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13

Shiloh

Dawn bleeds across the horizon, staining clouds the color of fresh bruises. I reach the stables twenty minutes before our appointment, and he’s already there. Of course he is.

Jackson doesn’t acknowledge my arrival, just keeps brushing down his massive black stallion with perfectly even strokes. His boots gleam despite the early hour, not a speck of dust on the hand-tooled leather. Even at five in the morning, the man looks like he could step into a boardroom and pull off a hostile takeover of someone’s family legacy.

Like he took mine.

The thought burns, but I force it down. Focus on the work. That’s what Daddy always said when things got overwhelming. I head for the tack room, deliberately ignoring how Jackson’s tattooed forearms flex with each stroke of the brush.

“Your mare’s already saddled.” His voice carries a hint of gravel that says he’s been up for hours. “We’re burning daylight.”

Bastard. He’s touched my gear without permission, saddled Whiskey, as if she were his, and not mine.

“The northern line first,” he says, swinging into his saddle with fluid grace. “Storm’s coming in from the west. We’ll work our way back ahead of it.”

I do my own tack check, anyway, taking my sweet time just to prove I can. His jaw tightens. Good. But when I finally mount up, I have to admit every piece of equipment is exactly where I’d have put it myself. The realization pricks under my skin—he’s been studying me for a long time.

As we ride out, the rising sun paints stark shadows across the stable yard. Ahead of us, the terrain rises in waves—gentle slopes giving way to steeper hills thick with pine and juniper. Behind us, morning fog still clings to the valley floor.

Jackson sets a brisk pace. His posture is relaxed, at home in the saddle in a way he never quite manages in his tailored suits. Out here, with nothing but horses and horizon, he seems almost human.

“Tell me about the grazing rotation.” His voice cuts through my thoughts. Not a request—a test.

I study the land as we ride, noting the subtle signs most people would miss. “You’re using high-intensity, short-duration grazing. Moving the herds every three to five days based on grass recovery.” I gesture to a patch of luxuriant green. “That section’s nearly ready for the next rotation. The forbs are at peak nutrition but haven’t gone to seed yet.”

He doesn’t respond, but I catch the slight nod. Professional respect, however grudging, is still respect. The trail narrows, forcing us single file as we climb. Jackson takes point, and I definitely don’t notice how his thighs grip his mount’s flanks, how his powerful shoulders shift with each step.

The ground grows treacherous, loose shale hidden under deceptive grass. Ahead, Jackson reins in, studying the path. But I know this type of terrain—spent years learning its secrets while he was busy building his empire.

“Pull right,” I call out. “That whole left side’s unstable.”

He hesitates, and for a moment I think he’ll ignore me out of stubborn pride. But then he guides his stallion onto the line I indicated, letting me take the lead. The power shift sends an unexpected thrill up my spine.

We pick our way forward, the horses placing each hoof carefully. The ground here is like our relationship—beautiful but treacherous, with destruction lurking just below the surface. One wrong step could send us both tumbling.

“This is why I need you here.” His voice is quiet, almost lost in the whisper of wind through pine needles. “You see what I miss.”

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I’m not ready to examine. I focus on reading the terrain instead. Behind me, Jackson follows my lead without question.

Partners, whispers a traitorous voice in my head. We could be partners.

I scoff. He’d refused that once already.

Thunder growls in the distance, an echo of my own internal storm. Above us, dark clouds gather. We have hours of riding ahead, and nowhere to hide from either the weather or these dangerous thoughts.

I urge Whiskey forward. The sooner we finish this inspection, the sooner I can retreat behind my carefully constructed walls. But as Jackson falls in beside me, our horses matching stride for stride, I wonder if those walls haven’t already started to crumble.

As the trail opens onto a natural plateau, my breath catches. The entirety of Jackson’s empire spreads below us like a living map. Lush valleys carved by spring-fed creeks. Forests climbing the ridgelines. Pastures dotted with black Angus cattle that look like ants from this height. All of it his.

All of it what my ranch could have been, if Daddy hadn’t been—my mind shies away from the criticism of my father, even if he deserved it.

“Your father was a good horseman.” Jackson’s voice is neutral, but I stiffen anyway. “Although he never understood that running a successful ranch takes more than just good horsemanship.”

The words hit like a slap. “Don’t talk about my father.”

“Someone should.” His tone turns hard. “His addictions nearly cost you everything.”

“And you were there to pick up the pieces.” Bitterness coats my tongue. “How convenient.”

