Page 5 of Leather & Lies

Shiloh turns away from me without a word and strides toward the door, that proud spine straight as ever. Only when she’s gone do I allow myself to press my palms flat against thecool mahogany table, breathing in the lingering scent of her arousal mixed with leather and hay.

I adjust my cuffs, my fingers still soaked with her. Proof that she’s as affected as I am, despite her iron control.

Mine.

Mine.

She doesn’t know yet that her surrender is inevitable. That her defiance only makes the victory sweeter.

But I’ve spent six years learning patience.

And I never lose what I hunt.

3

Shiloh

The stallion’steeth snap an inch from my face. I don’t flinch. Can’t show weakness, not to a horse who’s testing boundaries. My muscles burn from an hour of working him in circles, forcing him to acknowledge my control.

I should be inventorying our equipment. Preparing cattle and horses for auction. Finding a way to pay our staff and feed what few animals we’ll be able to keep.

But I can’t think about that right now, can’t face the loss of my home, of everything I spent my adult life holding together with grim determination while my father apparently signed it all away.Damn him.

Instead, I’m doing what I’m best at—taming wild creatures. I watch the stallion’s body language. A lifetime of training dangerous horses at my father’s side has made me fluent in their silent language. So why couldn’t I stop my own body’s betrayal when Jackson touched me? Why did I arch into his hands when my mind screamed to resist?

I’ve faced down animals that could kill me with one kick, never showing fear, never backing down. But when Jackson pressed me against that conference table, I didn’t fight like Ishould have. Instead, I melted, yielded, wanted. That terrifies me more than any horse ever could.

“Easy, boy.” I keep my voice low, steady. He’s magnificent—seventeen hands of pure aggression, coat gleaming like polished obsidian. “You don’t have to like me. You just have to respect me.” I coax him to yield to me, even as I shy away from the memory of how Jackson had done the same to me two days ago.

His ears flick forward, and I shift my weight, then wince. My body’s still bruised from the other day, but not as much as my ego.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I ignore it, focused on the horse’s ears, the tension in his haunches. Another buzz. Sensing my distraction, the stallion flares his nostrils. I should turn it off, but?—

The third vibration breaks my concentration. The stallion rears, hooves slicing air where my head had been a second ago. I dive left, rolling through dust and manure, coming up in a defensive crouch.

“Goddammit.” My hands shake as I pull out my phone. Three texts from Jackson Hawkins.

8 pm. 2472 Mesa Ridge Road.

Dinner. Don’t be late.

Make yourself presentable.

Not a request. Not even a question mark at the end to pretend it’s anything but a command. I glance at my watch—6:45. The stallion snorts, tossing his head, and I recognize the same wild defiance that churns in my gut, even as the memory of Jackson’s touch heats my core.

“Yeah, I know.” I step forward, reclaiming the horse’s attention. “Some bastards think they own the world. Doesn’t mean we have to make it easy for them.”

Half an hour later, I’m standing in my shower, pressing my forehead against the cool tile, water sluicing over me asif it could wash away the memory of Jackson’s hands. Worse than his touch was how my body had responded—eagerly, desperately, like I was starving for it. I hate him. I hate his control, his arrogance, his entitlement.

But what I hate most is how I can’t stop remembering the way his fingers felt inside me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, slamming my palm against the shower wall. This is Stockholm syndrome. This is trauma bonding. This is fucked up and anything but actual desire.

So why can’t I stop replaying every second?

By the time I’m clean and dry, I’m frustrated, turned on, furious—a confused mess, staring at my pathetic excuse for a closet. Everything I own smells like horse and leather. The one business-appropriate dress I have is two seasons old, bought for a charity auction where I hoped to network with potential clients. Black, knee-length—it’d be more conservative on a slimmer woman, but I needed the confidence of feeling sexy as hell.

My fingers brush the silver pendant at my throat—my mother’s, the one thing I’ll never sell. The chain catches the last rays of sunlight through my window, and I think of the last forty-eight hours of freedom that trickled away like blood from a wound.

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