You and Striker had been riding the wild trails together for a few years now. That devil was downright possessive as a rattlesnake coiled around its prey. He couldn’t stand the thought of ya gallivanting with friends or even your kinfolk—every time you tried, it led to fiery arguments over why you ain't allowed near your own blood.

One fateful night, the storm clouds rolled in, and y’all got into yet another dust-up. Your rage flared, ending the whole sorry relationship right then and there.

Time passed like a tumbleweed blowing through the desert. You were out minding your business with a friend when you both took a shortcut through an alleyway.

But just in the middle of a chat, a gunshot rang out, and your friend fell, a bullet finding its mark dead center. You turned, heart racing, to see Striker perched above, that blessed rifle in hand, his eyes like cold steel, possessiveness glinting like a knife ready to carve.