Page 16 of Leather & Lies

Once, darkness meant vulnerability—nights spent hiding from the broken and desperate man who was my father, curled up in closets and hiding under beds. Now, every inch of my territory is visible to me. Nothing moves without my knowledge. Nothingthreatenswhat’s mine.

Shiloh Foster moves between the stalls with the same fluid grace she uses to gentle stallions, her braid swinging against her back as she measures feed. She doesn’t realize she’s humming—some old country song her father used to play. Even through the feeds, I can see the early morning chill has raised goosebumps on her arms. Such delicate skin to hide such stubborn steel.

My surveillance system tracks her every movement—the slight hesitation when she passes the office, the way she rolls her shoulders to ease the tension, the path she takes between thefeed room and the stalls. I can watch her anywhere, and to my secret shame, I do.

She pauses at the newest addition to my stock—a coal-black Friesian with a habit of attacking handlers. My hands clench as she approaches his stall. The horse’s ears pin back, nostrils flaring, but Shiloh just leans against the door and starts talking to him in that low, steady voice that makes both animals and men want to surrender. That voice haunts my dreams, defiant even when begging.

The first time I witnessed Shiloh standing her ground before a stallion twice her size, something in me cracked. I knew then I had to own her. Break her. Possess every fierce inch of her spirit. But watching her now with the Friesian, moving with that quiet confidence that makes even the most dangerous animals yield, I feel that same crack widening. Her methods work better than mine, and I fucking hate how much I admire it.

The Friesian’s head drops as she scratches that spot behind his ear that all horses seem to love. She spent three years in Texas working with abused horses while she was in college, learning techniques that made her the most sought-after trainer in the state when she came home to Montana. What her file doesn’t capture is how her eyes turn molten when she’s angry, or the way her breath catches just before she submits. How she still manages to look proud even on her knees.

A phone rings, shattering the quiet. Shiloh pulls her cell from her back pocket, glancing at the screen. Her spine stiffens—that beautiful, stubborn spine I dream of breaking.

Irrational rage explodes behind my eyes. After all this time watching her, I know every tell. That slight shift of her weight to her back foot. The way her fingers tighten around the phone. She’s trying to hide something from me.

She doesn’t have the fucking right. Possession pulses through my blood as I storm out of the house. My focus is lockedon the stables ahead, where Shiloh’s voice carries just enough tension to confirm my suspicions.

“I know what I owe.” A pause. “I’ll handle it.”

The heavy stable doors whisper open under my touch. Her back is to me, shoulders tight, phone pressed to her ear. She’s inside the Friesian’s stall now—seemingly a deliberate move to give her additional privacy, should she need it. Such a clever, defiant little hellcat.

The horse snorts at my approach. She steps away, but I hear the tension in her voice. “I have to go.”

I lean against the stall door, letting her see exactly how much space I command. “Anything I should know about?”

“You’re welcome to eavesdrop, but I promise you’ll still learn nothing.” Her chin lifts in that way that makes me want to force it back down. To watch that pride shatter into complete submission.

My voice is soft, deceptively so. “Something you don’t want me to hear?”

She takes a step back, bumping into the Friesian. The stallion’s ears pin flat, but he doesn’t strike. Of course not. She’s already gentled him to her hand, just like she gentles everything she touches. Except me. I’m the one monster she can’t tame.

“Our agreement was about my body and my professional expertise,” she says, that velvet-over-steel voice scraping against my control. “Not my entire existence.”

I enter the stall. The Friesian dances sideways, giving me space despite his reputation. Even the most vicious animals recognize a predator when they see one. “Nothing in your life is private, hellcat. You signed that away.” I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing just hard enough to remind her of her place. “Every single breath you take belongs to me now.”

Her pulse flutters in her throat, betraying how greatly I affect her. A fine tremor runs through her body—not true fear, but a delicious mixture of defiance and desire that makes me want to shove her against the wall and taste her. Her breath comes faster, shorter, her pupils dilating even as she tries to maintain that proud stare.

“Jackson—” My name catches in her throat, and we both hear the weakness in it. Her skin flushes pink down her throat, disappearing beneath her collar. I’m desperate to know how far that blush extends—how it spreads across her chest when she’s aroused, how it deepens when she fights her own surrender.

“Show me your phone.”

“No.”

The word hangs between us. Her eyes have shifted from green to molten gold—the color they turn when she’s spoiling for a fight. The color that makes me want to pin her down and remind her who owns her.

“Last chance.” My voice has dropped to a register that makes her shiver. “Show me.”

Her fingers tighten on the phone. “You don’t own everything, Jackson.”

I crowd her against the wall. “The contract is explicit. Every part of you belongs to me now. Your time. Your body. Your privacy. You gave up the right to refuse me anything.”

I wrap my hand around her wrist and yank her out of the stall. A furious whinny from the Friesian cuts through my rage—I’ve undone hours of her careful work. The horse’s eyes roll white, showing the violence I’ve reawakened. Any other trainer would need weeks to regain his trust. But I’ve seen her do this dance before, turning savage beasts into willing partners. By tomorrow, the stallion will be eating from her palm again, and irrational jealousy burns like acid in my gut—I want the same attentiveness from her.

She pulls and struggles but once again proves no match for my strength. I drag her into the tack room and slam the door behind me.

“On your knees,” I growl.

“Go to hell.” But her voice wavers, her body already swaying toward me even as she resists.

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