Page 12 of Leather & Lies (Ruthless Cowboys of Salvation #1)

11

Shiloh

I wake with a start, momentarily disoriented by the weight of Jackson’s arm around my waist. My body has curled into his while sleeping, seeking his warmth like he’s safety rather than danger.

The realization sends ice through my veins. This is how it happens—this slow erosion of resistance. This gradual acceptance of captivity. Stockholm syndrome wrapped in five-hundred-thread-count sheets.

I carefully extract myself from his grip, padding to the bathroom on silent feet. The woman in the mirror is a stranger—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright despite everything. She looks happy.

I grip the counter until my knuckles whiten. No. I won’t become that woman, grateful for scraps of affection from her captor. I won’t forget what brought me here.

But when I slip back into bed and his arm automatically reclaims me, I can’t stop myself from relaxing into his embrace. Just until morning, I tell myself. Yet the lie tastes bitter, even in my own mind.

Hours later, the sun streams through the kitchen windows as I drink the coffee that waits for me every morning when I come downstairs. Jackson has been watching me for the past ten minutes, his eyes tracking my movements with that predatory focus that still sends shivers down my spine.

“I need to ask you something,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Ask.”

“Morgan Drake invited me to lunch today. At noon. I’d like to go.” The words come out more boldly than I feel.

Jackson’s jaw tightens, and I brace for his refusal. But then he surprises me.

“I’ll drive you.”

It’s not a request, and it’s certainly not freedom, but it’s something. My heart races at the prospect of seeing familiar faces, breathing air that isn’t tinged with his presence.

“Thank you,” I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. Thanking him for a basic freedom I once took for granted.

“Be ready in an hour.” He watches me, his gaze intense and hot, as I walk back up the stairs to get ready.

The drive into town is tense, the silence broken only by the country music playing quietly on the radio. We’re halfway there when Jackson finally speaks.

“You’ll meet me back at the truck at three. Not a minute later.” His voice is calm, controlled, but I hear the steel beneath it. He doesn’t say another word until we pull into town. Before I can open my door, his hand is on my arm.

“Take this.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me a black credit card. “Use it if you need anything.”

I blink. “I have my own money.”

Jackson raises a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything? Your contract states you don’t need to worry about a damn cent when you’re with me.”

I blink, reining back the hurt at the reminder of the transactional nature of our relationship. Right. I belong to him. And he pays for me. I slip the card into my pocket without further comment.

As I step out of the truck, he calls after me. “Three o’clock, hellcat.”

When I push open the door to the bar, the familiar smell of polished wood and faint beer welcomes me. Inside, my three closest friends wait at our usual corner table, and Autumn stands behind her bar, polishing it as she jokes with customers.

Blair sees me first, immediately jumping up to wrap me in a fierce hug. As the founder of Hope Haven—a non-profit that helps female ranchers in abusive relationships—she’s looking at me with more than just friendly concern.

“Jesus, Shiloh, we’ve been worried sick,” she whispers against my hair.

From her seat, Morgan gives me a tired smile, raising her glass in greeting. There are new lines around her eyes that weren’t there a month ago—her mom’s illness taking its toll.

Eden practically bounces over, her energy at odds with the tension in the room. “Look at you! Still in one piece and looking surprisingly well-rested.”

Autumn nods from behind the bar, her taciturn acknowledgment more meaningful than most people’s effusive greetings.

“Drinks are on the house,” she says, sliding a gin and tonic across the bar. “You look like you need it.”

I take the seat between Morgan and Blair, suddenly overwhelmed by the normalcy of it all—how quickly my life has been upended, and how unchanged theirs seems in comparison.

“So.” Eden leans forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Spill everything. What’s it like living with Montana’s most eligible bachelor-slash-terror?”

Blair shoots her a warning look. “Maybe let her breathe first?”

“I’m fine,” I say, though the word feels hollow. “Complicated.”

Morgan studies me with tired eyes. “Complicated how? Does he beat you? Force you into sexual slavery?”

I don’t know how to answer the question, so I take a long sip of my drink to hide my indecision. “He has me working with the horses. Actually listens to my input about them.”

Blair’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sound almost impressed.”

