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Jackson

She’s left a single light on in her bedroom. I pause in the doorway, letting the shadows conceal me as I watch her prepare for tonight’s outing. Her elegant fingers work efficiently through damp hair, weaving it into an intricate braid that will leave her neck exposed.

I move silently into the room, and her shoulders stiffen, the slight tension betraying her awareness of my presence.

“The black dress.” I keep my voice mild, though we both know it’s not a suggestion. The silk hangs in her closet where I placed it this morning, along with several other dresses. A thin pretense of choice.

Tonight, I want to show off my hellcat. This weekly poker game had been going on for a decade—the men are friends, ex-lovers, and comrades in arms. I wanted them to see what I’d captured, to admire her, and to envy me for having tamed her.

Her fingers still on the braid. “I was thinking the blue?—”

“The black.” I step closer, inhaling the clean scent of her shower gel. “You’ll be stunning in it.”

She meets my eyes in the mirror, that familiar defiance sparking gold in her hazel irises. But her hands reach for the black dress, and my cock hardens at this small submission. I’ve learned to savor these moments when she chooses to yield, even as her spine remains steel-straight.

The silk whispers against her skin as she steps into it. My surveillance cameras have captured every inch of her body, but nothing compares to watching her dress in person. The fabric clings to her curves, the neckline just low enough to showcase my marks. When she reaches for a scarf, I intercept her hand.

“No.” I draw her back against my chest, fingers splaying possessively across her throat. “I want them to see exactly who you belong to.”

Her pulse quickens beneath my touch. “They already know,” she says, voice steady despite the rapid flutter beneath my fingers. “The whole county knows.”

“Then tonight,” I murmur against her ear, “we’ll make sure they understand why.”

Her breath catches as my fingers tighten fractionally on her throat. In the mirror, I watch a flush spread across her chest, disappearing beneath the silk. My other hand slides down her side, mapping the curve of her waist, her hip.

“You’re going to behave tonight.” I keep my voice conversational, even as my hand dips lower, bunching the fabric. “No smart comments. No challenging their business decisions.” My fingers find bare skin, and I smirk at the discovery that she’s already wet. “No matter what they say about the smaller ranches they’re acquiring.”

She tries to twist away, but I hold her firmly against me. “You expect me to sit there while they?—”

“Yes.” I slide one finger inside her, my other hand still locked on her throat. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Because you belong to me, and I’ve decided to show you off tonight.” Another finger joins the first, and her head falls back against my shoulder. “And if you’re very, very good, maybe I’ll let you come before we leave.”

Her pussy clenches around my fingers, and I have to fight back a groan. She’s so responsive, my hellcat. She thinks I don’t know she touches herself in the shower, relieving the ache from weeks of edging, but fuck—my control is beginning to fray around the edges.

“What if I’m not?” The words are barely a whisper, but I catch them. Catch the way her hips rock against my hand, seeking more.

I withdraw my fingers abruptly, leaving her gasping. “Then I’ll bend you over the table in front of all of them.” I step back, adjusting my suit jacket. “And we both know how wet that thought makes you.”

The color in her cheeks deepens, but she doesn’t deny it. Progress.

“The car leaves in five minutes.” I move toward the door, then pause. “And Shiloh?” I wait until she meets my gaze in the mirror. “Don’t even think about putting on underwear.”

The drive makes me think too damn hard. About the other men who’ll be waiting. How they’ll look at her. They’ll see the same thing I saw years ago—raw talent wrapped in a deceptively delicate package.

My hand finds her thigh in the darkness of the truck, fingers kneading possessively through silk. She doesn’t pull away. Another small victory. Through the tinted windows, the lights of Salvation blur past.

“Lucas has been asking about your methods with that mustang.” I feel her tense under my palm. “Seems he has a similar case.”

“Burning Bridge?” Her voice stays professional, but I catch the slight tremor. “That horse was ready to kill someone.”

“And now he’s worth six figures.” My hand slides higher, bunching silk. “Lucas noticed.”

She shifts in her seat, thighs parting unconsciously for my touch. “I won’t train for him.”

“No.” My fingers slide up her bare skin, delighted at the catch in her breath when I run a finger through her folds “You won’t.”

The car slows as we approach The Cattlemen’s Club. Through the windshield, I can see Lucas’s Range Rover and Wyatt’s truck already parked in the reserved spaces.

I withdraw my hand, watching her bite back a whimper. “Remember what I said about behaving.”

“I remember what you said about the table,” she mutters, and I smile, oddly pleased with her quiet defiance.

“Careful, little hellcat.” I exit the car, crossing to open her door. When she steps out, the silk clings to her curves, and my marks show stark against her throat. Pride and possession surge through me as I guide her toward the entrance. Let them look. Let them want. Let them envy .

