Page 47 of Leather & Lies

“Let Miguel handle it.” His voice stays neutral, but his fingers trace where bruises are already forming on my arms. Each touch is precisely controlled, at odds with the tension I feel running through him.

“I need—” But I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Need to check the horses. Need to stay in control. Need to prove I’m not shaken by how close I came to death under those deadly hooves.

Jackson’s hand slides into my hair, not gripping, just holding. For once, he doesn’t demand my submission. Doesn’t try to force my surrender. Just offers his strength, letting me choose whether to take it.

“I know what you need.” The words rumble through his chest where I’m pressed against him. His other hand traces swirls on my hip, each touch carefully measured. “Let me give it to you.”

I should argue. Should maintain a careful distance. But I’m so tired of fighting—the storm, the fire, my attraction to a man who treats people’s lives like chess pieces.

What terrifies me most isn’t his control—it’s how badly I want to surrender to it. How right it feels to lean into his strength after standing alone for so long.

During the fire, he’d moved with the same calm, confident authority I use with dangerous horses. Issuing commands thatsaved lives and property without hesitation. His men responded instantly, trusting his leadership the way I trust my instincts with troubled animals.

I’d watched him lead his crew through the crisis, and god help me, it had affected me in ways I didn’t want to admit. The same ruthless control that made me fight him before now makes me feel protected. Safe in a way I haven’t felt since before Daddy started gambling.

“I hate you,” I whisper, even as I burrow deeper into his warmth.

His chest rumbles with dark amusement. “No you don’t. That’s what scares you.”

He’s right, damn him. But as his heat seeps into my bones and his hands trace soothing patterns on my arms, I let myself pretend this is real. That the tenderness in his touch isn’t just another way to control me. That the trust he’d shown in my judgment during the crisis will last once dawn breaks.

I feel the exact moment his focus shifts. His breathing changes, and his hand in my hair tightens just enough to remind me who holds me. The air between us thickens with possibility. If I pull away now, he’ll let me go. I trust my instincts with him the same as when I’m working with any other dangerous creature.

I don’t pull away.

His other hand slides up my arm, leaving fire in its wake. “You fought like hell today. So goddamn brave, little hellcat.”

I close my eyes and sink into the praise, into the warmth of his body against mine. Just for tonight, I tell myself. Because of the storm, the fear, the adrenaline that’s deserted me, leaving me trembling and exhausted in his arms.

Lies.

I want this—wanthim—even when there’s no crisis to blame, no excuse to hide behind.

Thunder crashes again, and I jump. Jackson’s arms tighten, one hand sliding to rest possessively on my stomach. The touch is proprietary rather than sexual, but heat floods me anyway. Through the gaps in the floorboards, I hear the horses settling, their earlier panic gentling under Miguel’s watchful care.

“Sleep.” His commands usually maks me want to rebel, but now, they just makes me feel safe. “I’ve got you.”

That’s the problem.He does have me—body, soul, and soon, my family’s legacy. I should be terrified. Instead, as the storm rages outside and Jackson’s heart beats steadily against my back, I feel something dangerously close to peace. His clothes still carry the scent of smoke and rain, making me remember how he’d moved with me during the crisis, reinforcing and supporting me—trusting me.

I’m almost asleep when his fingers start combing through my hair, the gentle touch at odds with everything I know about Jackson Hawkins. This man who breaks spirits for sport, who collects ranches like trophies, who demanded my submission as payment for my father’s debts—his hands shouldn’t be capable of such tenderness.

“Did you kill Victoria Reeves?” I ask, refusing to open my eyes.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No pretense. “She diverted water from three ranches during the worst drought in decades. Killed livestock. Made families sick. The Pritchett boy died from drinking contaminated water because she wanted to force a sale.” His voice carries that edge that reminds me what kind of man holds me in the aftermath of the fire. “I gave her three chances to make it right. She laughed. Said it was just business.”

“So you killed her.”

“I showed her exactly what her choices had cost. Drove her out to Miller’s Ridge where they buried that boy. Put a bullet in her head, then sent her car into the canyon.” He tilts mychin up, forcing me to meet his unflinching gaze. “They ruled it suicide, despite the angle of the bullet hole. Funny how evidence disappears when the right people understand the need for justice.”

“That’s cold-blooded murder.”

“That’s justice.” His hand curves around my throat, gentle but implacable. “I protect what’s mine. The land. My people. You.” His thumb traces my pulse. “And god help anyone who threatens what I protect.”

I don’t know what to say to him, how to respond, except that right now, in his arms, I felt the weight of his protection like a comforting blanket.

“I don’t know how to trust without surrendering everything,” I whisper against his chest. “Just like you don’t know how to protect without controlling.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers still combing through my hair. Below us, a horse stamps nervously but settles at Miguel’s low murmur. “You did good today,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the storm. His fingers catch on my smokey, tangled hair. “Your father would be proud.”

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