Page 22 of Leather & Lies

Get it together, Foster.

I need air. Space. Something real and dirty and alive to remind me who I am beyond these silk sheets and security cameras. My body moves before my mind can catch up, betraying me like it did this afternoon in the tack room, arching into his touch even as I cursed his name. Even now, thinking about his hands gripping my hips, his teeth marking my throat, sends heat flooding between my thighs.

I press my fingers against the bruise on my hip, hard enough to hurt. The pain should ground me, remind me of what I’m fighting against. Instead, it only intensifies the hollow ache his absence has left. I want to hate this feeling, this need. Want to hate him for creating it.

But that would be another lie, and I’ve told myself enough of those lately.

The hardwood is cool under my bare feet as I pad to the door. I should put on more than sleep shorts and this ancient Garth Brooks shirt, but more clothes means more intention. This is just a midnight wandering. Nothing more. Nothing to do with how my body still hums hours after he touched me.

The dark hallway stretches endlessly, my path tracked by tiny red lights. I imagine Jackson watching. My nipples harden against soft cotton, and I cross my arms, hating my body’s response to even the thought of his gaze.

I need distance from these thoughts, from this hunger that seems to grow rather than fade. The night air beckons through the windows, promising escape, if only temporary. It hits like salvation when I slip out the French doors of the dining room.My toes curl into manicured grass, seeking real earth beneath the perfect landscaping. The stable looms ahead, solid and secret in the moonlight. Its weathered wood and sweet hay smell call to something deep in my blood, an ancestral memory of what home means.

Movement catches my eye as I approach—a shadow against shadows. My heart stutters, then settles. I know that silhouette, the broad shoulders and coiled strength. Of course he’s here. Of course he’s watching.

Jackson stands in the doorway of the barn, as sleepless as I am. His white T-shirt glows in the darkness, stretched across muscles I try not to remember beneath my hands. The moonlight silvers the dark hair at his temples, softening him into something almost human. Almost approachable.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is gravel and smoke, rougher than his usual corporate polish.

I lift my chin, claim my space. “I had a rough day.”

His eyes rake down my bare legs, lingering on the bruises peeking beneath my shorts.

A nervous wicker breaks our stalemate. Beyond him in the shadows, one of his new mares paces her stall. Even in the dark, I recognize the restless movement of a troubled horse.

Professional instinct overrides everything else. “How long has she been like that?”

“Since sunset.” He steps aside, letting me enter his domain. “Thought about calling you, actually.”

“Good thing I couldn’t sleep then.” The words slip out bitter, exposing more than I meant to reveal.

His smile is sharp in the darkness. “Maybe.”

The mare’s stall is at the end, separated from the others. Smart. She’s a gorgeous blue roan, all power and nerves. I see why Jackson bought her—she’s exactly his type. Wild and valuable and in need of breaking.

Hmm.

The mare’s ears pivot toward me, nostrils flaring. Her coat gleams with nervous sweat, muscles trembling beneath. Quality for sure, but there’s a wildness in her eyes. I keep my movements slow, deliberate as I approach her stall.

“She was fine during transport,” Jackson says, his voice pitched low. Professional. For once he’s not trying to remind me who owns what. “Started acting up after we moved her to this stall.”

I scan the space, taking in details through the mare’s eyes. The stall is immaculate, like everything else Jackson owns. Fresh straw, clean water. But something has this horse spooked enough to leave gouges in his precious woodwork.

“When exactly did the behavior start?” I rest my hand on the stall door, letting her catch my scent. Behind me, Jackson shifts closer. Always closer.

“The moment the sun set.” His breath stirs the hair at my nape. “She was calm all afternoon, then?—”

A sharp gust rattles the window above her stall. The mare startles, whites showing around her eyes. My body moves on instinct, years of experience taking over. “Easy, girl. Easy.”

I’m through the stall door before Jackson can stop me. The mare drums her hooves against the floor, torn between fight or flight. I keep my voice steady, my posture relaxed. Let her read the calm in my body language.

“Shiloh.” Jackson’s voice carries a warning, though it’s genuine concern rather than control.

“She’s not dangerous,” I say, though we both know that’s a lie. Every horse is dangerous when they’re scared enough. “She’s telling us something. We just need to listen.”

Another gust rattles the window again and the mare backs into the corner. That’s when I see it—the play of shadow andmoonlight through the glass, casting moving patterns across her stall. Basic prey instinct triggering her flight response.

I turn to Jackson, forgetting for a moment how we’re supposed to be predator and prey ourselves. “The window. It’s casting shadows that look like?—”

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