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Shiloh

The stallion’s teeth snap an inch from my face. I don’t flinch. Can’t show weakness, not to a horse who’s testing boundaries. My muscles burn from an hour of working him in circles, forcing him to acknowledge my control.

I should be inventorying our equipment. Preparing cattle and horses for auction. Finding a way to pay our staff and feed what few animals we’ll be able to keep.

But I can’t think about that right now, can’t face the loss of my home, of everything I spent my adult life holding together with grim determination while my father apparently signed it all away. Damn him.

Instead, I’m doing what I’m best at—taming wild creatures. I watch the stallion’s body language. A lifetime of training dangerous horses at my father’s side has made me fluent in their silent language. So why couldn’t I stop my own body’s betrayal when Jackson touched me? Why did I arch into his hands when my mind screamed to resist?

I’ve faced down animals that could kill me with one kick, never showing fear, never backing down. But when Jackson pressed me against that conference table, I didn’t fight like I should have. Instead, I melted, yielded, wanted. That terrifies me more than any horse ever could.

“Easy, boy.” I keep my voice low, steady. He’s magnificent—seventeen hands of pure aggression, coat gleaming like polished obsidian. “You don’t have to like me. You just have to respect me.” I coax him to yield to me, even as I shy away from the memory of how Jackson had done the same to me two days ago.

His ears flick forward, and I shift my weight, then wince. My body’s still bruised from the other day, but not as much as my ego.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I ignore it, focused on the horse’s ears, the tension in his haunches. Another buzz. Sensing my distraction, the stallion flares his nostrils. I should turn it off, but?—

The third vibration breaks my concentration. The stallion rears, hooves slicing air where my head had been a second ago. I dive left, rolling through dust and manure, coming up in a defensive crouch.

“Goddammit.” My hands shake as I pull out my phone. Three texts from Jackson Hawkins.

8 pm. 2472 Mesa Ridge Road.

Dinner. Don’t be late.

Make yourself presentable.

Not a request. Not even a question mark at the end to pretend it’s anything but a command. I glance at my watch—6:45. The stallion snorts, tossing his head, and I recognize the same wild defiance that churns in my gut, even as the memory of Jackson’s touch heats my core.

“Yeah, I know.” I step forward, reclaiming the horse’s attention. “Some bastards think they own the world. Doesn’t mean we have to make it easy for them.”

Half an hour later, I’m standing in my shower, pressing my forehead against the cool tile, water sluicing over me as if it could wash away the memory of Jackson’s hands. Worse than his touch was how my body had responded—eagerly, desperately, like I was starving for it. I hate him. I hate his control, his arrogance, his entitlement.

But what I hate most is how I can’t stop remembering the way his fingers felt inside me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, slamming my palm against the shower wall. This is Stockholm syndrome. This is trauma bonding. This is fucked up and anything but actual desire.

So why can’t I stop replaying every second?

By the time I’m clean and dry, I’m frustrated, turned on, furious—a confused mess, staring at my pathetic excuse for a closet. Everything I own smells like horse and leather. The one business-appropriate dress I have is two seasons old, bought for a charity auction where I hoped to network with potential clients. Black, knee-length—it’d be more conservative on a slimmer woman, but I needed the confidence of feeling sexy as hell.

My fingers brush the silver pendant at my throat—my mother’s, the one thing I’ll never sell. The chain catches the last rays of sunlight through my window, and I think of the last forty-eight hours of freedom that trickled away like blood from a wound.

I could refuse to go. Could barricade myself in the ranch house, make him come take what he wants by force. The thought sends a shiver up my spine that I refuse to analyze.

I’ve rehabilitated horses that no one thought could be gentled. Made myself indispensable when my father nearly gambled everything away. Survived on grit and expertise when money ran dry. Yet one touch from Jackson Hawkins undid years of hard-won independence, and worse—part of me craves that undoing.

The dress slides over my skin like surrender. I leave my hair down—partly to hide the bruises on my neck from working with the stallion, partly because I’ve seen how Jackson’s eyes follow my hair when I move. A weapon is a weapon, even if it’s not the kind I’m used to wielding. And I need armor tonight against Jackson, against the shameful heat that pools low in my belly at the memory of his touch.