But I wonder who might have bought the mortgage—what might have happened to me— if anyone else had discovered how deeply my father had leveraged the property. Hurt wrenched through me—my father’s gambling addiction had cost me everything. Including my freedom.

Thunder cracks closer now, and Whiskey dances beneath me. I gentle her with practiced hands, watching the shadows of clouds race across the valley below. The wind carries the scent of rain and sage, and something else—the electric tension that precedes a storm.

“You think I orchestrated his downfall.” It’s not a question. Jackson turns in his saddle to face me, and the intensity in his ice-blue eyes pins me in place. “Your father was gambling away the ranch long before I entered the picture. I just made sure I was the one holding the notes when it all fell apart.”

“Why?” The question tears free before I can stop it.

His stallion shifts restlessly, but Jackson holds my gaze. “You know why.”

The heat that floods my cheeks has nothing to do with the unseasonable warmth. Yes, I know why. I’ve felt his why branded into my skin, whispered against my throat, demanded in the dark hours when he forces me to surrender everything.

A lone red-tailed hawk circles overhead, riding the turbulent air currents with effortless grace.

“We should check the north ridge before the storm hits.” I nudge Whiskey toward the narrow trail that will take us there. “The terrain gets treacherous when it’s wet.”

“Lead the way.”

Three simple words, but they send a shiver up my spine. Jackson Hawkins—the man who controls everything, who orchestrates every detail, who’s spent years maneuvering me exactly where he wants me—doesn’t let others take the lead.

The trail grows steeper, forcing us to concentrate. Loose rocks clatter down the slope with each careful step. One wrong move could send us tumbling down the mountainside.

“Hold.” Jackson’s command freezes me in place. He points to a fresh slide area ahead where the spring rains have undermined the trail. “That’s not stable.”

I study the way water has carved beneath the surface. “There’s a game trail about fifty yards back. It’ll take us above the slide.”

He nods, no hesitation this time.

The game trail is steep but solid. As we climb single file, the first fat drops of rain begin to fall. They drum against my hat brim, dot the shoulders of Jackson’s black shirt. Below us, lightning flashes in the valley, followed by a growl of thunder that vibrates in my bones.

“We’re exposed up here,” Jackson calls over the rising wind.

He’s right. We need to get down from this ridge before the storm hits in earnest. But for just a moment, I let myself feel it all—the wild energy in the air, the power of the stallion beneath him, the intensity that radiates from the man himself.

This is what drew you to him , whispers that traitorous voice again. The recognition of something equally untamed in him, equally hidden.

Lightning splits the sky, too close. The crack of thunder is instant and deafening. Both horses startle, dancing sideways on the narrow trail. My heart slams against my ribs as Whiskey’s hoof sends rocks tumbling down the slope.

“Easy.” Jackson’s voice cuts through my spike of adrenaline. He’s already got his stallion under control, one hand extended toward me. “Bring her up beside Atlas. She’ll settle better with him.”

He’s right, damn him. I guide Whiskey closer until our legs brush. The contact sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with the storm. I force myself to breathe. To focus.

“There’s an old line shack about half a mile ahead.” Jackson has to lean close to be heard over the wind. His breath stirs the damp hair at my temple. “We can wait it out there.”

Rain pelts us now, cold and sharp. My hat brim streams water, and Jackson’s black shirt is plastered to his chest. Moving as one unit, we pick our way forward. The horses seem to understand the danger, each step through the storm careful and measured.

A massive pine cracks in the wind ahead of us. It falls, even as Jackson shouts a warning. Pure instinct takes over. I grab Atlas’ reins, yanking both horses hard right as the tree crashes down where we’d been seconds before.

For a moment we’re tangled together, his hand gripping my thigh to keep me mounted, my white-knuckled fingers on his reins. His eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. Not the usual power struggle, but recognition. Trust.

“The shack.” His voice is rough. “Now.”

We push on through the deluge. The line shack appears out of the greyness like a mirage—weathered wood and rusted tin roof. It’s not much, but it’s shelter. Jackson dismounts first, reaching up to help me down. I want to refuse on principle, but the ground is treacherous with mud. His hands span my waist, and for a heartbeat he holds me against him before setting me down.

“Get inside.” He nods toward the shack. “I’ll see to the horses.”

“Like hell.” I’m already moving to untack Whiskey. “She’s my horse.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Stubborn woman.”

We work in practiced unison, efficiently stripping tack and rubbing down trembling horses. There’s a lean-to on the sheltered side of the shack. It’s rough, but it’ll keep the worst of the weather off them. Jackson produces grain from his saddlebags, and the horses dive in gratefully.

