Page 62 of Leather & Lies

I have to wait.

Lucas Caldwell leansagainst the paddock fence, openly watching Shiloh work his new stallion. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Moses has been singing her praises all week. Kid’s half in love with her already.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Lucas orchestrated this entire meeting—insisting I come out to discuss his breeding program at exactly the time he’d scheduled Shiloh to work with his latest acquisition. Making sure I’d have to watch her dance with danger while his youngest hand makes eyes at her.

The stallion moves like black smoke in the morning light, all coiled power and barely contained violence. But Shiloh handles him with grace and confidence, her curves filling out worn denim as she moves with the dangerous animal. Every gesture precise. Professional. Perfect.

“Moses has good instincts with horses.” Lucas examines his manicured nails, his casual tone fooling neither of us. “Been thinking of promoting him to training assistant. Give him more time working with your girl?—”

“She’s not my girl.” The words come out closer to a growl than I intend. “And we both know you’re not stupid enough to put a green hand in that pen.”

Lucas’ smile shows too many teeth. “No? Shame to waste all that young enthusiasm. All that energy. The way he looks at her?—”

The stallion pins his ears, as if he’s caught my shift in mood. But Shiloh just adjusts her body language, drawing the massive animal’s attention back to her with nothing but skill and presence. The morning sun catches her hair, turning it to a halo as she moves.

I remember how her hair felt like silk wrapped around my fist. How her body yielded to my dominance. How I didn’t even know I craved her trust, until I broke it with cameras and manipulation and my need to possess every piece of her.

“Moses!” Her voice carries across the yard, professional but warm. “Can you grab the new lead from the tack room?”

The boy practically trips over himself to comply. He can’t be more than twenty-three, all long limbs and eager energy as he jogs toward the barn. The age gap between them is nothing compared to the thirteen years between Shiloh and me. He could give her a normal life. One without darkness and obsession and the kind of love that devours.

“Might make a good match.” Lucas is enjoying this too much. “Young. Enthusiastic. Uncomplicated?—”

“This discussion is over.” I straighten to my full height, letting him feel the difference in our sizes. “Don’t fucking push me.”

His smirk says he knows exactly how far he’s pushed. But before he can respond, Moses returns with the lead rope. The young man hesitates when he sees me, instinct warning him about the predator in his path.

Smart kid.

“Moses.” I stay perfectly still, letting him feel the teeth behind my smile. “I believe Mr. Caldwell needs you in the south barn.”

He glances at Lucas, who just waves him off. The boy’s shoulders tense, but he hands the lead rope through the fence to Shiloh before retreating. His reluctance to leave her would be admirable if it didn’t make me want to break him.

“You’re terrorizing my staff.” Lucas sounds amused rather than concerned.

“I think we’re done here.” I don’t take my eyes off Shiloh as she works the stallion through another pattern. Every movement graceful, every curve emphasized by worn denim and early sunlight. “Unless you’d like to discuss why you really arranged this meeting?”

“Just doing you a favor, old friend.” He pushes off the fence, brushing invisible dust from his designer jeans. “Reminding you what you’re letting slip away. Though I have to wonder—” He pauses for effect. “If you’re not planning to claim her properly, maybe someone else should.”

The threat in his voice—subtle but clear—makes every muscle in my body tense. The stallion spooks, massive body coiling with lethal intent. But Shiloh moves with him, containing all that power with nothing but skill and presence.

She’s magnificent. Powerful. Free.

And Lucas is right about one thing—I’m letting her slip away.

I wait until Lucas saunters toward his truck before approaching the fence. Shiloh doesn’t turn, but her shoulders tense. She doesn’t have to look to know it’s me. She feels mypresence the same way I feel hers—like gravity, like hunger, like possession.

“Impressive work.” I rest my arms on the top rail, close enough to catch her subtle scent of lavender and sunlight. “He’s settling well for you.”

“He just needs patience.” Her voice is bland and professional as she asks the stallion for another turn. “And clear boundaries.”

The double meaning hits me in the solar plexus. “Have dinner with me.”

Now she does turn, those sharp eyes narrowing. “That’s not a good idea.”

“No?” I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I’m containing. “I know a new place in town. Italian. Let me feed you properly. No strings.” A lie, and we both know it. “Just dinner. Just conversation.” Another lie, maybe.

She studies me the way she studies difficult horses—looking for signs of threat or trust. The stallion shifts restively, picking up on the tension crackling between us. But when she speaks, her voice is steady. “Just dinner?”

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