The poker room at the Cattlemen’s Club smells of leather, cigar smoke, and old money. Lucas Caldwell’s already holding court at the main table, his custom suit a deliberate contrast to the working ranchers who usually frequent this place. Wyatt studies his phone with calculated disinterest, while Colt arranges his chips. They all look up as I guide Shiloh through the door, my hand possessive on her lower back.

“Well now.” Lucas’ smile is predatory as he takes in the marks visible above Shiloh’s neckline. “Didn’t expect to see your latest acquisition at the table, Jackson.”

“Shiloh’s joining us tonight.” I settle into my usual chair, drawing her down to perch on my thigh. When she tries to maintain some distance, I pull her firmly back against my chest, making sure she feels how much her silk dress affects me. “Time she learned how we play.”

Shiloh watches the game with the same sharp attention she uses on dangerous stallions, cataloging every tell and tension. Her body might be draped across my lap like an offering, but her mind dissects each hand. She’s been studying these men since she was old enough to serve drinks at her father’s games, learning their patterns, their weaknesses. When Lucas adjusts his cufflinks on a clear bluff, her fingers tighten fractionally on the nape of my neck. Every small shift of her hips draws her attention to how hard I am beneath her, a constant reminder of what’s coming later.

“Your father never quite mastered that part,” Colt observes during a break between hands, his clinical interest barely masking cruelty. “Reading the players instead of the cards.”

I feel Shiloh’s tension spike, but my hand on her knee keeps her still. My other hand traces idle patterns on her thigh, each touch a deliberate reminder of my ownership. Rick Foster’s poker debts had been legendary—each loss meticulously documented in my private files as I’d waited for the perfect moment to strike. She doesn’t know yet how carefully I’d tracked her father’s descent, how deliberately I’d orchestrated my trap.

The Macallan 25 flows freely as the night deepens, each hundred-dollar glass poured as casually as water. I watch Shiloh track the display of wealth, feeling her thighs tremble when Lucas tosses another stack of chips into the pot without hesitation. When she tries to stand, my grip tightens in warning. I’m not ready to give up the heat that passes between us, and the silent trust that with me, she’s safe among the predators in the room.

“Quite a step up from those small-time games her daddy used to play.” Wyatt’s gaze sharpens as he takes in how perfectly she fits against me. His fingers drum against his cards.

As the second hour begins, the real game emerges. Not in the cards, but in the careful dance of power and possession playing out around the table. Each hand carries more weight than mere money, and deeds begin to join the chips on the table. I slide my hand higher under Shiloh’s dress, feeling her try to shift away without drawing attention. The other men pretend not to notice, but their hungry gazes follow every subtle movement.

“Where’s Ryder tonight?” Wyatt’s casual question carries weight around the table. “Not like him to miss a chance to take our money.”

Lucas’ smile shows too many teeth. “Heard he’s keeping tabs on Ruby Mitchell’s latest escapade. Something about a bar fight in Denver? That girl’s determined to destroy what’s left of their breeding program.”

“Speaking of the Mitchells.” Colt stacks his chips. “Heard the spread’s going under. Shame.”

I feel Shiloh’s tension spike against me. Her hands clench into fists as Lucas details Ruby’s spiral—each scandal bringing her family’s famous breeding program closer to bankruptcy. She knows Ruby from school, knows the desperate fury driving the girl to self-destruct. Maybe recognizes a bit of herself in that mix of pride and fear.

“Third generation ranch,” Wyatt adds, tossing more chips into the growing pot. “Going the same way as the rest.” His eyes rake over Shiloh, assessing, rather than contemptuous. “Though some of this new generation seems to have found beneficial arrangements.”

The predatory interest in their eyes tells me everything—they’ve already carved up the Mitchell empire in their minds. But I’ve seen how Ryder watches Ruby, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and claim both the girl and her legacy.

I feel Shiloh’s pulse jump beneath my lips as I press them to her throat. She knows exactly what kind of arrangements Wyatt means—the same kind that brought her to my bed, to my ranch, to my complete possession. When she tries to pull away from the kiss, I fist my hand in her hair, holding her in place while I mark her again above the neckline of her dress.

The next hand stretches endlessly as Lucas details exactly how he’ll dismantle the Mitchell operation. My fingers trace higher with each piece of their legacy he plans to strip away. By the time he’s done, she’s trembling against me, shame and arousal warring silently, visible in her stiff shoulders.

“Call.” I keep my voice mild as I match their bets, but my other hand slides all the way up her thigh beneath the table. A reminder of what kind of arrangements we’ve made. “Though I hear their star breeders are worth the exact amount of their debt. Convenient timing.”

