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19

Shiloh

I find the drawer by accident, looking for my phone after Jackson had stripped me down to eat me out earlier that day. The leather of his chair still holds his scent—cedar and smoke, leather and sin—as I crouch to retrieve it. My fingertips brush something metal instead. A hidden latch.

The storm builds outside, thunder growling across the Montana sky like a warning I’m too late to heed. Wind rattles the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, and my reflection fragments across the rain-streaked glass—a woman I barely recognize anymore, wearing the soft sweater he’d given me, hair falling loose around my shoulders instead of in its usual practical braid.

The drawer slides open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges.

Time stops.

My hands shake as I lift the first photo. It’s me, three weeks ago, working with the new stallion in the east paddock. I remember that day—the way the sunrise had painted everything gold, how the dangerous horse had finally yielded to my touch. I’d thought I was alone.

I wasn’t.

More photos spill across the polished wood. Me in the round pen. Me in the barn late at night. Me in the shower?—

Bile rises in my throat as I find a USB drive, its neat label reading simply “SF.” The laptop screen bathes my face in cold light. As video files populate the screen, I gasp. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Every room in the ranch house. Every private moment I thought was mine alone.

Thunder cracks closer, and I jump. Rain lashes against the windows in sheets, mirroring the cold sweat breaking across my skin. The first few files seem innocent enough—me working with horses, eating breakfast alone, reading in the garden. Then I click on a folder marked “Private.”

Me, crying in my bedroom after that fight about the stallion, pressing my fist against my mouth to stifle the sobs.

Me, in the bath, tracing the marks he’d left, caught between shame and arousal.

Me, pacing my room at midnight, arguing with myself about whether I could trust him, whether this arrangement could ever be more than just business and control.

Wind howls through the eaves. Or maybe that’s just the sound of my own heart shattering as I realize the full scope of his violation. Every private moment, every vulnerability, every second I thought I was safe in my own space—he took it all.

The laptop screen flares with lightning, illuminating more folders. More violation. More proof that every time I thought I was alone, his eyes were on me. The same eyes that had watched me yield to him just hours ago, that seemed to hold something like tenderness as he claimed me.

Dozens of clips of our most intimate moments. Not just the sex—though that’s there, too—but the quiet moments after. Me, curled trustingly against his chest. Me, whispering my deepest fears in the dark. Me, finally letting down every wall I’d built.

He’d cataloged every surrender like specimens in a collection. Even my submission wasn’t mine to give—he’d already taken it, frame by frame, byte by byte.

I continue to explore the thumb drive and find scanned copies of napkins my father’s signed, passed from the original owner to Jackson, spanning six fucking years—the first one only a week after my mother passed away.

And then—there’s a document simply called “Habits.” He’s documented everything about me. How I like my coffee. How I take my tea. My favorite hair products. Details about how I run my ranch—the weeks I’ve been late on payroll, and what I’ve done to make ends meet. Notes on the meals I’ve skipped since my father died.

As I scroll, I take in more details that Jackson’s noted with cold precision—my father’s alcoholism, where he plays poker, his tells.

And then— Oh my god. There are notes on the men I dated and their proclivities. What they like. Why he thinks they couldn’t satisfy me.

My stomach heaves.

The cashmere of his sweater suddenly feels like chains against my skin. I tear it off, letting it pool on the floor like shed snakeskin. The silk camisole underneath feels too thin, too exposed, but that’s fitting, isn’t it? I’ve been exposed this entire time.

A door slams somewhere in the house. His heavy footsteps echo through the hallway, each one matching the thunder that’s getting closer. Getting louder. Like the storm is racing him to reach me first.

I should confront him. Should rage and scream and make him face what he’s done. But as his steps draw closer, raw panic claws up my throat. I can’t bear to see that possessive heat in his eyes, knowing now that he’s been watching me all along. Can’t stand to let him touch me again, knowing how he’s violated every private moment.

Another blast of wind rattles the windows. Beyond them, the world has dissolved into sheets of rain and darkness. But even the storm’s fury feels safer than staying here, under his watching eyes.

I grab my phone and the USB drive, shoving them into my pockets. The floor creaks outside his office—he’s almost here. Lightning strobes again, illuminating my escape route through the French doors to the back terrace.

“Shiloh?” His voice carries that dark edge that usually makes heat pool in my belly. Now it just makes me sick. “Where are you, hellcat?”

The endearment lands like a slap. How many times has he called me that while spying on me through cameras? How many times has he studied my most private moments while planning how to possess me? For how long?

I ease the French door open as his footsteps reach the hallway outside. Rain instantly soaks my thin camisole, plastering it to my skin. The wind nearly knocks me off my feet—nature’s last warning about what waits in the darkness.

Behind me, the office door begins to open.

Through the open French doors, I hear Jackson’s voice—not addressing me, but cursing, then barking into a radio. “Check the flood monitoring feeds. All of them. Now.”

I run.

