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Jackson

Shiloh Foster standing before me, covered in dirt and sweat, is everything I’ve waited for. She lifts her chin in instinctive defiance, and a memory flashes across my mind—me at twelve, using that same gesture against men who thought they could crush me, then her again at eighteen, dragging her father out of a poker game the night her mother passed.

That fucking night lit a fire in me I couldn’t extinguish. Six years of planning. Six years of collecting every debt, every loan, capitalizing on every weakness. Her father made it almost too easy—a charming drunk who’d sign anything put in front of him, good with horses, good with people, but unable to stop gambling. Each time he borrowed money, I was there, slowly tightening the noose. Watching Shiloh build her reputation rehabilitating horses while I waited for the perfect moment to strike.

I’ve watched her. Wanted her. As need burned through me like a fever I couldn’t break. I tried to forget her—with other women, with work, with building my empire—but nothing dulls the ache. Nothing stops the dreams where she’s beneath me, yielding to me, belonging to me.

When my father died, drowning in debt, I had nothing. I swore then that I would never again be at anyone’s mercy. That I would take what I wanted and hold onto it with an iron grip.

I want Shiloh Foster with a hunger that makes monsters of better men than me.

And if she refuses? No. Shiloh is too responsible, too used to holding her entire operation together through sheer force of will, even as her father’s gambling frittered away every penny she made. She won’t turn me down. She can’t. I won’t allow her to.

Silence stretches between us. Her hands clench at her sides, and I catalog every detail—the mud on her boots, the way her sun-streaked braid has come half-undone, and the proud set of her shoulders despite her obvious fear. The mahogany conference table between us might as well be an ocean for all it’ll protect her.

“Miss Foster.” I keep my voice mild. Professional. “Please, have a seat.”

She doesn’t move, those hazel eyes flashing gold with anger. “I’d rather stand.”

I allow myself a small smile, knowing it won’t reach my eyes. “As you wish.” I open the folder on the conference table, each movement precise and controlled. “Your father owes me two and a half million dollars.” I pause, letting her choke on it before delivering the killing blow. “And counting.”

The blood drains from her face, but she doesn’t flinch. “That’s impossible. The ranch isn’t worth?—”

“Let me show you something.” I slide the first document toward her—a loan taken out three years ago, when a prize stallion shattered his leg and had to be euthanized. She’d stood in that field for hours afterward, unmovable in her grief, unaware of my silent observation. “Your father borrowed against the north pasture that day.” And then he gambled away even more that night.

She takes the paper and traces each line methodically with the same careful attention she gives her horses. Her lips move slightly as she reads the fine print, a tell I’ve observed countless times, though she’s never noticed me watching, waiting, obsessing over her.

“Then there’s this one.” Another document—a second mortgage on the same land, taken out six months later. “And this.” A third mortgage. I’ve spent years collecting these pieces of paper, each document a shield, each transaction a fortress wall. No one will ever again have the power to make me feel small, hungry, trapped. The way my father’s creditors did when they came to take everything we owned. The way Shiloh no doubt did today, as I came to do the same to her.

And she would give in, allowing me to indulge my obsession while giving her back what she wants—her legacy.

Shiloh straightens. “You’ve been buying up every struggling ranch in the county,” she says, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “The Murphy place. Even the old Watson property.”

“Smart girl.” I step close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. “But you missed one detail. How I’ve bought up all the properties that share a border with yours.”

Her head snaps up, those remarkable eyes widening as she puts it together. I’ve spent six years watching those eyes flash gold when she’s angry, green when she’s focused. Right now, they’re a stormy hazel as she realizes how long I’ve been circling her.

I reach past her to gather the documents, letting my arm brush hers. She doesn’t step back, and my respect for her grows. Lesser ranchers have crumbled under far less pressure. Shiloh’s spine straightens.

“You can’t just collect ranches like trophies,” she says, but there’s an undertone of uncertainty now. Six years of crossed paths at auctions and rodeos, of watching me systematically absorb her neighbors’ land. “There are families?—”

“Who took my very generous offers and used them to pay for their kids’ college, to retire, to live far more comfortably than they had as struggling ranchers.” I move behind her as she braces her hands on the table, studying the documents. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, to see the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stand up. “Just like I’m offering you a choice now.”

She tries to turn, but I plant my hands on either side of hers, caging her between my arms. Her breath catches. I’ve stood this close to her only once—last winter, when she came to examine a stallion I was considering for a stud. She’d pressed her hand to his flank, explaining a subtle lameness I hadn’t noticed, and I’d had to clench my fists to keep my hands off her.

“You didn’t call me here today to offer me a choice,” she scoffs, her voice rough before shivering almost imperceptibly. “What do you want?”

Now. Finally. I’ve orchestrated this moment down to the last detail, yet the victory tastes different than I expected, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“A year of your life. Your submission. Your obedience.” Training my horses, living in my house, sharing my bed. Each requirement lands like a blow, but she doesn’t crumple. Of course she doesn’t. I’ve watched her take kicks from thousand-pound stallions without flinching. “Give me that, and I’ll give you back your legacy. Refuse?” I ease back just enough to let her turn and face me. “And you’ll watch it burn.”

