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24

Jackson

“Boss.” Miguel’s voice carries concern over the phone line. “She’s working herself to exhaustion. Sleeping on the floor. Barely eating.”

My grip tightens on the phone, every muscle tensing with the need to act. To force my way back in. To make her accept protection whether she wants it or not.

“Send more men,” I say instead, each word feeling like surrender. “Anything she needs.”

“She’ll fight it.” Miguel knows her too well. “Already tried to send back the lumber.”

“Then get creative.” I pace the length of my office, staring at the surveillance feeds that now show nothing. I’d ordered the indoor cameras removed, leaving only the perimeter security. Another concession that burns like acid. “Tell her it’s payment for consulting. For the stallion work. For anything that lets her keep her goddamn pride.”

Pride. The word echoes in my mind. Her pride versus my control—the battle that’s defined us from the beginning.

“There’s something else.” Miguel’s hesitation sends cold fingers down my spine. “Someone’s been watching the property. Unmarked truck. Walsh’s men, looks like.”

My vision narrows to a red tunnel of rage. “Triple the night watch. If they so much as breathe in her direction?—”

“Already handled.” Miguel’s voice steadies me. “Just thought you should know.”

After he hangs up, I stand at the window, staring toward the mountains that separate my property from hers. Six miles as the crow flies. An eternity in other ways.

I could be there in thirty minutes. Could surround her with security whether she wants it or not. Could do what I’ve always done—take control, eliminate threats, protect what’s mine.

Except that she doesn’t think she’s mine anymore.

She’s wrong, but even I know that if I ever want her to come back, I have to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I have to wait.

Lucas Caldwell leans against the paddock fence, openly watching Shiloh work his new stallion. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Moses has been singing her praises all week. Kid’s half in love with her already.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Lucas orchestrated this entire meeting—insisting I come out to discuss his breeding program at exactly the time he’d scheduled Shiloh to work with his latest acquisition. Making sure I’d have to watch her dance with danger while his youngest hand makes eyes at her.

The stallion moves like black smoke in the morning light, all coiled power and barely contained violence. But Shiloh handles him with grace and confidence, her curves filling out worn denim as she moves with the dangerous animal. Every gesture precise. Professional. Perfect.

“Moses has good instincts with horses.” Lucas examines his manicured nails, his casual tone fooling neither of us. “Been thinking of promoting him to training assistant. Give him more time working with your girl?—”

“She’s not my girl.” The words come out closer to a growl than I intend. “And we both know you’re not stupid enough to put a green hand in that pen.”

Lucas’ smile shows too many teeth. “No? Shame to waste all that young enthusiasm. All that energy. The way he looks at her?—”

The stallion pins his ears, as if he’s caught my shift in mood. But Shiloh just adjusts her body language, drawing the massive animal’s attention back to her with nothing but skill and presence. The morning sun catches her hair, turning it to a halo as she moves.

I remember how her hair felt like silk wrapped around my fist. How her body yielded to my dominance. How I didn’t even know I craved her trust, until I broke it with cameras and manipulation and my need to possess every piece of her.

“Moses!” Her voice carries across the yard, professional but warm. “Can you grab the new lead from the tack room?”

The boy practically trips over himself to comply. He can’t be more than twenty-three, all long limbs and eager energy as he jogs toward the barn. The age gap between them is nothing compared to the thirteen years between Shiloh and me. He could give her a normal life. One without darkness and obsession and the kind of love that devours.

“Might make a good match.” Lucas is enjoying this too much. “Young. Enthusiastic. Uncomplicated?—”

“This discussion is over.” I straighten to my full height, letting him feel the difference in our sizes. “Don’t fucking push me.”

His smirk says he knows exactly how far he’s pushed. But before he can respond, Moses returns with the lead rope. The young man hesitates when he sees me, instinct warning him about the predator in his path.

Smart kid.

“Moses.” I stay perfectly still, letting him feel the teeth behind my smile. “I believe Mr. Caldwell needs you in the south barn.”

He glances at Lucas, who just waves him off. The boy’s shoulders tense, but he hands the lead rope through the fence to Shiloh before retreating. His reluctance to leave her would be admirable if it didn’t make me want to break him.

“You’re terrorizing my staff.” Lucas sounds amused rather than concerned.

“I think we’re done here.” I don’t take my eyes off Shiloh as she works the stallion through another pattern. Every movement graceful, every curve emphasized by worn denim and early sunlight. “Unless you’d like to discuss why you really arranged this meeting?”

“Just doing you a favor, old friend.” He pushes off the fence, brushing invisible dust from his designer jeans. “Reminding you what you’re letting slip away. Though I have to wonder—” He pauses for effect. “If you’re not planning to claim her properly, maybe someone else should.”

The threat in his voice—subtle but clear—makes every muscle in my body tense. The stallion spooks, massive body coiling with lethal intent. But Shiloh moves with him, containing all that power with nothing but skill and presence.

She’s magnificent. Powerful. Free.

And Lucas is right about one thing—I’m letting her slip away.

I wait until Lucas saunters toward his truck before approaching the fence. Shiloh doesn’t turn, but her shoulders tense. She doesn’t have to look to know it’s me. She feels my presence the same way I feel hers—like gravity, like hunger, like possession.

“Impressive work.” I rest my arms on the top rail, close enough to catch her subtle scent of lavender and sunlight. “He’s settling well for you.”

“He just needs patience.” Her voice is bland and professional as she asks the stallion for another turn. “And clear boundaries.”

The double meaning hits me in the solar plexus. “Have dinner with me.”

Now she does turn, those sharp eyes narrowing. “That’s not a good idea.”

