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15

Shiloh

The midnight-blue gown appears on my bed one morning, no note needed. The silk catches the light as I lift it, whispering promises of luxury I’d never allowed myself. Beside it sits a velvet box.

When I open it, the sapphire pendant inside catches my breath—not because of its obvious value, but because of its simplicity—understated and elegant.

Jackson appears in the doorway as I hold it, his frame filling the space in that way that still makes my stomach tighten.

“It reminded me of you,” he says, voice carrying that edge of command that brooks no argument. “You’ll wear it tonight.”

Not a request. Never a request with him.

He crosses over to me, taking the necklace from my trembling fingers. “Turn around.”

I obey—not because I must, but because I’m curious what will happen if I don’t fight this time. His fingers brush my neck as he fastens the clasp, lingering longer than necessary. I feel his breath hitch when his skin touches mine.

It hangs an inch above my mother’s pendant, and I’m grateful that he’s chosen jewelry that won’t require me to choose between obeying him and not wearing it.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if he means the necklace or me.

In the mirror, I catch his expression—possession mingled with something softer, something he quickly masks when he realizes I’m watching. The pendant rests at the hollow of my throat, cool silver against warm skin. Marking me as his in a way that’s somehow more intimate than the bruises he’s left elsewhere on my body. My breath catches as he studies me. This close, I can see the predatory heat in his eyes, the possessive tilt of his head that makes my stomach flutter despite myself. This man owns my ranch, my debts, my body. And still, it’s not enough for him—never enough.

His thumb strokes along my collarbone. “We leave in five minutes.”

He turns and leaves me trembling in front of the mirror, knowing tonight will change everything between us. He doesn’t have to take me as his date. He could leave me here on the ranch, pleasantly ensconced in warm blankets, with a good book to read and blessed silence to keep me company.

But he’s determined to make his ownership public. I just don’t know if I’m ready for what that means.

The gala venue glitters with old money and new ambitions, crystal chandeliers casting golden light over the wealthiest ranchers in Salvation. Jackson’s hand settles possessively on my lower back, his palm burning through the thin silk. My skin pebbles as his thumb finds the dip of my spine.

The ballroom falls silent as we enter—a subtle ripple of awareness that speaks to Jackson’s position more eloquently than any announcement. Men in bespoke suits straighten imperceptibly. Women’s gazes sharpen, first on him, then on me with calculation that borders on hostility.

“Hawkins.” A silver-haired man approaches, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be too busy with that merger in Helena.”

“Harrison.” Jackson’s tone carries perfect courtesy undercut with steel. “The Helena situation resolved itself without my intervention.”

The men exchange the kind of handshake that’s really a strength contest, and I watch Harrison’s knuckles whiten slightly. A minuscule victory that shouldn’t make satisfaction curl in my belly.

“And who is this?” Harrison’s gaze slides over me, assessing rather than appreciative.

Before Jackson can answer, I extend my hand. “Shiloh Foster.”

Recognition flashes in Harrison’s eyes—he knows my father’s name, knows the debts, the failures. But instead of the dismissal I expect, his expression shifts to renewed appraisal. As if my presence on Jackson’s arm has suddenly transformed me from cautionary tale to valuable commodity.

“Ms. Foster has quite the gift with difficult acquisitions,” Jackson says, his thumb tracing circles on my back.

The double meaning hangs between them. Harrison’s eyebrows lift fractionally.

“Indeed?” His smile turns genuine. “Lucky dog.”

I should be offended at being discussed like property, but I find myself leaning slightly into Jackson’s touch, accepting his protection against Harrison’s sudden interest. The realization sends a chill down my spine—how quickly I’ve learned to rely on the devil I know.

Jackson procures a gin and tonic from a passing waiter and hands it to me. The extra lime wedges floating in the glass make me pause. His fingers purposely brush mine during the exchange, calluses catching against my softer skin.

“How did you?—”

His mouth quirks. “I notice everything about you, little hellcat.” His voice drops lower, the vibration of it seeming to travel straight to my core.

The sharp bite of lime and gin hits my tongue as I take a steadying sip. Before I can respond, Walter Pritchett approaches, all effusive greetings and dollar signs in his eyes. Six months ago, he said my methods were too experimental for his prize stallion. Now he’s asking about my spring training schedule.

