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4

Jackson

The sound of her laughter hits me in the chest. From our position on the far side of the training paddock, I watch Shiloh lean against the fence, her smile transforming her entire face as Miguel describes his daughter’s quinceanera preparations. She’s wearing worn jeans that hug every curve, her sun-kissed hair escaping its practical braid in wisps that catch the morning light. Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine.

She’d arrived at dawn, hauling a trailer carrying her beloved mare, Whiskey. She hadn’t brought much else—just a duffle bag of clothes, the worn boots she was wearing, and the deep shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept in days.

And now she was laughing with Miguel like she’d worked here for years.

“Quite the asset you’ve acquired.” Lucas Caldwell’s drawl carries just enough insinuation to make my hands clench. He takes a slow sip of coffee, watching Shiloh over the rim. “Though I have to wonder if you knew exactly what you were getting. She’s got quite the reputation with dangerous animals.”

I don’t dignify him with a response. We’re supposed to be discussing his new breeding program, not my personal affairs—he may be my best friend, but Shiloh is none of his fucking business. No, she’s mine and mine alone. My eyes never leave her as she works, and Lucas laughs quietly at my single-minded focus.

“You should have seen Maria trying on dresses,” Miguel says to Shiloh, his weathered face creasing with pride. “Reminded me of you at that age, always getting into trouble.”

“I wasn’t that bad.” But Shiloh’s grin betrays her, and dark jealousy lodges in my chest at this evidence of their history. Of all the years I spent merely watching her, while Miguel got to play the part of protective older brother as her father gambled away her future.

“No?” He cuffs her shoulder gently. “Who was it who dyed your daddy’s prize stallion blue for Halloween when you were thirteen?”

The easy affection in the gesture makes my hands clench.

Two of the younger hands approach with training proposals, deferring to her expertise. She moves through my domain like she belongs here—not as my possession, but with the confidence that she knows what she’s doing. She’s right. She does.

“The mare’s still favoring that leg.” She traces a line on the clipboard, and both men lean in to study her notes. “Switch her to the east paddock. The softer ground will help while she rebuilds strength.” Her expertise with the Drake horses is why Lucas is here, though neither of us acknowledges it. He’s as obsessive as I am about the woman he’s hunting, even if he won’t admit he’s hunting her.

“Yes, ma’am.” The honorific comes easily to the ranch hands, and even if it’s earned through years of watching her gentle their most difficult cases, I hate it. My fingers tighten on my coffee cup as Dylan, the newest hire, lets his gaze linger too long on her curves.

“She’s good,” Lucas notes. “No wonder the Drakes trust her with their horses.”

I straighten abruptly, about to lay into my best friend about where he can stick his commentary on Shiloh, when Miguel wanders over to our side of the fence.

“Everything alright?” Miguel’s voice carries that trail boss authority that usually makes men yield.

“You’re too fucking nice to her.” My eyes never leave the paddock where she’s working, the warning in my voice unmistakable. “She needs to understand who’s really in charge here.”

“Oh?” Twenty years of managing my ranch, since before it was even mine, lets him push back where others would fold. “Should I treat her with anything besides the same respect and dignity I treat everyone else? I’ve known Shiloh her entire life. She’s really fucking good.” He moves to stand beside me, watching Shiloh demonstrate a training pattern, before grinning at me. “And you’re the one who hired her, aren’t you, boss?”

Hired her. The lie is bitter on my tongue, a polite fiction to hide the monstrous bargain I’d struck.

“And I suspect you don’t want me marching through the house with a pan and wooden spoon to wake her up before dawn, like I do with the cowboys,” Miguel continues.

Despite myself, I smile, as Lucas snorts. The idea is ridiculous.

And then Miguel asks, “Or do you have plans for her other than hiring her to manage your horses?”

He’s unaware of the contract I have with Shiloh. If he knew, he’d help her escape in a heartbeat and then find a way to thrash me for my impudence. But he does know she’s here, that she’ll live with me in the ranch house Miguel and I built together years ago, when I was broke and scrappy and determined to bring this ranch to life.

Miguel had taught me a hell of a lot during those first few years, when I didn’t know shit about ranching except what I’d seen on TV, but that didn’t mean I wanted his opinion on Shiloh.

Far from it.

I track how her body moves with fluid grace as she guides the mare through a series of small circles, her movements precise. The mare has her dam’s fire—that signature combination of raw power and hair-trigger reactivity that’s made their breeding program legendary, just like the Drake family themselves.