Lucas’ laugh holds no humor as he raises the pot again. “Always is. Speaking of convenient timing,” Lucas continues. “Remember Victoria Reeves? How she thought she could play games with water rights during the drought?”

My hand tightens fractionally on Shiloh’s hip as I wonder how she’ll react to tonight’s revelations. The pile of chips grows with each round, matching the tension building in her body.

“Tragic business,” I agree. “How she managed to shoot herself in the head, then somehow drive off Miller’s Ridge.”

“Amazing how that bullet hole didn’t make it into the official report,” Wyatt’s drawls. “Almost as amazing as how quickly those water rights got sorted after her unfortunate accident.”

“The Henderson boy’s death was unfortunate, too,” Lucas continues, watching Shiloh’s reaction over his cards. “Drinking contaminated water because Victoria wanted to force a sale. Funny how evidence has a way of disappearing when justice needs to be served.”

I slide my fingers through the disaster between Shiloh’s thighs—wet and messy—then I pinch the sensitive skin, reminding her what kind of monster owns her. The casual discussion of murder wraps around her like smoke, as these powerful men discuss death as easily as they discuss breeding stock.

“How fortunate.” Shiloh’s voice trembles as I circle her clit. “That you all understand each other so well.”

As midnight approaches, the stakes rise with each hand. Not just in chips, but in the careful exchange of power plays and threats barely disguised as business discussion. I keep Shiloh on edge, her climax just out of reach, using her growing desperation to emphasize my control.

“Fortune favors the prepared.” Lucas deals another hand, his casual tone at odds with the predatory interest in his eyes as he watches Shiloh fight her responses. “Like that new surveillance system Jackson installed on the north property. Quite thorough coverage, I hear. No blind spots at all.”

I feel her go perfectly still as understanding hits—realizing just how far my control extends.

“Sometimes proper monitoring is all you need to prevent an unfortunate accident.” I slide two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clench as she fights to keep her expression neutral. The men pretend to focus on their cards, but their attention keeps dragging back to where she trembles in my lap. “Like that situation last spring with the Foster mare.”

Colt’s clinical interest barely masks his cruelty as he studies his cards. “Shame about that accident.”

Shiloh’s pussy spasms around my fingers. When I curl my fingers just right, she has to bite her lip to keep from moaning.

The final hand of the night carries the weight of everything left unspoken. Lucas pushes his chips forward with deliberate grace, his smile sharp as a blade. “All in. Unless our newest acquisition wants to make things interesting?” His gaze fixes on Shiloh with uncomfortable intensity. “I hear you’ve worked miracles with difficult stock. Perhaps we could discuss alternative arrangements.”

The implied threat draws a low growl from my throat as I thrust my fingers deeper, making her gasp. “She’s not available for outside consultation.”

“Pity.” Wyatt’s knowing smirk says he expected this response. “Though I suppose sharing assets isn’t your style.”

“Some assets are worth keeping private.” I withdraw my fingers, lifting them to my mouth. Shiloh’s eyes widen with mortification as I deliberately lick them clean in front of everyone. “Fold.”

The table goes silent as I stand, drawing her with me on shaking legs. My hand stays possessively on her hip, making sure everyone sees exactly who she belongs to. The night has served its purpose—they’ve all witnessed what kind of monster owns her now.

“Leaving so soon?” Lucas’ voice carries that edge that usually makes men yield. “I thought we were just getting to the interesting part.”

“The interesting part,” I say as I guide Shiloh toward the door, my grip tight enough to bruise, “happens in private.”

Just before we exit, I feel the slight tremor in Shiloh’s body—the same one she gets when confronting a hurt she can’t fix. I wonder if the Mitchell situation cuts too close to home, reminding her of her own desperate scramble to save her legacy, and suddenly, I want to ease Shiloh’s worry.

I glance back at my fellow predators. “And the Mitchell property? Consider it off-limits.” Let Ryder have his play—I’m more interested in easing the tension from my woman’s shoulders. Her small exhale of relief tells me I made the right choice, even if she doesn’t understand my reasons.

Lucas raises his glass in mocking salute. “For now.”

The drive home passes in charged silence, but Shiloh’s thighs part instantly when my hand settles on her leg. My fingers slide higher, finding her soaked from hours of being displayed and denied.

“Did you enjoy watching them dissect people’s lives?” Her voice shakes with a mix of fury and need. “Like they did to my father?”

I push three fingers inside her, and my voice is dark with promise. “I enjoyed watching you.”

Her walls clench around my fingers as she comes with a broken sob, shame and pleasure warring in her surrender.

We both know she hasn’t truly yielded to me. Not yet.

But tonight was a chink in her armor.

Soon, hellcat, I promise.