Page 32 of Leather & Lies

“How fortunate.” Shiloh’s voice trembles as I circle her clit. “That you all understand each other so well.”

As midnight approaches, the stakes rise with each hand. Not just in chips, but in the careful exchange of power plays and threats barely disguised as business discussion. I keep Shiloh on edge, her climax just out of reach, using her growing desperation to emphasize my control.

“Fortune favors the prepared.” Lucas deals another hand, his casual tone at odds with the predatory interest in his eyes as he watches Shiloh fight her responses. “Like that new surveillance system Jackson installed on the north property. Quite thorough coverage, I hear. No blind spots at all.”

I feel her go perfectly still as understanding hits—realizing just how far my control extends.

“Sometimes proper monitoring is all you need to prevent an unfortunate accident.” I slide two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clench as she fights to keep her expression neutral. The men pretend to focus on their cards, but their attention keeps dragging back to where she trembles in my lap. “Like that situation last spring with the Foster mare.”

Colt’s clinical interest barely masks his cruelty as he studies his cards. “Shame about that accident.”

Shiloh’s pussy spasms around my fingers. When I curl my fingers just right, she has to bite her lip to keep from moaning.

The final hand of the night carries the weight of everything left unspoken. Lucas pushes his chips forward with deliberate grace, his smile sharp as a blade. “All in. Unless our newest acquisition wants to make things interesting?” His gaze fixes on Shiloh with uncomfortable intensity. “I hear you’ve worked miracles with difficult stock. Perhaps we could discuss alternative arrangements.”

The implied threat draws a low growl from my throat as I thrust my fingers deeper, making her gasp. “She’s not available for outside consultation.”

“Pity.” Wyatt’s knowing smirk says he expected this response. “Though I suppose sharing assets isn’t your style.”

“Some assets are worth keeping private.” I withdraw my fingers, lifting them to my mouth. Shiloh’s eyes widen with mortification as I deliberately lick them clean in front of everyone. “Fold.”

The table goes silent as I stand, drawing her with me on shaking legs. My hand stays possessively on her hip, making sure everyone sees exactly who she belongs to. The night has served its purpose—they’ve all witnessed what kind of monster owns her now.

“Leaving so soon?” Lucas’ voice carries that edge that usually makes men yield. “I thought we were just getting to the interesting part.”

“The interesting part,” I say as I guide Shiloh toward the door, my grip tight enough to bruise, “happens in private.”

Just before we exit, I feel the slight tremor in Shiloh’s body—the same one she gets when confronting a hurt she can’t fix. I wonder if the Mitchell situation cuts too close to home, reminding her of her own desperate scramble to save her legacy, and suddenly, I want to ease Shiloh’s worry.

I glance back at my fellow predators. “And the Mitchell property? Consider it off-limits.” Let Ryder have his play—I’m more interested in easing the tension from my woman’s shoulders. Her small exhale of relief tells me I made the right choice, even if she doesn’t understand my reasons.

Lucas raises his glass in mocking salute. “For now.”

The drive home passes in charged silence, but Shiloh’s thighs part instantly when my hand settles on her leg. My fingers slidehigher, finding her soaked from hours of being displayed and denied.

“Did you enjoy watching them dissect people’s lives?” Her voice shakes with a mix of fury and need. “Like they did to my father?”

I push three fingers inside her, and my voice is dark with promise. “I enjoyed watching you.”

Her walls clench around my fingers as she comes with a broken sob, shame and pleasure warring in her surrender.

We both know she hasn’t truly yielded to me. Not yet.

But tonight was a chink in her armor.

Soon, hellcat, I promise.

13

Shiloh

Dawn bleeds across the horizon,staining clouds the color of fresh bruises. I reach the stables twenty minutes before our appointment, and he’s already there. Of course he is.

Jackson doesn’t acknowledge my arrival, just keeps brushing down his massive black stallion with perfectly even strokes. His boots gleam despite the early hour, not a speck of dust on the hand-tooled leather. Even at five in the morning, the man looks like he could step into a boardroom and pull off a hostile takeover of someone’s family legacy.

Like he took mine.

The thought burns, but I force it down. Focus on the work. That’s what Daddy always said when things got overwhelming. I head for the tack room, deliberately ignoring how Jackson’s tattooed forearms flex with each stroke of the brush.

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