the current leader!"
Your hands clenched on the railing.
Striker appeared at the chute, settling onto a massive red bull that looked even meaner than the others. The bull's eyes glowed like coals, steam rising from its nostrils.
Striker looked calm. Confident. He adjusted his grip, nodded to the gate operatorâ
The gate opened.
The bull launched itself into the arena with a roar that you felt in your chest.
Striker moved with itâanticipating every twist, every buck, staying centered even when the bull tried to scrape him off. His free hand was high, his body loose but controlled.
It was terrifying to watch.
The bull spun, whipped its head back trying to gore him. Striker leaned away at exactly the right moment.
Five seconds.
Six.
Seven.
You couldn't watch. You turned, burying your face in Rusty's shoulder, hands clutching his shirt.
"What's happening?" you asked, voice muffled.
"He's still on! Holy shit, he's stillâDAMN! What a move!"
The crowd was going absolutely wild.
"Is he okay?"
"He'sâwaitâ"
A bell clanged.
Eight seconds. The required time.
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers.
"He did it!" Rusty shook your shoulders. "He stayed on! He won!"
You looked up just in time to see Striker leap from the bull, landing in a crouch and sprinting for the fence as the safety riders corralled the enraged animal. He climbed the fence with easy grace, then turned to the crowd and raised both arms in victory.
The cheering somehow got louder.
Your knees felt weak with relief.
He was okay. He was alive. He'd won.
Striker's eyes found you in the stands, and even from here you could see his grinâwild and triumphant and so alive it made your chest ache.
He tipped his hat to you.
And you burst into tears.
Not sad tearsâoverwhelmed tears. Tears of relief.
Sallie May pulled you into a hug, laughing. "He's fine! Look at himâhe's more than fine!"
"I know," you hiccupped. "I know, I justâthat was fucking terrifying."
"But he won! That's what matters!"
You watched through blurry eyes as Striker collected his prizeâsome kind of token or certificateâand made his way toward the stands, still grinning like a fool.
When he reached you, sweaty and dirty and victorious, you wanted to hug him and hit him in equal measure.
"You're insane," you informed him.
"But I won." He was practically vibrating with adrenaline. "Did you see that? Eight seconds! New personal record!"
"You could have died!"
"But I didn't." He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Hey hey. I'm okay. See? Not even a scratch."
"This time," you muttered.
"You really were that worried ?" He was still touching your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
"Of course I was worried! You were riding a monster!"
Something in his expression went soft. "Well, I'm sorry for scarin' you. But I meant what I saidâI know what I'm doin'. Trust me?"
You did. That was the problem.
"I trust you," you said quietly. "Doesn't mean I have to like watching you putting yourself at risk."
"Fair enough." He stepped back, looking at the group. "So! Prize for winnin' is a bar tab at The Rusted Pitchfork. Enough for all of us, if you're interested."
Sallie May's eyes lit up. "Hell yeah! Drinks on the champion!"
Rusty whooped agreement.
Striker looked at you, raising an eyebrow in question.
After everythingâthe races, the rodeo, the emotional rollercoasterâyou needed a drink.
"Okay," you agreed. "Let's go to the bar."
His grin was blinding. "That's my girl."
â˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘ââ˘
The faire was winding down as evening settled over Wrath. The crowds had thinned, stalls were packing up, and the music had shifted to something slower, more contemplative.
Someone had built a large firepit at the edge of the faire groundsâa gathering spot for people to decompress after the chaos of the day. Your group had claimed a section of log benches, sprawling in comfortable exhaustion.
Chet was complaining about his bruises. Sallie May was recounting the rodeo with enthusiastic exaggeration. Rusty was half-asleep, hat tipped over his face.
You sat between Striker and Sallie May, shoulder pressed against Striker's, watching the flames dance and crackle.
"Today was..." You trailed off, not sure how to finish.
"Overwhelming? Terrifying?" Striker supplied helpfully.
"All of that. But also... fun. Really fun." You smiled up at him. "Thank you for bringing us."
"Anytime, darlin'." His arm was stretched along the back of the bench behind youânot quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth. "You did good today. Handled the crowds, didn't panic when things got wild."
"I definitely panicked during the rodeo."
"That's different. That's acceptable panic." His mouth twitched. "Can't believe you really cried?"
Your face heated. "Shut up."
"Ain't makin' fun. It was..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "It was nice. Knowin' someone gave a damn whether I made it out of that ring."
"Of course I give a damnâ"
"I know." He squeezed your shoulder briefly. "I know you do."
The fire popped and crackled. Around you, the others chatted and laughed, but it felt distant somehow. Like you and Striker were in your own little bubble.
"So," he said eventually, voice carefully casual. "About that bar tab."
You looked up at him.
"Prize for winnin' was enough to cover drinks for all of us, plus probably some food." He glanced at the group, then back to you. "What do you say? Feel like celebratin' with some proper drinkin'?"
You thought about the barârowdy and probably dangerous, but also new. An experience. Something normal people did in Hell.
"Okay," you decided. "Let's go."
Striker's grin was immediate. He raised his voice, addressing the group. "Alright you degenerates! Who's ready to drink my winnings?"
The response was immediate and enthusiastic.
Sallie May whooped. "Finally! Been waitin' for this!"
Rusty sat up so fast his hat fell off. "You're serious? We're actually goin'?"
"I'm serious." Striker stood, offering you his hand to help you up. "But there's rules. We stick together, nobody wanders off alone, and if things get rowdy we leave. Clear?"
A chorus of agreement.
"Then let's go." He pulled you to your feet, hand lingering in yours just a moment longer than necessary. "Time to show you what a proper bar is like, darlin'."
You weren't sure if that was a promise or a threat.
But as you walked toward the settlement with Striker beside you, the others trailing behind, still riding high on the day's excitementâ





