“Unfortunately, Shiloh’s fully booked through next fall,” Jackson cuts in smoothly. His thumb strokes along my spine as he continues, the slow circles making it hard to focus. “Though I’m happy to discuss other services in our breeding program.”

Our breeding program. The casual inclusiveness makes my chest tight, but I dare not bring it to Jackson’s attention. I force myself to smile and discuss methods, hyperaware of Jackson’s quiet pride as I impress the investor. Bitterly, I realize this is what he wants—to display me like another acquisition in his empire.

He steers me toward the buffet next, his hand never leaving my back. The warmth of him cages me as he reaches around, selecting delicacies for me. “You’ll want these,” he murmurs beside canapés, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair by my ear. “And these mushroom caps.”

My mouth waters as he lifts a piece of beef to my lips. The intimacy of the gesture makes my cheeks flush, but I part my lips obediently. His eyes darken as his fingers brush my lower lip. A knowing smile plays at his lips as he adds fresh berries to my plate.

Bubbles fizz through my blood, or maybe it’s the way his fingertips trail down my bare arm as he hands me the plate. Each perfect choice feels like another link in a chain. I accept it with slightly trembling hands, disturbed by how closely he’s observed me, how much he’s cataloged. “You’ve made quite a study of me.”

“You’re worth studying.” His eyes darken as they sweep over me, the weight of his gaze like a physical caress. “Every perfect inch.”

“Shall we dance?” Jackson’s voice draws me back to him after we’ve eaten, standing at one of the cocktail tables dotting the perimeter of the room. It’s not really a question.

I take his offered hand, knowing the night is just beginning. And so is the danger to my heart.

His hand settles on my waist with practiced ease, the other capturing mine in a grip that’s both gentle and unyielding. Around us, other couples maintain proper distance—a respectful foot of space between partners. Jackson pulls me flush against him, close enough that I feel every hard plane of his body against my softer curves.

“Careful,” I murmur, aware of watching eyes. “People are staring.”

“Let them.” His voice drops to a register that heats my core. “Let them see exactly who you belong to.”

The possessive declaration should anger me. Instead, it sends an unwelcome thrill racing down my spine. His hand slides lower than propriety allows, fingers splaying across my hip in deliberate claim.

“I don’t belong to anyone.” The lie tastes hollow as I say it.

Jackson’s laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against mine. “Your body says differently, little hellcat.” His thigh slides between mine as he guides us through a turn, the friction making my breath catch.

“It’s just the dance,” I say, trying to convince myself more than him.

“Is it?” His lips brush my ear, sending shivers cascading down my neck. “Then why is your heart racing? Why are your pupils dilated?” His hand tightens, drawing me impossibly closer. “Why are your nipples hard against my chest?”

Heat floods my face as I realize he’s right—my traitorous body betraying me yet again. Worse is the knowing in his eyes, the satisfaction in his smile. The certainty that he’s winning whatever game we’re playing.

The music shifts to something slower, more intimate. All around us, other dancers maintain their careful distance. But Jackson holds me like he’s afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

I shouldn’t. Should keep my gaze fixed on his shoulder, maintain whatever scraps of independence I have left. But my eyes lift to his anyway, drawn by the gravity of his presence.

What I see there steals my breath—hunger, yes, but also something that looks dangerously close to tenderness.

His breath catches slightly as I lean into him—the first crack in his control—and his grip turns punishing. “Keep dancing like that,” he murmurs against my ear, “and we won’t make it through the next song.”

His threat—his promise —makes my core clench with anticipation. I should be terrified by the darkness in his voice, yet I’m fighting the urge to arch into his touch.

“Excuse me.” The voice breaks through our bubble. Ryder Caldwell stands at Jackson’s shoulder, his smile sharp as a blade. “Mind if I cut in?”

Before Jackson can answer, a donor urgently waves him over. Something flashes in his eyes—possession, fury, fear. His fingers dig into my hip once before he releases me.

“Don’t wander far,” he murmurs. The warning is clear.

