As the opening ceremonies swelled, Ryder, Wren, and Bella Rose strode into the arena, boots crunching against the dirt that already smelled of dust and adrenaline. Before the music even rose, Ryder had placed Isobel in the care of three committeemen, his voice firm, businesslike, with that Wall Street steel hiding under his Tennessee drawl.
“You don’t let her out of your sight. You hear me? Not one damn second. She’s under your protection now.”
They nodded silently, taking their posts just behind her like sentries. From the edge of the arena, Isobel stood wrapped in their quiet guard, her presence acknowledged not with words but with the way they gave her space, reverent as if she were glass too precious to break.
Ryder’s eyes cut back to her again and again. He trusted his men, but the