The fury in her eyes is familiar—I saw it three months ago when she caught me studying her at the Cattlemen's Ball, just before her father passed. She’d been wearing blue silk that night instead of dusty denim, but that defiant lift of her chin was the same. I’d imagined backing her against the coat check counter, hiking up that elegant dress, and showing her exactly what that defiance did to me.

“You’re insane,” she breathes, but there’s a tremor in her voice that wasn’t there before. “I would never?—”

“You already are.” I catch her wrist as she moves to shove past me, using her momentum to spin her back against the table. The motion knocks several documents to the floor—her father’s sins scattered at our feet.

She thrashes, frantic, a wild thing caught in my trap.

“I’ve learned a lot from watching you over the years,” I murmur against her ear. “About breaking strong-willed creatures. About knowing when to push—” I tighten my grip on her wrist. “And when to ease back.” I gentle my hold, stroking my thumb over her thundering pulse.

“You’re the devil,” she snarls.

“No.” I smile, letting her see the predator beneath the polish. “I’m a businessman. And you, Shiloh Foster, are a debt I intend to collect. One way or another.”

“You can’t—” Her voice breaks.

Shiloh’s nails dig into my forearm as I slide my hand up her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm. “Your father’s pride cost him everything,” I murmur against her ear. “But you’re smarter than he was. You understand what’s at stake here.” My grip tightens slightly on the sides of her neck. “And right now? Your pride is the only thing standing between you and salvation.”

“My pride is all I have left.” Her voice is breathy as she fights her arousal.

“You’ll give me that, too.”

Her head falls back against my shoulder, exposing more of her throat to my hand. Just like that filly I watched her train last spring, fighting the bit even as she yielded to pressure.

I press my advantage, my free hand sliding lower. “Come on, little hellcat. Show me those claws.” I grind my palm against her through her jeans until she shudders. “Fight me like you fought that stallion at the Henderson auction. The one everyone said was too dangerous to salvage.”

I’ve watched her date—boys who couldn’t give her what she wants, what she needs—listened to her as she cried in her shower, frustrated and unsatisfied. Shiloh Foster is desperate to submit, and I’m going to prove it to her.

“Please don’t,” she whimpers, but her hips betray her, seeking my touch. Her gasp of shame when she realizes what her body is doing is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“Your body gives you away, Shiloh. The way you’re breathing. The flush on your skin.” I press closer, so my hard cock presses into her back through the layers of her clothes, showing her exactly what she does to me. “You want this as much as you hate it.”

The button to her jeans gives way under my fingers. I slide them down her soft stomach and delve into her panties until I reach her wet heat. “Beg me all you want, but we both know how this ends.”

When I work my fingers inside her, she’s impossibly tight, soaking wet despite her fury—or because of it. I’ve imagined this moment in a hundred different ways, but nothing compares to the reality of her trembling against me, fighting pleasure as stubbornly as she’s fighting my takeover of her ranch.

I establish a fast rhythm, my fingers curling inside her as my palm grinds against her clit. “Your father was a fool, Shiloh. But you? You’re something else entirely.” I press closer, letting her feel what she does to me. “Tell me, do you fight everything that makes you weak? Or just the things that make you wet?”

Every gasp, every shudder is mine now, not just something I observe from afar. I keep my grip firm on her throat but no longer threatening. Like gentling a wild mare, knowing when to ease the pressure.

And then, with calculated cruelty, I withdraw my hand completely. She cries out at the sudden emptiness—a raw, broken sound that echoes through the conference room.

Her eyes snap open, dazed and unfocused. For one suspended moment, she doesn’t understand what’s happening, her body still chasing the release I’ve just stolen from her.

“No—” she gasps, the word half-plea, half-protest. She tries to straighten, to turn and face me, but her legs tremble too badly to fully support her weight.

I step back and bring my fingers to my lips, making eye contact as I taste her, a primal gesture of possession that makes her eyes widen in shock. Her face flushes crimson as the reality of her position crashes down on her—leaning over my conference table, jeans undone, trembling with need she never meant to reveal, as I relish the evidence of her desire.

“Satisfaction is earned, Shiloh.” I savor her taste on my fingers. “And you haven’t earned anything yet.”

The devastation on her face is magnificent—that perfect moment when humiliation and desire crash together, leaving wreckage in their wake.

“Asshole,” she whispers, the word catching in her throat.

“You have two days.” I tug on my cuffs with deliberate calm.

When she finally straightens and fixes her clothing, her expression is blank, shuttered. But I know better. For years I’ve studied every microexpression that crosses her face. The slight quiver in her lower lip, the way her hands keep making and unmaking tight fists—she’s rattled to her core.

Shiloh turns away from me without a word and strides toward the door, that proud spine straight as ever. Only when she’s gone do I allow myself to press my palms flat against the cool mahogany table, breathing in the lingering scent of her arousal mixed with leather and hay.

I adjust my cuffs, my fingers still soaked with her. Proof that she’s as affected as I am, despite her iron control.

Mine.

Mine.

She doesn’t know yet that her surrender is inevitable. That her defiance only makes the victory sweeter.

But I’ve spent six years learning patience.

And I never lose what I hunt.