By the time we duck into the shack, we’re both drenched and shivering. The interior is small but clean—Jackson’s influence is obvious in the well-maintained supplies. He moves with familiar efficiency, lighting the small woodstove while I wring water from my braid.

“You should get out of those wet clothes.” His voice is neutral, professional, but heat flares in my belly.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The words come out more breathless than biting.

He straightens, turning to face me. Water trickles down his throat, and my eyes follow its path beneath his collar. When I drag my gaze back up, the heat in his eyes steals my breath.

“What I’d like,” he says softly, dangerously, “is to get you warm and dry. What happens after that depends entirely on you.”

Thunder shakes the shack. Or maybe I’m the one trembling.

Jackson takes a step toward me, then stops. His control is a tangible thing, filling the small space between us. “There are dry clothes in that trunk.” When I don’t move, his voice hardens. “Don’t make me strip you myself, hellcat.”

The nickname sends liquid heat through my veins. Two can play at this game of control.

I turn my back on him and open the trunk, making a show of bending over. The clothes inside are new, tags still attached. Of course they are. I pull out soft flannel and worn denim, letting the movement draw attention to my wet clothes clinging to every curve.

“Face the wall.” My voice comes out husky instead of commanding.

He doesn’t move. “Shy now?”

“Suit yourself.” I peel off my soaked shirt, hyperaware of his presence burning against my back. The air is cool against my wet skin, but the woodstove is already throwing heat. Or maybe that’s just the weight of his gaze, so heavy I can barely breathe.

“You knew about the unstable trail.” I step out of my jeans, reaching for the dry ones. “You deliberately brought us this way.”

“Yes.” No pretense, no denial. Just that deep voice that makes my insides clench.

I turn to face him, letting him see exactly what he’s been orchestrating. His eyes go midnight dark, but he doesn’t move. So perfectly controlled. So goddamn contained.

Something wild rises in me. The same reckless spirit that lets me gentle dangerous stallions, that makes me climb on animals other trainers won’t touch. The need to break that iron control.

“You arrange everything, don’t you, Jackson?” I stalk toward him, wet hair dripping down my back. “Every detail. Every moment.” Another step. “But you didn’t plan for this.”

I fist my hands in his shirt and drag him down to my mouth.

For one heartbeat, he’s frozen in shock. Then his control shatters.

His hands tangle in my hair, yanking my head back as he takes over the kiss. There’s nothing gentle about it. All teeth and tongue and pent-up need. He tastes like rain and lightning, and I’m drowning in it. Drowning in him.

He walks me backward until I hit the wall, pinning me there with his body. One hand stays fisted in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise. Marking me. Claiming me.

I bite his lower lip in retaliation. His growl vibrates through my bones.

“Careful.” He breaks the kiss to drag his teeth down my throat. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I like getting burned.” I arch against him, defiant even now.

His laugh is dark against my skin. “Oh, I know you do.” He pulls back to meet my eyes, and the possession there steals my breath. “But you forgot something very important.”

“What’s that?”

His smile is pure predator. “I always win.”

The words are still hanging in the air when he crushes his mouth back to mine. This kiss is pure punishment—all dominance and demand. His hand tightens in my hair, forcing my head back until my throat is exposed to his teeth.

I should fight it. Should push him away. Instead, my body betrays me, melting into him as he marks a path down my neck.

“That’s it.” His voice is rough velvet against my skin. “Stop fighting what you need.”

The words snap me back to myself. What am I doing? I jerk my hand up to slap him. He blocks it easily, laughing against my throat. The sound sets my blood on fire.

“Still so wild.” He catches both my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head. “Even when you’re trembling for me.”

“I hate you.” But I’m arching into him, desperate for more contact.

Lightning flashes, illuminating his face. For a moment I glimpse something raw in his expression, something that makes my chest tight. Then thunder crashes, and his mask is back in place.

“Lie to yourself all you want, sweetheart.” His free hand slides down my side, possessive and sure. “Your body knows the truth.”

I buck against his grip, but he just presses closer, using his weight to hold me still. The rough wood of the wall scrapes my back. Every point of contact between us burns.

“You arranged all of this.” I manage to keep my voice steady despite the way his thumb is tracing maddening circles on my hip. “The trail, the timing, the ride before the storm, the clothes in that trunk. You’re just playing another one of your games.”

“You think I planned for you to kiss me?” His laugh is dark honey poured over gravel. “That was all you, little hellcat. Your choice. Your surrender.”