“I’m not,” I say too quickly. “He’s controlling, possessive, impossible, but …”

“But?” Eden prompts.

“But he’s not what I expected.” The admission feels dangerous. “He cooks for his ranch hands every week. Works alongside them.”

“Still doesn’t give him the right to basically kidnap you,” Blair says, her voice taking on the careful, measured tone I’ve heard her use with clients at Hope Haven.

Autumn approaches with another round of drinks. “Jackson Hawkins isn’t Matthew Walsh,” she says bluntly. “Walsh put three women in the hospital last year alone. Hawkins is a hardass, but has a different kind of reputation.”

“Thanks for the character reference,” I say dryly.

“Not defending him,” Autumn shrugs. “Just stating facts.”

Morgan leans back in her chair. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like,” she says quietly. “Having someone else make all the decisions. Carry the weight for a while.”

The table falls silent, none of us quite knowing how to respond to the raw honesty in her voice. Unusual for a woman who normally exudes vitality.

Predictably, Eden breaks the tension. “Well, I bet the sex is phenomenal at least. All that intensity has to go somewhere.” She winks.

The bourbon burns in my throat as I swallow too quickly. “About that,” I murmur into my glass.

“About what?” Eden asks.

“Hasn’t—we haven’t slept together.” The admission hangs in the air. “That’s a lie. We sleep together, but we’ve only had sex once.”

Three pairs of eyes widen in shock.

“But it’s been what—almost two weeks?” Blair asks.

Heat floods my cheeks. “He’s waiting for something. Making me wait.”

Eden’s mouth forms a perfect O. “That’s—” She struggles for words. “Actually kind of hot.”

Blair’s grinning. She’s married to an asshole of a cowboy too—a billionaire she fell in love with while she was supposed to be handing him over to the SEC. “It can be super hot,” she says.

“It’s control,” I say, understanding blooming as I speak. “He wants me desperate enough to beg for it.”

Autumn snorts. “And will you?”

Will I? The hunger that builds when he touches me, when his hand curls around my throat, when his body presses against mine—it’s becoming harder to resist with each passing day.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

The conversation shifts after that, my friends updating me on town gossip, their own lives. Morgan’s determination to juggle her ranch and her mother’s health problems. Eden’s latest dating disaster and the veterinary clinic. Blair remains unusually quiet, her expression thoughtful as she watches me.

It’s normal—the life I had before Jackson Hawkins upended everything.

At quarter to three, I stand, catching the way Blair studies me with concern. I know she’s thinking of all the women she’s helped through her non-profit—women in situations not so different from mine. After a chorus of goodbyes, I smile and take my leave.

Outside, I pause at the bus station, where a bus waits, ready to depart for the city. A text lights up my phone.

Blair

Bus leaves in 15. I’ll find a way to loan you the money to save the ranch.

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen. Something keeps me rooted in place, and it’s not fear of what Jackson would do if he found me. He’d punish me, but he’d never hurt me, not truly. Of that I was certain.

It’s his restraint when he could take whatever he wants. It’s curiosity about what this agreement between us could become. And in the deepest, darkest part of my soul, I admit to myself that Morgan’s right. Every once in a while, it’s a relief to let go, even if it’s when he forces me to my knees.

I turn away from the bus and walk toward his truck, where Jackson is already waiting, leaning against the driver’s side, his posture deceptively casual. His eyes catalog every inch of me as I approach, searching for signs of I don’t even know what. Rebellion? Escape plans?

“Right on time,” he says, and I’m surprised at the relief in his voice. Just as surprised that I’m glad to see him.

He opens my door, his hand brushing the small of my back as I climb in—a casual touch that still sends heat spiraling through me.

The drive back is as quiet as the journey in. The ranch appears on the horizon, sprawling and beautiful in the afternoon light. We pull into the gravel driveway in front of his house, and he jumps out to open my door and help me down, my body sliding against his, heat sparking between us.

I should be furious. I shouldn’t have to ask to see my friends. I shouldn’t be grateful that he let me out of my prison for a few short hours.

So I stand there, staring up at him, our bodies pressed together against the side of the truck.

Finally, he steps back, his expression unreadable. “Dinner’s at 7,” he says.

Right.

Naked.

In his study.

I hate him.

Don’t I?