Page 64 of Leather & Lies

“Please,” I say, and my voice breaks with longing.

When she meets my eyes, hers are wide and green and not quite as steady as they should be. Finally, she places her fingers against mine. “One dance.”

I guide her to the small dance floor. When I pull her close, she stays stiff for two heartbeats before melting against me. Her body remembers this—how perfectly we fit together, how naturally she yields to my lead.

“I miss you.” I breathe the words against her hair. “Miss your fire. Your defiance. The way you challenge me.”

Her hands fist in my jacket. “Jackson?—”

“Shhh.” I stroke one hand down her spine, feeling her shiver. “Just dance with me. Let me have this.”

She turns her face into my chest, and I feel the moment she surrenders. Just for this song, just for these few minutes, she letsherself remember how good we were together. How perfectly we match.

When the song ends, she steps back immediately. Her eyes are too bright as she gathers her shawl. “I should go.”

Every instinct screams at me to stop her. To grab her and remind her body exactly who it belongs to. To claim what I once thought was mine by right.

I let her go. “Thank you for tonight.”

She hesitates at the edge of the table. For a moment, I think she’ll say something else. Instead, she nods once, sharp and final, before walking away.

I watch her go, memorizing the straight line of her spine, the proud tilt of her chin. Remembering how she felt in my arms, soft and yielding for those few precious moments.

Tomorrow, I’ll give her real freedom to choose.

Tonight, I let myself remember how perfectly she surrendered and hope it’s enough to bring her back to me.

25

Shiloh

The courier’struck had barely disappeared down the drive before I ripped open the heavy cream envelope with its gold law firm letterhead. Now the deed sits heavy in my hands, fresh ink gleaming in the morning light filtering through my newly-repaired windows. Free and clear. No conditions. No strings attaching me to Jackson’s empire. Just pure, clean freedom that feels nothing like the victory I’d imagined.

My hands shake as I spread the documents across my father’s old desk. Each page tells a story I wasn’t ready to see before—Jackson’s careful maneuvering, years of quiet protection long before his obsession began. Bank records show how he shielded us from the worst predators while letting Daddy keep his illusion of independence. The dates blur as understanding hits like a physical blow. He started watching over us years before he ever looked at me with hunger.

Coffee brews in the kitchen, filling the house with the rich scent. Another choice he gave me, not forced but offered. Like the lumber in the barn. The crew working on the roof. The client calls that respect my expertise.

“Dammit.” The word comes out raw as I trace my father’s desperate signature on that last loan application. The oneJackson quietly bought up before the sharks could collect. I remember Daddy’s shaking hands after those late-night poker games. The way he’d drink until dawn, pride warring with fear.

Just like me. Too proud to accept help until it was almost too late.

The morning sun catches the silver rim of my mother’s old mirror, the glass recently replaced by Jackson’s crew. My reflection shows a woman I barely recognize anymore—stronger, maybe. Less afraid of needing people. The shadows under my eyes speak of nights spent rebuilding, but there’s something else there, too. Something that looks uncomfortably like hope.

My phone buzzes with another client referral. Another legitimate opportunity laid carefully in my path. Ever present, but not quite controlling.

“God fucking dammit.” I shove back from the desk, needing to move. Needing to think.

But thinking’s the problem, isn’t it? I’ve spent too long thinking. Analyzing. Looking for strings and finding support instead. The cameras were a violation, yes. The surveillance crossed every line. But this?

I pick up the deed again, and heavy in my hands for such a fine piece of paper. Jackson gave me freedom. Real freedom. The kind that comes from choosing to trust rather than being forced to submit.

The keys to my truck feel strange in my hands, like they belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t about to drive to Jackson Hawkins’ ranch and admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s a difference between protection and possession. And that maybe, his obsession makes me feel as cherished as it makes me feel safe.

Sunshine glints off my newly-washed windshield as I pull out of the drive. My ranch looks different now—stronger, like it’s shrugged off the storm’s damage and my father’s legacy of pride.Miguel’s crew is already at work on the barn roof, their quiet competence another gift I’m learning to accept.

My hands tremble slightly on the steering wheel as I rehearse what I’ll say. I’m still furious about the cameras. The surveillance was unforgivable. And yet?—

The black truck appears in my rearview mirror with predatory suddenness, its grille filling my view like an advancing storm. My heart slams against my ribs as something ancient and primal recognizes the threat. I press the accelerator, but the truck matches my speed.

---