“I didn’t?—”

“No?” He releases my wrists but doesn’t step back. Instead, his hand slides up my bare stomach, mapping my skin like territory he’s already claimed. “Then push me away. Tell me to stop.”

I should. God, I should. But my hands fist in his shirt instead, pulling him closer.

A crack of thunder rattles the windows. The storm is directly overhead now, wild and untamed. Like the need clawing through my chest.

Jackson’s hand finds my breast, and coherent thought vanishes. He knows exactly how to touch me, the perfect pressure to make me gasp. To make me arch into his palm like a cat begging to be stroked.

“Look at you.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Fighting yourself harder than you’ve ever fought me. Let go, little hellcat. Let me give you what you need.”

“What I need?” My laugh is shaky. “Or what you need?”

His fingers tighten, not quite painful. A warning. “What makes you think they’re different?”

Before I can answer, he kisses me again. Slower this time, deeper. Like he’s mapping every corner of my mouth, learning my taste. His other hand tangles in my wet hair, holding me right where he wants me.

And god help me, I let him.

The storm rages outside, but in here, something more dangerous is breaking loose. Something that feels terrifyingly like the surrender he demands.

His mouth leaves mine to trace fire down my throat. When he finds that spot behind my ear that makes me whimper, I feel his smile against my skin.

“I’ve wanted you for so long.” His voice is gravel and sin. “Watching you work those stallions. So fierce. So fucking fearless.” His teeth scrape my pulse point. “Knowing all that wildness would be mine—mine to claim, to worship.”

The possessive growl in his voice should anger me. Instead, it pools hot and liquid in my core. I’m slipping, drowning in sensation. In him.

“I’m not one of your animals.” But my hands are already working at his shirt buttons, desperate to touch skin.

He catches my wrists again, grip just shy of bruising. “No. You’re so much more dangerous.” His eyes are midnight dark, pupils blown with need. “And I’m going to enjoy breaking you so much more.”

A whimper escapes me—need and defiance tangled into something feral. Something that makes his control slip, just for a heartbeat.

That’s all I need.

I surge up, using his grip on my wrists for leverage, and bite the cord of muscle in his neck. Hard.

His curse is explosive. He spins us, slamming me back against the wall with enough force to drive the air from my lungs. One huge thigh shoves between mine, pinning me in place.

“You want to play rough, little hellcat?” The darkness in his voice makes me shiver. “Be very sure.”

I grind against his thigh in answer, shameless and demanding. His control snaps.

The kiss is brutal this time. His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, skating down my sides, gripping my hips to pull me harder against him. Each touch brands me. Marks me as his.

Thunder crashes outside, but I barely hear it over the roar of blood in my ears. Over my own desperate sounds as he works his way down my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast.

“I need—” The words tear free before I can stop them.

He stills. “What was that?”

Bastard. He’s going to make me beg. Make me admit how badly I need this. Need him.

Instead of answering, I arch into him, trying to force his mouth back to my skin. His laugh is dark and knowing.

“Not this time.” He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. “You want something? Ask for it.”

“I hate you.” But my voice is wrecked, needy.

“No.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and I have to fight not to take it into my mouth. “You hate how much you want this. How much you need it.” His other hand slides down to grip my ass, grinding me against his thigh in a slow, dirty rhythm. “How much you need me.”

Lightning flashes, painting his face in stark shadows. For a moment he looks otherworldly. Dangerous. Like something that crawled out of my darkest fantasies.

This is madness , some still-rational part of my brain whispers.

But when his mouth claims mine again, I’m already lost.

His kiss devours me, consumes me, breaks me apart. One hand fists in my hair while the other works at my bra, and I should stop him, should think about what this means, but his teeth find my nipple through the lace and coherent thought scatters like storm debris in the wind.

“So responsive.” His voice is rough silk against my skin. “You fight me so hard, but your body knows who you belong to.”

I want to deny it. Want to prove him wrong. But then his mouth closes over my breast and I’m arching into him, desperate sounds escaping my throat.

“That’s it, little hellcat.” He works his way back up my throat, leaving marks I’ll feel tomorrow. “Let me hear you.”

“Fuck you.” But my nails are scoring his back as I pull him closer.

His laugh is dark and knowing. “Soon enough.”

Before I can process that promise, he spins me to face the wall. One hand splays across my stomach, holding me against his chest while the other traces fire down my side.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” His teeth graze my ear. “Tell me to stop.”