The dress clings to my curves, and I hate the need that coils in my core as I imagine his hands tracing over the fabric, how my breath turns uneven as I remember how he left me two days before, frustrated and aching.

Salvation’s a small town with a small dating pool. I’ve gone home with men— boys —who couldn’t give me what I needed, who were bland and sweet and careful with me. Not a single one gave me the same frisson of fear combined with arousal that Jackson Hawkins does.

The contract he’d emailed me was abhorrent—my body, my obedience, my submission, for a fucking year, in exchange for my ranch. I’d live with him, fuck him when he required, and share his bed at night.

God help me, my thighs clench together at the thought. Am I actually considering it? Considering giving him everything for an entire year?

He doesn’t really expect me to say yes to this ludicrous contract, does he?

My ancient truck looks even more battered in the soft light of sunset. I should be ashamed, driving this rust bucket up to his stunning ranch house. Instead, I lift my chin. Let him see exactly what he’s buying. Let him know I won’t polish and pretty myself up for him. Not more than I already have, in any case.

The radio crackles with static as I drive, some old country song about standing your ground. I laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. Daddy always said I was too stubborn for my own good.

The road winds up into the hills like a snake—appropriate, given its owner. The gate opens without me having to stop. I blink, looking for the guards, before noting the security cameras. I wonder if he’s watching right now. If he gets off on seeing me drive straight into his trap. I hate how my body warms at the thought of his eyes on me.

I park between a Maserati and a truck that probably cost more than my payroll for a year. My hands clench on the steering wheel, nails biting into my palms. I still have a choice. I could drive away, choose the highway over him, freedom over security, give up the ranch generations of Fosters had spent building.

I think about the four ranch hands who work our land, two of them since I was a kid. The horses I’ve rehabilitated, saved from slaughter. The cattle. The land my family’s worked for generations.

I have to do this.

I have to save the ranch.

No matter what it takes.

Through the mansion’s windows, I see Jackson waiting in a tailored suit that probably costs more than I make in a month. One hand holding a crystal tumbler, the other in his pocket.

No man as cruel as Jackson Hawkins has the right to look as handsome as he does, with broad shoulders and thick thighs that I remember pressing against mine as he held me against the table.

Time to face the devil. I pull myself together and step out of my truck, head high, spine straight. The gravel crunches under my boots—the one thing I refused to change. Let him see that he can offer to buy my body and my submission, but he’ll never own my soul.

A housekeeper of some sort opens the door, gesturing for me to come in. The foyer gleams with old money and new threats, and I struggle to keep my gaze forward instead of gawking at the obscene display of wealth.

“Miss Foster.” The housekeeper smiles, but her eyes judge my dusty boots beneath the dress as I leave faint marks on the marble with every step. For a second, I regret my stubbornness, then remember who I am. Fuck him. “Mr. Hawkins is waiting in the dining room.”

Of course he is. Everything in his ranch house is staged for maximum impact—the chandeliers dripping crystal, the artwork likely worth more than all of my cattle put together, the subtle scent of what’s surely an obscenely expensive dinner.

I follow her through halls designed to make visitors feel small. The dining room door opens on silent hinges, and there he is—Jackson Hawkins, looking like every dark fantasy I’ll never admit to having.

Heat licks down my spine as I remember his hands on my body, his fingers playing with my core like it belonged to him, dominating me so I didn’t have a choice but to accept the pleasure. I quash my desire so rage can well up from the depths of my soul at this cruel man who wants me to trade my body for my ranch. Or rather, who hopes his cruel offer will drive me away.

It won’t.

It’s my ranch.

My family’s ranch.

And I’ll do anything to keep it.

“Seven minutes late. Seems you need both a watch and a lesson in obedience.” He doesn’t look up from pouring wine into a glass that could pay for one of my employee’s salaries.

“Some of us have to earn our keep.” I stay in the doorway, refusing to enter his territory without being explicitly invited. “Unlike those who make their money off taking advantage of others.”

Now he looks up, and the inferno in his eyes flares. He gestures to the chair at his right. “Sit.”

“I’m not one of your horses.”

“No.” His smile shows teeth. “They’re better behaved. Sit, Shiloh. Before I make you.”