The gravel terrace cuts into my bare feet as I sprint through the downpour. Each step sends shocks of pain up my legs, but it’s nothing compared to the acid burning in my chest. The storm drowns everything—my gasping breaths, my pounding heart, the sound of Jackson discovering my escape.

Lightning transforms the manicured grounds into a stark photograph—everything is too sharp, too clear. Like those surveillance photos of me, caught unaware in my most vulnerable moments. Thunder follows instantly, so close it rattles my teeth. The storm’s moving fast, but I’m faster. I have to be.

“Shiloh!” His voice carries even through the tempest, that commanding tone that usually makes me yield now driving me deeper into the darkness. “Stop!”

I dodge around the corner of the house. My reflection fragments across the windows—a wild thing, hair plastered to my face, camisole turned transparent. I look like prey. Fitting, since I’ve been his prey all along.

The betrayal isn’t the worst part. It’s the loss. For a moment—god, for weeks—I’d believed there might be something real beneath his need to possess me. Something that could grow into partnership if I was brave enough to nurture it.

What a fool I’d been.

The path to the stables beckons. I could grab Whiskey, be halfway home before he could follow. But the thought of returning to the barn—where he’s probably hidden more cameras, captured more private moments—makes bile rise in my throat.

Another fork of lightning illuminates the dirt road leading down to the valley. To freedom. The wind nearly knocks me sideways as I run, mud squelching between my toes. Every step takes me further from his cameras, his control, his violation of everything I thought was private.

“Goddammit, Shiloh! The storm’s too dangerous!”

Closer now. Too close. I veer off the road into the tall grass, letting the shadows swallow me. Rain stings my face, each drop feeling like judgment. How could I have been so blind? So naive? I’d started to trust him. To believe that beneath his need to control everything, there might be something real between us.

The sound of hooves on gravel cuts through the storm—he’s mounted up to chase me. The radio at his hip crackles with voices.

“North creek’s breached the banks?—”

“Moving crews to sector seven?—”

“Boss, let us handle her. The herd needs?—”

“Like hell.” His voice carries the same edge that once made me yield. Now it fuels my fury. Even now, with his precious empire at risk, he can’t bear to let someone else track his prey.

“Sir, with respect, in this weather?—”

“I said I’ve got her.”

The radio chatter continues as I run, each transmission reminding me how thoroughly his surveillance web spans this land. How many cameras watch every acre. How completely I’ve been caught in his web without knowing.

The ground slopes sharply beneath my feet. In daylight, I’d know these paths like breathing. But the storm has transformed everything into treacherous shadows. One wrong step and?—

My foot slides in the mud. The world tilts. I throw my hands out but there’s nothing to grab, nothing to stop my fall down the rain-slicked hill. Pain explodes through my hip as I roll, unable to tell up from down in the darkness.

I slam to a stop against something solid. A fence post. For a moment, I can only lie there, rain hammering against my skin as I fight to breathe. Everything hurts, but nothing feels broken. Just bruised. Like my heart.

“Shiloh!” Closer still, but the rain distorts his voice, making it impossible to tell which direction he’s coming from. “Hellcat, please!”

The raw edge in his voice almost breaks me. Almost makes me want to believe there could be an explanation for the photos, the violation of every private moment, the planning for my father’s demise.

Lightning flashes again, showing me my path down into the valley. The storm’s fury has turned the usual creek into a roaring monster, brown water churning with debris. The bridge I normally use will be underwater by now.

But I know these lands. Know where the game trails cross the water, where the rocks rise high enough to ford even in flood season. If I can just reach them before?—

“There you are.” His voice cuts through the storm, too close, too real.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring how my body screams in protest. Through the curtain of rain, lightning highlights his massive body, too close, too dangerous to my heart.

I turn and flee into the heart of the storm, letting the darkness swallow me whole. Behind me, I hear him curse, hear his mount’s footsteps falter on the treacherous ground. Good. Let him feel what it’s like to lose control for once.

Wind howls around me, drowning out everything but the thunder of my heart. Like the storm itself is trying to tell me something.

I run anyway.

The creek roars ahead. I know these waters. Know where the rocks make a natural bridge, high enough to cross even in the worst floods. But the rain has turned every surface treacherous, and the first step onto the slick stone nearly sends me plunging into the torrent.

Above the water’s roar, I hear more radio calls. His men coordinating, mobilizing equipment, tracking the flood’s path through his network of cameras. Even nature itself can’t escape his need to watch, to control, to own.

“Shiloh, stop!” Jackson’s voice carries over the storm’s rage. “Those rocks aren’t stable!”

As if he has any right to warn me about stability. About safety.

I edge further onto the rock bridge, thighs burning as I fight to stay upright against the wind. The water below looks like liquid darkness, hungry and alive. One slip and?—

A massive log slams into the rocks below, the impact vibrating through my bones. The creek seems to reach for me, eager to add me to its collection of broken things.