I should. God, I should. But his fingers are tracing the waistband of my panties, and I’m pushing back against him, shameless and needy. It’s been too long, and he’s played my body too well, teasing me and tormenting me, never quite giving me the relief I need, not since that explosive afternoon in the tack room.

A crack of thunder shakes the shack. Or maybe that’s just me, trembling as his hand slides lower.

I give in to my need. “Please.” The word escapes on a broken moan.

“Please what?” His fingers pause, teasing. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.”

“I need—” But I can’t say it. Can’t admit how desperately I want him to touch me. Can’t admit how he affects me.

“Need what?” He nips my ear. “Need me to stop?” His hand starts to withdraw.

“No!” The word tears free before I can stop it.

I feel his smile against my neck. “No what?”

He’s going to make me spell it out. Make me beg for it.

But when I stay silent, his hand slides away completely. “Have it your way.”

The loss of contact is physical pain. I grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand back.

“Ask for it.” His voice is pure command. “Tell me what you need.”

Thunder growls overhead, and something inside me breaks.

“Touch me.” The words come out desperate, pleading. “Please, Jackson. I need—I need you to touch me.”

His growl of satisfaction vibrates through my bones. “Oh, such a good fucking girl.”

His fingers slide into my panties, and oh god, I’m already so wet for him. So ready. He groans against my throat.

“All this for me?” His touch is expert, knowing exactly how to work me. “You’re drenched, little hellcat. Been thinking about this all morning, haven’t you? About my hands on you? Inside you?”

I can’t answer, can’t tell him I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, not hours. I can barely breathe as he circles my clit with devastating intent. My hips buck against his hand, trying to get more pressure, more friction, more everything.

“That’s it.” His other hand palms my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers. “Take what you need. Show me how badly you want it.”

The sensation is too much. I’m climbing higher, faster than I ever have before. My head falls back against his shoulder as tension coils tighter in my core.

“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore. “Jackson, please.”

“Come for me.” His voice is pure sin. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

Lightning flashes, thunder crashes, and I shatter.

His arms tighten around me as I come apart, holding me together as pleasure rocks through my body. For a moment, there’s nothing but sensation—his mouth on my neck, his hands on my skin, his solid presence anchoring me through the storm.

When I can breathe again, he turns me to face him. The heat in his eyes makes me shiver.

“Beautiful.” His voice is rough as he backs me toward the narrow cot in the corner. “But I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

My legs hit the edge of the mattress. “Jackson?—”

“Shhh.” He follows me down, covering my body with his. “Let me have you, little hellcat.”

It should sound like a command. Instead, there’s something close to reverence in his voice. His mouth claims mine again, but this kiss is different—deeper, hungrier. Like he’s trying to devour my very essence.

I should resist. Should push him away. But my hands work at his belt, desperate to feel his skin on mine.

He breaks the kiss to strip off his shirt, and oh god, all that golden skin and hard muscle. My hands explore greedily, mapping the ridges of his abs, the broad planes of his chest. When my nails scrape his nipples, his sharp inhale is my victory.

“Dangerous woman.” But there’s heat in his voice, not anger. He captures my hands, pinning them above my head. “My turn.”

What follows is exquisite torture. He takes his time, using mouth and hands to learn every inch of me. Each touch is perfectly calculated to drive me higher, make me burn hotter. When he finally slides into me, we both groan at the perfect fit.

“Mine.” The word is a growl against my throat as he starts to move. “Say it.”

I shake my head, defiant even now. He snaps his hips harder, hitting that spot that makes me see stars.

“Say it.”

“Please.” The word escapes on a moan. “Jackson, please.”

He laughs softly. “Close enough. For now.”

Every thrust drives me higher, closer to the edge. His control is slipping—I can feel it in the tremor of his arms, the roughness of his breath.

“Let go.” His voice is wrecked. “Come for me again, little hellcat. Let me feel you.”

This time when I shatter, he follows me over the edge, his weight pinning me down, his harsh breaths against my neck, the thunder of our hearts.

Slowly, reality filters back in. The storm still howls outside, but in here, something has shifted. Changed.

Jackson rolls to his side, taking his weight off me but keeping me tucked against him. His hand traces idle patterns on my hip, surprisingly gentle.

“That was—” I start, then stop. I don’t have words for what that was.

“I know.” His voice is rough silk. He presses a kiss to my shoulder, unexpectedly tender. “Rest. We’re not done yet.”

I should argue. Should push him away and rebuild my walls. Instead, I let my eyes drift closed, lulled by the storm and his steady heartbeat.

Some surrenders taste like victory.