Page 68 of Leather & Lies

Shiloh drives her head back. The impact cracks his nose, but his grip on her hair holds. Blood streams down his chin as he jerks the gun up, pressing it harder against her temple. More men emerge from the shadows—too many angles, too many guns.

Shiloh’s fingers twitch at her side—one finger, then two. Letting me know she’s got this handled.

“Enough games.” Walsh spits blood. “Drop your weapons or she dies right here.”

Lucas shifts his weight, ready to move. Wyatt’s knife gleams. Ryder goes still as death.

Walsh’s finger tightens on the trigger. “Last call, Hawkins. The deed, or?—”

The bullet thuds into the concrete wall.

27

Shiloh

The shot echoesoff concrete walls, but I’m already moving. My body knows this dance—the same instinctive reaction that’s saved me from countless dangerous horses. As Walsh’s finger tightened on the trigger, I was already dropping and rolling, using the momentum he created when he grabbed my arm.

The bullet impacts above my head as I slam into his knees. Walsh goes down hard, his grip on the gun loosening just enough. I drive my elbow up, a precise strike to the pressure point I learned in self-defense class. The gun clatters across the bloody concrete.

“You little—” Walsh’s fist catches my ribs, but the angle is wrong. No leverage. I use his own momentum against him, just like handling a rearing stallion.

Walsh lunges for the gun. I kick it further away, toward where Lucas emerges from the shadows like death in an Italian suit. The gun skids to a stop at his polished boots.

“Now, that’s just sloppy.” Lucas’s drawl carries a lethal edge. He kicks the gun toward Ryder, who catches it under the toe of his boot.

Walsh tries to scramble up, but I drive my knee into his spine, pinning him the same way I’d control a thrashing colt.“The problem with men like you,” I say, letting him feel my weight, “is you never expect the prey to fight back.”

“Enough.” Jackson’s voice carries that command that makes my spine shiver, but it’s not directed at me. His eyes are fixed on Walsh with predatory intent. “Let him up, sweetheart. We need to have a conversation about debts.”

I roll away, letting Wyatt and Ryder haul Walsh to his feet. His nose is bleeding from where I drove my head into it. Good.

I recognize their rhythm from watching cutting horses work a herd—each rider knowing exactly where to position themselves, how to move in perfect sync to isolate their target. These men might wear designer boots instead of working leather, but they’re still cowboys at heart.

“See, you made three mistakes.” Jackson begins circling Walsh, each step measured and precise. Like a wolf circling wounded prey. “First, you tried to collect a debt I’d already bought.” His hand catches Walsh’s chin, forcing eye contact. “Second, you damaged my property. That truck was a gift.”

“The debt wasn’t yours to buy!” Walsh spits blood, defiant despite Ryder’s hand on his shoulder. “Foster owed?—”

“Foster’s dead.” Jackson’s voice could freeze hell. “And everything he owed now belongs to me. Including his daughter’s safety.” Those ice-blue eyes flick to mine, carrying a heat that makes my breath catch. “Which brings us to your third mistake.”

Lucas casually examines his cufflinks, but I catch the subtle way he shifts to block the exit. “You touched something that belongs to Jackson.”

“Someone,” Jackson corrects, never taking his eyes off Walsh. His voice carries that dark edge that used to terrify me. Now it just makes heat pool low in my belly. “My woman. My protection. My responsibility.”

“You gonna kill me?” Walsh tries for bravado, but his voice shakes. “Over some girl?”

“No.” Jackson smiles, and my heart stutters at the predatory edge. “She’s going to decide what happens to you. That’s what partners do.” He holds out his hand to me, an offer rather than a command. “Your call, sweetheart. We can handle this officially.” His other hand curves around Walsh’s throat. “Or unofficially.”

“You think I don’t know what happened to Victoria Reeves?” Walsh spits blood, defiant despite Jackson’s grip on his throat. “How you put her down like a rabid dog?”

“No.” Jackson’s voice is dry and emotionless. “She died like a snake—quick and clean, once I was done showing her why she deserved it.” His smile shows teeth. “Would you like me to explain why you deserve the same?”

I step closer, letting Jackson’s heat seep into my skin. Let Walsh see the marks on my throat, the ones Jackson left with lips and teeth rather than fists. “You know what I learned training dangerous horses?” I catch Jackson’s subtle flinch at the word ‘dangerous.’ “Men are worse. And sometimes, they deserve to be put down.”

Jackson looks at me for a long time, then nods sharply. He maneuvers our bodies, so I can’t see anything but his broad chest. A gun fires. A body falls to the ground and then he’s kissing me, his lips covering mine like he’s starving for a taste of me, like he was a sinner, and I was his salvation.

When he finally lets me go, Ryder and Lucas are dragging Walsh’s body away. Lucas follows with that casual grace that makes boardroom rivals surrender before the first offer.

“You’re hurt.” Jackson’s hands skim my ribs, finding the bruises Walsh left. His touch is gentle despite the violence thrumming beneath his skin.

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