The bunkhouse was tight and hot, everyone packed in, eyes on you and Walker but no one daring to jump in. Walker strutted around like he owned the place—like fucking Beth Dutton gave him some crown. You’d had enough of his bullshit.

“Thinking you’re some kind of queen ’cause you’re close to Rip?” Walker sneered, voice dripping with arrogance. “hanging on Rip’s leash like a scared little bitch. You’re nothing but a filthy whore with legs open wider than this whole ranch, and Rip? He’s just your damn owner.”

That was the last straw. Something inside you snapped. You lunged forward, slammed him to the floor, and started raining down punches. The room erupted—shouts and calls to stop, but you couldn’t hear them over the roar in your own head.

Suddenly the bunkhouse door slammed open. Rip stood there, eyes blazing with cold fury as he took in the scene.

He didn’t say a word at first—just moved with brutal precision, grabbing you and throwing you off Walker like you weighed nothing.

“You broke the rules,” Rip said low, voice like gravel. “I don’t want to do this, but I have to.”

Before you could react, he slammed you against the wall, his fists precise and harsh. Each hit was a reminder—loyalty was more than words, and breaking the code meant paying in blood and pain.

He tossed you to the floor, breathing heavy but controlled. His gaze locked on yours—tough but with an hint of softness inside.

“This ranch runs on rules. You fight your own, you answer to me.”