Page 18 of Leather & Lies

She winces as she straightens her clothes, and an emotion vaguely resembling concern flickers through me. I push it down. We never discussed her limits, her boundaries. I never asked what might hurt her. That was the point—taking what I want, how I want it. Still, I find myself watching her movements. Taking care of my toys, I tell myself. Nothing more.

When she tries to step away, I pin her to the wall with my thigh between her legs. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she’s still sensitive, still wanting. “Next time you try to hide something from me,” I murmur against her ear, feeling her shiver, “remember how this ended.”

I back off and watch her walk away, leaving me alone in the empty tack room. The video feed on my phone shows her head high, shoulders back, that magnificent pride unbroken even now. Through the screen, I catch every detail—the tremor in her hands, the careful way she wipes her mouth, the steel in her spine as she forces herself not to run. Her thighs press together as she walks, and I know she’s feeling the ache of her need with every step.

The security feed catches the moment she thinks she’s alone. She leans against a stall door, eyes closing, hand drifting to her throat where my grip left its mark. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I know she’s tasting me still, hating herself for wanting more.

The screen flickers as she pauses by the Friesian’s stall. Even through the grainy feed, I see the subtle shift in her posture—all that fierce pride gentling as she murmurs to the stallion. My cameras capture the moment in perfect detail—her fingers sliding across his velvet nose, his massive head dropping in surrender.

But something’s missing. The feed shows me what she does, but not how she does it. Not the intangible connection that makes these killer horses yield to her will. For the first time, I wonder if all my careful surveillance has missed the most important part of her—that untamed spirit that makes dangerous creatures trust her.

The thought is gone before I can fully grasp it, buried under more pressing concerns. I have a woman to possess, an empire to protect. I don’t have time for doubts about my methods.

My control is slipping. Not just over her, but over myself. Every time she improves something I thought was perfect, I want to punish her. To force my way. To make her submit. But Christ, I want to watch her work even more.

And for the first time in my life, I find myself reluctant to burn this weakness from my system. The terrifying truth crystallizes with brutal clarity—I don’t just want to possess her defiance. I admire it. I crave it. I need it.

Fuck.

7

Shiloh

The slashedtires on my tractor shouldn’t surprise me. Daddy always said desperate men do desperate things, and the ranch’s creditors are getting more desperate by the day. I crouch next to the flat rubber, fingering the clean slice. Professional job. Message received.

But I can’t deal with this now. Jackson’s “appointment” won’t wait, and being late would only give him another excuse to exert control. He’d let me come home last night to check on my own animals, and make sure the ranch hands hadn’t burned the place down.

Of course they hadn’t. They were professionals, hired by my father, doing their damnedest to keep the place afloat, same as me.

I hurry to my truck, tired, frustrated, and not sure how I feel about another day of Jackson’s torment. I catch my reflection in the truck’s window. The marks on my neck from yesterday’s encounter in the tack room are darkening to purple, stark against my skin.

I dig through my glove compartment for a scarf, a bandana, anything to hide them, and find one folded clean—one of my father’s. Hot tears press at my eyes as grief overwhelms me. Thiswould be so much easier if I could hate him. If my fury at losing the ranch wasn’t balanced with the memories of him teaching me to ride, my first rodeo, learning how to fish at his side, how he fell to pieces when Mom got sick.

Worn red-and-white cotton slides cool against the bruises as I carefully arrange it. Professional. Controlled. Everything a respected horse trainer should be, instead of a kept woman, useful only for how well she sucks cock.

The drive to Jackson’s ranch gives me too much time to think. About the vandalism. About the scarf. About how much I hate that my body responds to him even when I’m furious. But as I pull through his gates right on time, I shove it all down. I have a job to do.

Miguel Luján, Jackson’s ranch foreman, is already at the Friesian’s stall when I arrive, his weathered face creased with concern. “He’s not eating.”

I check my neck coverage before approaching. The Friesian’s ears pin back, but I recognize the pattern—fear aggression, not dominance. Classic signs of early handling trauma. “How long?”

“Since yesterday afternoon. After—” Miguel’s eyes flick to my bandana, then away. He’s known me since I was a kid, and I flush, ashamed that he knows what Jackson does to me, and twice as ashamed that he dare not mention it.

I focus on the horse. His weight distribution, the tension in his hindquarters, the way he favors his left side—every detail tells a story. “Your current feeding schedule is wrong for his temperament. He needs smaller, more frequent meals. Less pressure. You’re treating him like he’s barn sour, but this is deeper.”

More hands gather as I explain, their attention sharp. They know their jobs, but they also know my reputation. When I demonstrate the proper approach, the Friesian’s ears flickforward. His head drops. Classic signs of submission without fear.

“You see?” I move to the side, letting Miguel copy my motion. “It’s about?—”

“What the fuck is this?”

Jackson’s voice cuts through the stable like a scythe. The Friesian startles, but I maintain my position, keeping my body language calm. The ranch hands scatter like dandelion seeds in the wind, leaving me alone in Jackson’s crosshairs.

I turn slowly, letting him see how little he scares me. “This is me doing my job.”

His eyes fix on my makeshift scarf—slightly askew from working with the horse. Three long strides and he’s inside my space, thumb hooking under my bandana. “Seems like you’re enjoying having an audience.”

“Seems like your horse needs proper handling.” I stand my ground despite the heat pouring off him. “Or would you rather lose a fifty-thousand-dollar stallion to stress colic?”

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