“No?” I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I’m containing. “I know a new place in town. Italian. Let me feed you properly. No strings.” A lie, and we both know it. “Just dinner. Just conversation.” Another lie, maybe.

She studies me the way she studies difficult horses—looking for signs of threat or trust. The stallion shifts restively, picking up on the tension crackling between us. But when she speaks, her voice is steady. “Just dinner?”

“Just dinner.” For now. “I’ll text you the details.”

I force myself to walk away before I can reach for her. Before I can pull her into my arms and remind her body how perfectly it fits against mine. But I feel her gaze following me, heavy as a touch.

Just dinner. Just conversation. Just the first step in showing her that everything I’ve done, as twisted as it became, started with the need to keep her safe. To possess her completely.

I have papers to prepare. Evidence to gather. A deed to sign over.

But first, I have a woman to reclaim.

The Bella Luna looks different at night, the warm lighting and exposed brick turning the converted mercantile into something almost magical. I arrive early, claiming a corner table that lets me watch the door while staying half-hidden in shadows. Old habits die hard. Couples already fill the small dance floor, swaying to the pianist’s slow jazz.

Shiloh strides in right on time, spine straight as steel. The simple black wrap dress emphasizes curves she once tried to hide, but there’s nothing yielding in her posture. She moves like someone walking into battle.

“You came.” I start to stand, but her sharp look freezes me in place.

“You said just dinner.” She slides into the seat across from me, keeping the table between us like a shield. Her eyes track past me to the dance floor, where the pianist has switched to something sultry and slow.

I gesture to the expensive red wine already breathing on the table—one I know she loves but would never order for herself. “I ordered the Brunello.”

“Of course you did.” But there’s less bite in her voice than there could be. She watches me pour, and this time when I hand her the glass, her fingers brush mine. “How’s the Friesian doing?”

Safe ground. Neutral territory. I let her steer us there. “Better. Though not as well as Lucas’ seems to be with you.”

Color touches her cheeks. “He just needs patience.” She takes a sip of wine, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “Though that cut on his flank needs watching. Your vet’s good, but?—”

“But not as good as you.” I keep my voice neutral.

She straightens, that sharp mind engaging despite herself. “The scar tissue’s deeper than they thought. If you work him in the round pen?—”

I let her talk horses—no, I don’t let her do anything. I lost the right to that. Instead, I encourage her, watching how animation transforms her face. She’s magnificent like this—the confidence I’ve always admired shining through. When the waiter approaches, she barely pauses in explaining a new training technique.

“I’ve been using it with that paint mare of yours,” she says after ordering, then catches herself. Remembering why she shouldn’t be giving me training advice. Why she shouldn’t be here at all.

“Tell me more.” I keep my voice gentle, interested but not demanding. “About the mare. I noticed she’s moving better.”

For a moment, she hesitates. But horses are her passion, her expertise, and eventually it wins out over her wariness. “Her anxiety was making the lameness worse. Once I earned her trust,” she trails off, realizing what she’s revealed.

“Like you earned that stallion’s today?” I take a slow sip of wine. “I watched you work with him. You’re extraordinary with dangerous animals.”

“Yes, well.” Her lips curve slightly. “I’ve had practice with dangerous things.”

The loaded silence stretches between us as our food arrives. On the dance floor, couples move together, the pianist playing something sweet and aching. She watches them over my shoulder, something wistful crossing her face.

“The mare’s impressive.” I guide us back to safer ground. “I’ve been considering breeding her, if the lameness improves.”

“To that new bay stallion?” She leans forward, professional interest overwhelming her reserve. “His lines would complement hers beautifully. Though you’d need to watch that shoulder configuration.”

We talk horses through dinner, the wine and shared passion gradually easing her tension. She’s fucking smart when she forgets to guard herself, all sharp insights and intuitive understanding. I lean closer, drawn in by her intelligence as much as her beauty.

The pianist shifts to something slow and familiar—the kind of song that makes couples gravitate to the dance floor. Shiloh’s eyes follow them, that whisper of longing crossing her face again.

“Dance with me.” The words surprise us both.

Her eyes snap back to mine. “Jackson?—”

“One dance.” I stand, holding out my hand. “A reminder that not everything between us was bad.”

She stares at my outstretched hand like it might bite. Around us, other couples sway together, the music wrapping around them like silk.

“Please,” I say, and my voice breaks with longing.

When she meets my eyes, hers are wide and green and not quite as steady as they should be. Finally, she places her fingers against mine. “One dance.”

I guide her to the small dance floor. When I pull her close, she stays stiff for two heartbeats before melting against me. Her body remembers this—how perfectly we fit together, how naturally she yields to my lead.

“I miss you.” I breathe the words against her hair. “Miss your fire. Your defiance. The way you challenge me.”

Her hands fist in my jacket. “Jackson?—”

“Shhh.” I stroke one hand down her spine, feeling her shiver. “Just dance with me. Let me have this.”

She turns her face into my chest, and I feel the moment she surrenders. Just for this song, just for these few minutes, she lets herself remember how good we were together. How perfectly we match.

When the song ends, she steps back immediately. Her eyes are too bright as she gathers her shawl. “I should go.”

Every instinct screams at me to stop her. To grab her and remind her body exactly who it belongs to. To claim what I once thought was mine by right.

I let her go. “Thank you for tonight.”

She hesitates at the edge of the table. For a moment, I think she’ll say something else. Instead, she nods once, sharp and final, before walking away.

I watch her go, memorizing the straight line of her spine, the proud tilt of her chin. Remembering how she felt in my arms, soft and yielding for those few precious moments.

Tomorrow, I’ll give her real freedom to choose.

Tonight, I let myself remember how perfectly she surrendered and hope it’s enough to bring her back to me.