I suppress the urge to defy him for the sake of defying him, to see what he’ll do. Jackson brings out a side of me I’ve ruthlessly suppressed—needy, greedy, desperate for his attention.

To my surprise, he pushes my chair in behind me as I take my seat, his fingers ghosting against the wisps of my hair and sending electricity crackling down my spine. I sit, spine rigid, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.

He sits at the head of the table, where a sheet of paper waits on the white tablecloth in front of him. “You missed the deadline.”

“Is that why you summoned me here, like an errant child?”

Jackson’s lips crack into an unkind smile. He gestures at the wine, the gorgeously set table, the way I’m dressed. “Think of this as a first date,” he says.

“Let’s not pretend this is anything other than coercion,” I snap back at him. “You want my land, and you think I’m going to turn you down so you can have it.”

He blinks, then looks me up and down like a lazy lion before his lips tilt up into that cruel smile once more. “Shiloh, I promise you, it’s not your land I want.”

My eyes fly to his, ice-blue and unflinching as he looks down at me, amused. If he didn’t want my land, did that mean he—? I shake my head. No. That’s absurd.

“How many times did your father check himself into rehab?” he asks me, in an abrupt change of subject.

I freeze with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“The three times he checked himself in. The three times he checked himself out against medical advice.” Jackson sips his wine, watching me over the rim. “The last time was what, six months before his death?”

“You don’t get to talk about my father.”

“I get to talk about anything I want.” His voice stays pleasant, reasonable. That’s somehow worse than if he shouted. “I paid for two of those attempts, you know. Arranged the best facilities, private rooms, discrete staff. And still, he chose the bottle over his daughter’s future.”

The soup spoon clatters against fine china. “You son of a?—”

“Careful.” His hand catches my wrist before I can throw the wine in his face. “That vintage costs more in a month than your ranch and training operation combined. You can pour it on the ground, but don’t waste a gesture by throwing it at me.”

His fingers burned so hot I was sure the brand of his fingerprints would remain on my skin long after.

“Let. Go.”

“No.” His thumb finds my pulse, and damn him, he can feel it racing. “I don’t think I will. I’ve waited too long to have you exactly where I want you, Shiloh. And now that I do—I’ll never let go.”

“You think money makes you powerful? Take it all away, and you’re nothing but a bully in a suit,” I spit, trying to twist away.

“And you’re nothing but a little girl playing at running a ranch.” His grip tightens. “One year,” he continues. “And then it’s yours.”

“It’s already mine!” I cried, hating that my father left me in this position.

“That’s not what the bank says,” he drawls, drawing me up and out of my seat. “Now sign the fucking contract or walk the fuck out of here.”

“I’d rather walk barefoot through a rattlesnake den than play this game with you.” The words come out steady despite the tremor in my hands. A lifetime of handling dangerous animals has taught me to project calm I don’t feel.

“You owe me. And I intend to collect. Or you can walk right out that door, right now. No one is forcing you to stay, hellcat.” His voice holds the same quiet authority I use with spooked horses, but there’s a darker edge that makes my skin prickle.

“You’re a monster.” The accusation tastes like ash on my tongue. We both know it’s a lie—monsters don’t make your breath catch or your thighs clench with need.

“Fight me all you want. We both know how this ends.”

He moves with the fluid grace of a predator, backing me against the wall, bracketing me with his hands, caging me in. The scent of leather and sun-warmed skin fills my lungs. His calluses catch against my wrists as he pins them above my head, rough hands that speak of real ranch work despite his empire.

“You’re mine.” The words ghost across my neck, raising goosebumps in their wake. His free hand slides up my torso, mapping my ribs through my dress like he’s gentling a wild thing. Every touch leaves fire in its wake. “Your body already knows it. Time for your mind to catch up.”

Hate and desire tangle in my chest as his fingers find bare skin. My body betrays me with every touch, even as my mind rebels. His thumb brushes my nipple through the fabric and a whimper escapes before I can strangle it. Heat pools low in my belly, an answering ache to the hardness pressing against my hip.

His hand skims lower with agonizing slowness, then hikes up my dress inch by torturous inch. Each brush of his fingers against my thigh makes my muscles jump, a mare fighting the bit. He reads my responses like I read my most difficult cases—every twitch, every hitched breath revealing weakness to exploit.