“Please!” The raw desperation in Jackson’s voice almost breaks my resolve. “Shiloh, you’ll die out here!”

Liar. He doesn’t care about me. He cares about controlling me, manipulating me so he can use me.

Lightning transforms the scene into stark black and white—me balanced on the rocks, him closing the distance between us with those long strides. In the electric light, I catch his expression. Not the calculated control I’m used to. Something wilder. Almost afraid.

Good. Let him know what it feels like to be powerless.

I take another step onto the rocks. The rain makes everything slick as glass, and my bare feet struggle for purchase. The creek seems to growl beneath me, promising consequences for any mistake.

My foot slips.

I twist mid-fall, years of ranch work giving my body the muscle memory it needs. My hip slams against the rock, sending fresh pain blazing through already-bruised flesh, but my hands find purchase on the rough stone. For one endless moment, I hang there—suspended between Jackson and the hungry water, between trust and betrayal, between drowning and surviving.

I haul myself back up, finding my footing despite the perilous surface. One step. Another. The far bank rises before me, promising escape.

“Shiloh!” Jackson’s voice holds something I’ve never heard before. Not command. Not control. Fear.

I don’t look back. Can’t bear to see his expression, to risk letting that magnetic pull between us draw me back to him. Instead, I focus on the shadowy shapes moving in the valley below. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something?—

Horror cuts through my personal pain as I realize what I’m seeing. The flood waters have cut off the lower pasture. Dark shapes mill in growing panic—the herd, trapped between rising water and the steep canyon walls. His men are too far out. Won’t arrive in time to prevent panic.

I could leave them. Could let Jackson deal with the consequences of his own actions.

A calf’s terrified bawl carries over the storm’s fury.

Goddammit.

I may hate Jackson Hawkins with every fiber of my being, but I won’t let innocent animals suffer for it. Squaring my shoulders against the rain, I start down toward the endangered herd.

Behind me, I hear Jackson curse. Let him follow. Let him watch—he’s going to anyway.

I have cattle to save.

The descent into the valley is treacherous, mud trying to pull my feet out from under me with every step. Lightning shows me glimpses of the full disaster—the flood waters have split the herd, pushing some against the canyon walls while others bunch together on a rapidly shrinking island of higher ground. Most are Jackson’s prized Herefords, their red coats turned black by the rain, but I spot several of old man Mitchell’s distinctive Black Angus mixed in. The storm must have taken down fencing somewhere.

Thunder cracks overhead and the cattle shift nervously, their movements bringing them dangerously close to the rushing water. A cow bellows in panic as her calf slips in the mud. The sound cuts through me.

More lightning illuminates the valley, and my heart stops. The flood waters aren’t just rising—they’re carving new channels through the soft earth. That island of high ground won’t last another hour. And if the herd panics, if they start to run?—

“Jesus Christ.” Jackson’s voice carries over the wind. He’s kept his distance since I crossed the rocks, but I hear the same horror in his voice that I’m feeling. “The north creek’s breached its banks. They’re about to be caught between two floods.”

I don’t acknowledge him. Don’t need to. The reality of what we’re facing transcends personal betrayal. Fifty-odd head of premium cattle, each worth more than my truck, trapped between rising waters. But it’s not about money—it’s about the terrified calf still crying for its mother, about generations of careful breeding that could be wiped out in one night of nature’s fury.

My body moves before my mind fully processes the plan. I start picking my way down toward the herd, using the lightning flashes to guide my steps. The rain has plastered my camisole to my skin, but I barely feel the cold. Analysis takes over—the habit of years spent reading animal behavior, understanding patterns of movement and fear.

We need the ranch hands. Need ATVs and horses and proper equipment. But first, we need to get the herd to higher ground before the water rises further.

“Get to the ridge.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but the animals have to come first. Behind me, I hear him rein in his horse, the radio still spitting urgent updates about rescue crews en route. “If you can keep them from bolting north while I bring them around the point?—”

“They’ll follow the old creek bed to high ground.” He finishes my thought, professional respect momentarily overshadowing everything else. “But you’ll be in the flood path if the water rises?—”

“I know what I’m doing.” I cut him off, unable to bear his concern. Unable to forget the videos, the photos, the violation. “Just get to the ridge.”

Another crack of lightning shows his face—torn between the need to protect his investment and the need to protect me. Let him struggle with it. I have work to do.

I move toward the herd, forcing my movements to stay slow and calm despite the adrenaline singing through my veins. The nearest cow turns her head toward me, nostrils flaring. Everything depends on the next few moments—on my ability to convince fifty panic-stricken cattle that I’m the safer option than the rising water.

Behind me, I hear Jackson starting his climb to the ridge. Good. Let him watch. After all, isn’t that what he does best?

The first fat drops of a new cloudburst hit my face as I begin my careful approach. The storm’s fury matches the rage in my heart, but I force it all down, reaching for the calm center I use when gentling dangerous horses.

I can drown in betrayal later.