Page 51 of Leather & Lies

More photos spill across the polished wood. Me in the round pen. Me in the barn late at night. Me in the shower?—

Bile rises in my throat as I find a USB drive, its neat label reading simply “SF.” The laptop screen bathes my face in cold light. As video files populate the screen, I gasp. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Every room in the ranch house. Every private moment I thought was mine alone.

Thunder cracks closer, and I jump. Rain lashes against the windows in sheets, mirroring the cold sweat breaking across my skin. The first few files seem innocent enough—me working with horses, eating breakfast alone, reading in the garden. Then I click on a folder marked “Private.”

Me, crying in my bedroom after that fight about the stallion, pressing my fist against my mouth to stifle the sobs.

Me, in the bath, tracing the marks he’d left, caught between shame and arousal.

Me, pacing my room at midnight, arguing with myself about whether I could trust him, whether this arrangement could ever be more than just business and control.

Wind howls through the eaves. Or maybe that’s just the sound of my own heart shattering as I realize the full scope of his violation. Every private moment, every vulnerability, every second I thought I was safe in my own space—he took it all.

The laptop screen flares with lightning, illuminating more folders. More violation. More proof that every time I thought I was alone, his eyes were on me. The same eyes that had watched me yield to him just hours ago, that seemed to hold something like tenderness as he claimed me.

Dozens of clips of our most intimate moments. Not just the sex—though that’s there, too—but the quiet moments after. Me, curled trustingly against his chest. Me, whispering my deepest fears in the dark. Me, finally letting down every wall I’d built.

He’d cataloged every surrender like specimens in a collection. Even my submission wasn’t mine to give—he’d already taken it, frame by frame, byte by byte.

I continue to explore the thumb drive and find scanned copies of napkins my father’s signed, passed from the original owner to Jackson, spanning six fucking years—the first one only a week after my mother passed away.

And then—there’s a document simply called “Habits.” He’s documented everything about me. How I like my coffee. How I take my tea. My favorite hair products. Details about how I run my ranch—the weeks I’ve been late on payroll, and what I’ve done to make ends meet. Notes on the meals I’ve skipped since my father died.

As I scroll, I take in more details that Jackson’s noted with cold precision—my father’s alcoholism, where he plays poker, his tells.

And then—Oh my god.There are notes on the men I dated and their proclivities. What they like. Why he thinks they couldn’t satisfy me.

My stomach heaves.

The cashmere of his sweater suddenly feels like chains against my skin. I tear it off, letting it pool on the floor like shed snakeskin. The silk camisole underneath feels too thin, too exposed, but that’s fitting, isn’t it? I’ve been exposed this entire time.

A door slams somewhere in the house. His heavy footsteps echo through the hallway, each one matching the thunder that’s getting closer. Getting louder. Like the storm is racing him to reach me first.

I should confront him. Should rage and scream and make him face what he’s done. But as his steps draw closer, raw panic claws up my throat. I can’t bear to see that possessive heat in his eyes, knowing now that he’s been watching me all along.Can’t stand to let him touch me again, knowing how he’s violated every private moment.

Another blast of wind rattles the windows. Beyond them, the world has dissolved into sheets of rain and darkness. But even the storm’s fury feels safer than staying here, under his watching eyes.

I grab my phone and the USB drive, shoving them into my pockets. The floor creaks outside his office—he’s almost here. Lightning strobes again, illuminating my escape route through the French doors to the back terrace.

“Shiloh?” His voice carries that dark edge that usually makes heat pool in my belly. Now it just makes me sick. “Where are you, hellcat?”

The endearment lands like a slap. How many times has he called me that while spying on me through cameras? How many times has he studied my most private moments while planning how to possess me? For how long?

I ease the French door open as his footsteps reach the hallway outside. Rain instantly soaks my thin camisole, plastering it to my skin. The wind nearly knocks me off my feet—nature’s last warning about what waits in the darkness.

Behind me, the office door begins to open.

Through the open French doors, I hear Jackson’s voice—not addressing me, but cursing, then barking into a radio. “Check the flood monitoring feeds. All of them. Now.”

I run.

The gravel terrace cuts into my bare feet as I sprint through the downpour. Each step sends shocks of pain up my legs, but it’s nothing compared to the acid burning in my chest. The storm drowns everything—my gasping breaths, my pounding heart, the sound of Jackson discovering my escape.

Lightning transforms the manicured grounds into a stark photograph—everything is too sharp, too clear. Like thosesurveillance photos of me, caught unaware in my most vulnerable moments. Thunder follows instantly, so close it rattles my teeth. The storm’s moving fast, but I’m faster. I have to be.

“Shiloh!” His voice carries even through the tempest, that commanding tone that usually makes me yield now driving me deeper into the darkness. “Stop!”

I dodge around the corner of the house. My reflection fragments across the windows—a wild thing, hair plastered to my face, camisole turned transparent. I look like prey. Fitting, since I’ve been his prey all along.

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