When his fingers finally find slick heat, I’m already embarrassingly wet. He groans against my throat, the sound vibrating through me. “You fight me, and still, you open for me. So desperate. So wet.” One thick finger circles my entrance without pushing inside, testing, teasing. “Dripping for a man you claim to hate.”

I try to shift my hips, seeking more pressure, but his other hand tightens on my wrists above my head, the gentle warning holding me still. “Let me go,” I whisper, hating myself for breaking so easily.

“No.” His voice drops, something dark and knowing threading through it. “I’ll never let go. Not now that I finally have you exactly where I’ve always wanted you. Now beg.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl, even as my hips chase his touch.

“Not yet.” His thumb brushes my clit with devastating lightness, sending sparks shooting up my spine. “I want you desperate first.”

A voice screams in the back of my mind to shove him away, to stand up and flee, that nothing is worth this degradation.

But I don’t.

He works me, precisely, maddeningly, bringing me to the edge only to back off just before I crest. My thighs tremble with strain, sweat beading on my skin. I’m panting now, reduced to incoherence as he plays my body like a finely tuned instrument.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with satisfaction. “You claw and bite like a wild thing. Stunning.” His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes, only to withdraw when I start to tighten around him.

Tears of frustration streak down my cheeks. I’m so close, hovering right on the knife’s edge of pleasure, but he won’t let me fall.

“I can’t—” I whine, pride shattering under the weight of need. “Jackson, I can’t—I need?—”

“Beg me for it.” His fingers slow to an agonizing pace that draws a broken sound from my throat. “Or you get nothing.”

“Please.”

A dark chuckle. A cruel, circling thumb. “You think that’s begging, little hellcat? That’s nothing.” His rhythm turns punishing, thumb circling my clit as his fingers drive deep. “Come for me,” he growls against my mouth, relenting. “Show me how thoroughly I own you.”

Release crashes through me like a flash flood, violent and overwhelming. My muscles clamp down on his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure wracks my body. He works me through it relentlessly, drawing out every aftershock until I’m sagging against him, utterly broken.

Tears of shame and ecstasy blur my vision as reality reasserts itself. The contract sits innocent and white on the table, waiting for my surrender to be made permanent. My thighs are still quivering, my center throbbing with echoes of pleasure I didn’t want to feel.

His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet eyes that hold triumph and something darker. “Mine,” he growls, thumb branding my bottom lip like a cattle iron. And god help me, my body pulses in response—my hatred and desire now impossible to separate.

He steps back, straightening his tie with meticulousness that only emphasizes how thoroughly he’s disheveled me. But I see the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breathing isn’t quite steady. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been branded by this encounter.

“One year,” he rasps.

I walk back to the table and read the contract again, my fingers shaking as I scan each line.

“This is—” I swallow hard. “You can’t expect me to agree to all of this.”

“I expect complete submission.” He taps the page detailing his rights to my body. “Available whenever, however I want. No limits. No discussion.” He bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “Unless you’d prefer to lose everything your family built?”

I scoff. Complete submission. Living on his ranch. Deference in public. Even defining my meals—three squares a fucking day. And punishment—my eyes scanned the page, shocked at the descriptions of what he could do to me if I didn’t obey—spankings, canings, whipping me with his belt. Fucking hell. The only silver lining was the contractual obligation to let me continue to train, even if it included the requirement to train his horses, too.

But at the end of the year, the ranch I’d grown up on would be mine again.

With a shaking hand, I sign my name, knowing I’ve just handed this ruthless man everything he needs to break me completely. The truly terrifying part is how fiercely I want him to try. How much I crave the dissolution of my carefully constructed control under his hands. How fucking grateful I was to have my father’s debts lifted from my shoulders—the ones Jackson knew about anyway.

Shame rushes through me as I drop the pen on the table.

“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rough. “My ranch. Dawn.” His eyes rake over me one last time, possessive and hungry. “Don’t make me come collect you.”

He leaves me there, destroyed and aching and horrifically aroused, dinner barely even begun. The phantom press of his fingers haunts me as I sink into my chair on unsteady legs.

What have I done?