Ryder’s hand is colder than Jackson’s as he takes over the dance. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says conversationally. “Though I wonder if you know exactly what your father’s debts cost.”

My steps falter. “What are you talking about?”

“You know Jackson isn’t the only one holding your father’s markers.” His voice drops lower. “Some of his other creditors might not be as pleasant about collecting.”

I don’t say anything as he spins me around. I know my father owed money all over Salvation, and no doubt beyond. But why was Ryder telling me this now?

“Jackson Hawkins doesn’t need any more blood on his hands,” Ryder continued. “Not for a woman who’s a passing fancy, who’ll be gone at the end of a year.”

My breath caught at the reminder of the temporary nature of my relationship with Jackson. It was so fucking easy to forget when he was charming.

“He’s a businessman,” I breathed.

“Christ, you’re so fucking innocent,” Ryder said. “Victoria Reeves thought that, too. Thought the worst he could do was ruin her financially. Right up until he put that bullet in her head.” He leans closer. “But here’s what you need to understand—he didn’t do it for business. He did it because her actions hurt innocent people. That’s the line you don’t cross with Jackson. You don’t hurt his people.”

“And I’m one of his people now?”

Ryder’s laugh holds no humor. “Sweetheart, you’re not just his people. You’re his obsession. God help anyone who touches you.”

He deposits me at the bar without saying another word, leaving me uneasy as I process his words. A second gin and tonic doesn’t steady my nerves like it should. Not when I can feel Jackson’s gaze burning into me, promising retribution for a crime I haven’t committed.

When his hand settles on my waist again, I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Having fun?” The words are pleasant. The grip is not.

His grip stays punishing as he guides me back to the dance floor, each step deliberate. His hand slides lower than proper, fingers splayed possessively across my hip. The other couples give us a wider berth now, sensing the current of tension between us. My body betrays me with each step, already slick and aching as he pulls me back against his chest.

“You’ll tell me what Ryder said.” Not a question. A command. His lips brush my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Every. Single. Word.”

Annoyance flows through me, sudden and sharp. “He was warning me away from you,” I lie. “As if I need a reminder that you’re a?—”

I stop myself before I say something I regret, but Jackson smiles cruelly. His free hand splays across my lower belly, making my muscles jump. Each turn presses me harder against the thick ridge of his arousal. “I can feel you trembling, little hellcat.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “I don’t have to check to know that you’re soaking wet, your desire dripping down your thighs. Is it your fear of me that makes you wet? Or knowing that everyone can see who you belong to?”

The heavy wool of his tuxedo scrapes against my bare back as he guides us in a slow turn. His thigh forces my legs apart under the pretext of the dance, the pressure exactly where I need it. Shame floods through me as I realize I’m grinding subtly against him, desperate for friction.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into my hip. “Show everyone how well I’ve trained you.”

The ballroom mirrors reflect us from every angle—the powerful rancher and his elegant partner, moving in perfect sync. His fury has cooled to something more controlled, more dangerous. The donor who interrupted earlier approaches again, and Jackson smoothly shifts us to include him in conversation. His charm is effortless, even as his fingers trace possessive patterns that make me want to beg him for more.

He adjusts his hold between each turn, forcing soft gasps from my throat as he guides my body where he wants it. The realization hits—this controlled darkness will be unleashed the moment we’re alone. My body betrays me, clenching with need even as my mind screams danger.

Jackson’s other hand slides lower, proprietary and promising.

As his fingers dig into my flesh—threat and promise in one casual caress—I know it’s already too late. I’m in too deep, caught in a cage built from luxury and debt and my own treacherous desires. My body responds to his touch like a well-trained mare, even as panic flutters in my chest.

His lips brush my ear again. “I’m going to spend hours making you come tonight,” he whispers. “Until you’re begging me to stop. Until you forget everyone but me.” His thigh flexes between my legs. “That’s what you need, isn’t it? To be reminded who you belong to?”

The real question isn’t whether I want to escape. It’s why the thought of what comes next makes me press my thighs together around his leg, desperately seeking more friction even as I tremble.

“Please,” I whisper, not sure if I’m begging him to stop or continue.

His dark chuckle vibrates through me. “Patience, hellcat. Let them all watch how perfectly you dance for me first.”