Page 71 of Leather & Lies

I laugh, the sound surprisingly real. “Good girl.” I shut off the water and lift her again, carrying her to our bed. “Now let me show you exactly what that confession earned you.”

Her eyes darken as I lay her out on the sheets, careful of her injuries. I take my time exploring her body, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp. Each kiss is a claim.

When I finally slide into her, the fit is perfect—like every other part of us, made to complement each other. She wraps her legs around my waist, taking me deeper, but I set the pace. Slow and deep, each thrust a reminder of my control.

“Mine.” I capture her hands, pinning them beside her head as I claim her mouth. The kiss tastes like surrender and defiance, like partnership and possession. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” She matches me thrust for thrust. “I’m yours.”

I reward her by sliding my hand between us, finding her clit with practiced ease. “And I’m yours.” The admission comes easier now, with her spread beneath me, yielding everything I ever wanted. “Every violent impulse. Every possessive instinct.” I speed up my movements, driving us both higher. “I’ll protect what’s mine until my dying breath.”

She comes with my name on her lips, her whole body clenching around me. The sight of her surrendering—this fierce creature choosing to be mine—sends me over the edge after her.

After, I gather her against my chest, my hands unusually hesitant as I arrange her curves against my harder planes. She’salready drifting toward sleep, the events of the past hours finally catching up with her. My fingers hover over the bruises I’ve left on her skin, torn between fierce satisfaction and this strange new urge to soothe rather than mark.

My hands shake with the foreign desire to be gentle. To protect rather than possess. When did I learn to touch someone like they’re precious instead of just mine?

She rouses enough to trace the ring I slipped onto her finger, and my throat tightens at how naturally she seeks my touch now. Even half-asleep, she trusts me not to hurt her. My heart thumps. No,herheart, even if it beats in my chest.

“Partnership,” she mumbles against my skin. “You promised.”

My arms tighten instinctively, but I force myself to gentle my grip. This newfound tenderness feels dangerous—like weakness. It’s not, though. Not in Shiloh’s hands.

“Yes.” I stroke her hair, marveling at how something so simple can feel so much like victory. “Partners in everything.” I tighten my grip possessively. “But you’re still mine to protect.”

Her smile curves against my chest. “And I own every dark piece of you, too.”

Her words repeat in my mind as I trace the marks I’ve left on her skin. She knows what kind of monster she’s agreeing to marry. She’s seen the violence I’m capable of, the ruthless calculation, the need to possess everything in my domain. But instead of trying to change me, she channels that darkness into something productive. Uses my possessive instincts to protect rather than destroy.

Some men need to break their women to feel strong. But as I hold my sleeping warrior, I understand a deeper truth—she makes me stronger. Her submission doesn’t tame my monster. It gives it purpose.

I press a kiss to her temple, tasting victory and commitment and something dangerously close to peace. My fingers find the bruises I’ve left on her throat—visible proof that she accepts even my darkest urges. “Sleep well, hellcat.” My voice carries that of possession that usually makes her bristle, but now she just burrows closer, trusting the predator to protect his mate. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Always. In every way that matters. The monster and the man, both equally hers.

Forever.

Epilogue

JACKSON

The wind carriesthe scent of horses across our newly-merged ranch as Shiloh works with Eclipse in the round pen. Two thousand pounds of lethal black muscle that killed its last handler now yields to her quiet commands, his massive head dropping in submission.

Through the office window, I watch her demonstrate his transformation to the independent evaluator who’ll set his starting price for tomorrow’s auction. Our first major sale since combining operations, with thirty of our most valuable horses cataloged. Her expertise with dangerous stock combined with my business connections has already drawn interest from buyers across three states.

She’s magnificent—full of quiet power and confidence. The preliminary designs for her envisioned training complex lay on my desk, the first step in transforming our property into something greater than either of us built alone. When she catches my eye through the window, that private smile curves her lips. Mine. The word still thrums through my blood, but now it carries the weight of choice. Of partnership.

Lucas Caldwell’s Mercedes stops beside Morgan Drake’s battered truck in the parking area, the contrast as deliberateas everything else he orchestrates. Now Lucas watches Morgan through his tinted windows with an expression I know too well–that cold hunger that transforms everything it touches into prey. Six years ago, I wore the same expression watching Shiloh.

“Imagine Xavier Caldwell’s face,” Lucas says as he settles into one of my office chairs without invitation. “When his son marries a working rancher instead of the oil heiress he picked out.” His casual tone doesn’t match the predatory tension in his frame. “A Drake, no less. Someone who actually gets her hands dirty.”

His later grandfather’s ultimatum gives him six months to secure his position, but he’s choosing Morgan specifically to wound his father. The same way I once chose my targets, learning their patterns, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Lucas studies Morgan through the window. She’s watching Shiloh train, her spine straight despite the shadows under her eyes.

Recognition burns through me. I know that particular darkness—the need to possess warped by deeper wounds. But where I learned to channel my hunger into partnership, Lucas’ expression holds nothing but the need to break what defies him.

“Six months of marriage—of complete submission—in exchange for enough capital to save her precious legacy.” He sets his glass down with precise control. “She’ll hate herself for accepting. Hate me more for offering. But she’ll do it.” His laugh holds no humor. “And every time my father has to acknowledge her as my wife, it’ll twist the knife a little bit more.”

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