Page 31 of Leather & Lies

She shifts in her seat, thighs parting unconsciously for my touch. “I won’t train for him.”

“No.” My fingers slide up her bare skin, delighted at the catch in her breath when I run a finger through her folds “You won’t.”

The car slows as we approach The Cattlemen’s Club. Through the windshield, I can see Lucas’s Range Rover and Wyatt’s truck already parked in the reserved spaces.

I withdraw my hand, watching her bite back a whimper. “Remember what I said about behaving.”

“I remember what you said about the table,” she mutters, and I smile, oddly pleased with her quiet defiance.

“Careful, little hellcat.” I exit the car, crossing to open her door. When she steps out, the silk clings to her curves, and my marks show stark against her throat. Pride and possession surge through me as I guide her toward the entrance. Let them look. Let them want. Let themenvy.

The poker room at the Cattlemen’s Club smells of leather, cigar smoke, and old money. Lucas Caldwell’s already holding court at the main table, his custom suit a deliberate contrast to the working ranchers who usually frequent this place. Wyatt studies his phone with calculated disinterest, while Colt arranges his chips. They all look up as I guide Shiloh through the door, my hand possessive on her lower back.

“Well now.” Lucas’ smile is predatory as he takes in the marks visible above Shiloh’s neckline. “Didn’t expect to see your latest acquisition at the table, Jackson.”

“Shiloh’s joining us tonight.” I settle into my usual chair, drawing her down to perch on my thigh. When she tries to maintain some distance, I pull her firmly back against my chest, making sure she feels how much her silk dress affects me. “Time she learned how we play.”

Shiloh watches the game with the same sharp attention she uses on dangerous stallions, cataloging every tell and tension.Her body might be draped across my lap like an offering, but her mind dissects each hand. She’s been studying these men since she was old enough to serve drinks at her father’s games, learning their patterns, their weaknesses. When Lucas adjusts his cufflinks on a clear bluff, her fingers tighten fractionally on the nape of my neck. Every small shift of her hips draws her attention to how hard I am beneath her, a constant reminder of what’s coming later.

“Your father never quite mastered that part,” Colt observes during a break between hands, his clinical interest barely masking cruelty. “Reading the players instead of the cards.”

I feel Shiloh’s tension spike, but my hand on her knee keeps her still. My other hand traces idle patterns on her thigh, each touch a deliberate reminder of my ownership. Rick Foster’s poker debts had been legendary—each loss meticulously documented in my private files as I’d waited for the perfect moment to strike. She doesn’t know yet how carefully I’d tracked her father’s descent, how deliberately I’d orchestrated my trap.

The Macallan 25 flows freely as the night deepens, each hundred-dollar glass poured as casually as water. I watch Shiloh track the display of wealth, feeling her thighs tremble when Lucas tosses another stack of chips into the pot without hesitation. When she tries to stand, my grip tightens in warning. I’m not ready to give up the heat that passes between us, and the silent trust that with me, she’s safe among the predators in the room.

“Quite a step up from those small-time games her daddy used to play.” Wyatt’s gaze sharpens as he takes in how perfectly she fits against me. His fingers drum against his cards.

As the second hour begins, the real game emerges. Not in the cards, but in the careful dance of power and possession playing out around the table. Each hand carries more weight than mere money, and deeds begin to join the chips on the table. I slide myhand higher under Shiloh’s dress, feeling her try to shift away without drawing attention. The other men pretend not to notice, but their hungry gazes follow every subtle movement.

“Where’s Ryder tonight?” Wyatt’s casual question carries weight around the table. “Not like him to miss a chance to take our money.”

Lucas’ smile shows too many teeth. “Heard he’s keeping tabs on Ruby Mitchell’s latest escapade. Something about a bar fight in Denver? That girl’s determined to destroy what’s left of their breeding program.”

“Speaking of the Mitchells.” Colt stacks his chips. “Heard the spread’s going under. Shame.”

I feel Shiloh’s tension spike against me. Her hands clench into fists as Lucas details Ruby’s spiral—each scandal bringing her family’s famous breeding program closer to bankruptcy. She knows Ruby from school, knows the desperate fury driving the girl to self-destruct. Maybe recognizes a bit of herself in that mix of pride and fear.

“Third generation ranch,” Wyatt adds, tossing more chips into the growing pot. “Going the same way as the rest.” His eyes rake over Shiloh, assessing, rather than contemptuous. “Though some of this new generation seems to have found beneficial arrangements.”

The predatory interest in their eyes tells me everything—they’ve already carved up the Mitchell empire in their minds. But I’ve seen how Ryder watches Ruby, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and claim both the girl and her legacy.

I feel Shiloh’s pulse jump beneath my lips as I press them to her throat. She knows exactly what kind of arrangements Wyatt means—the same kind that brought her to my bed, to my ranch, to my complete possession. When she tries to pull away from the kiss, I fist my hand in her hair, holding her in place while I mark her again above the neckline of her dress.

The next hand stretches endlessly as Lucas details exactly how he’ll dismantle the Mitchell operation. My fingers trace higher with each piece of their legacy he plans to strip away. By the time he’s done, she’s trembling against me, shame and arousal warring silently, visible in her stiff shoulders.

“Call.” I keep my voice mild as I match their bets, but my other hand slides all the way up her thigh beneath the table. A reminder of what kind of arrangements we’ve made. “Though I hear their star breeders are worth the exact amount of their debt. Convenient timing.”

Lucas’ laugh holds no humor as he raises the pot again. “Always is. Speaking of convenient timing,” Lucas continues. “Remember Victoria Reeves? How she thought she could play games with water rights during the drought?”

My hand tightens fractionally on Shiloh’s hip as I wonder how she’ll react to tonight’s revelations. The pile of chips grows with each round, matching the tension building in her body.

“Tragic business,” I agree. “How she managed to shoot herself in the head, then somehow drive off Miller’s Ridge.”

“Amazing how that bullet hole didn’t make it into the official report,” Wyatt’s drawls. “Almost as amazing as how quickly those water rights got sorted after her unfortunate accident.”

“The Henderson boy’s death was unfortunate, too,” Lucas continues, watching Shiloh’s reaction over his cards. “Drinking contaminated water because Victoria wanted to force a sale. Funny how evidence has a way of disappearing when justice needs to be served.”

I slide my fingers through the disaster between Shiloh’s thighs—wet and messy—then I pinch the sensitive skin, reminding her what kind of monster owns her. The casual discussion of murder wraps around her like smoke, as these powerful men discuss death as easily as they discuss breeding stock.

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