As Shiloh gentles the broken, damaged horse, something shifts in my chest. She faces violence without flinching, the way I once faced my father’s beatings. But where I learned to control through force, she builds trust. Maybe she’s got the right idea—some wild things need a delicate hand.

Something dark twists in my gut as I watch Shiloh earn another creature’s willing submission. Envy, perhaps, for her attention, or a darker emotion that wanted to do the same to her.

“You’ve known me a long time, Miguel.” My voice carries an edge that would make most men step back. “Don’t mistake that for permission to question my methods.”

“Your methods?” His laugh holds no humor. “She’s a person, not a horse. I’ve watched you build this empire, Jackson. Seen how you break men who cross you. But her?” He nods toward Shiloh, who’s now checking the mare’s leg with gentle hands. “Did you ever see her break a horse’s spirit to control it? No. She earns their trust. But you’re too obsessed with owning her to learn from her methods.”

I turn slowly, giving him the full weight of my attention. “Careful, old friend.”

He meets my gaze without flinching. “Do you think I’m stupid? You’ve been stalking her for years.” His expression hardens. “But if you break her spirit, you’ll destroy what makes her valuable. What makes her Shiloh.”

The truth of his words scorches through me like wildfire consuming dry brush. She’s already moved to the next horse, her movements so confident they border on seduction. And, goddammit, I’m not the only one watching.

“Go check the south fences.” I turn back to the paddock, dismissing him. “Take Dylan with you. Keep him busy.”

Miguel taps the flat palms of his hands twice as he pushes up from the fence to leave, his lips tilted up in an unexpected smile. “She could be good for you, boss, but she’s not one of your horses. You can’t break her and then rebuild her to your specifications.”

“I don’t intend to,” I snap, even though he’s right about my intentions toward the woman.

“Then why not ask her to dinner and woo her like—” He cuts himself off, but we both hear the unspoken. Like a normal person. Like the other men who’ve wooed her and tried to get into her pants. Miguel takes a deep breath, then lets it out with a sharp exhale, as if he’s disappointed in me. That stings more than it should. “She could be a real partner to you—she knows these horses better than anyone.”

“Partnership requires trust. And trust can be betrayed. No. She works here—nothing more, nothing less.”

Miguel snorted. “Sure, boss.”

“It doesn’t matter.” My voice drops lower, darker. “She’s mine. In every way that matters.”

His sigh carries the weight of decades of watching me build this empire through calculated violence. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

That evening, I find Shiloh in my study, lamplight catching in her damp hair as she reviews paperwork. She’s wearing one of my shirts—another small rebellion, taking what’s mine without permission. Or maybe, I think with surprise, it comforts her. The sight of her in my clothes, surrounded by the trappings of my power, makes something primitive roar to life in my chest.

I set the platter of food I’d brought from the kitchen on a side table, then growl, “Strip.”

She startles, nearly dropping the file. But when she meets my gaze, that familiar defiance sparks gold in her eyes. “I’m working.”

“No.” I stalk closer, savoring how she tenses without retreating. “You’re in my study, wearing my clothes, touching my things.” I trace one finger down her throat, feeling her pulse jump. “Now strip. Before I do it for you.”

For a moment, she holds my gaze. Then slowly, deliberately, she begins unbuttoning the shirt she wears. Each inch of exposed skin makes my mouth water, but I maintain enough control to keep from touching her. She slides her panties down her legs, and I’m delighted to see a damp spot on them. When she’s naked, I drop onto the leather couch, then crook my fingers. “Come here.”

She looks at me for a long moment, the firelight flickering over her soft curves, so different from my own hard edges, then takes tentative steps toward me, until she’s standing between my knees—trembling with need or anticipation or fear. Her heavy breasts lift with each breath, showing how hard she’s fighting for control.

I want to reach out, to touch her, to reassure her that, just like her horses, it can be rough going in the beginning, but she’ll be happier by the time we’re done. The instinct surprises me.

Instead, I grab a pillow and drop it to my left. “Kneel,” I murmur. Her eyes shoot to mine, gold reflecting in the dim light.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I raise an eyebrow, and then, to my surprise, she sighs, the fight going out of her. She lowers herself to the pillow, wincing as her weight shifts.

“It was a full day,” she says quietly when she notices me noticing. “I’m a little sore.”

“Take a hot bath before bed,” I tell her.

Shiloh raises an amused eyebrow, a mirror of my earlier expression, and I’m strangely relieved that she’s still fighting me. “Why do you care?”

I don’t admit that the thought of her aching and sore presses against my chest in an unfamiliar way. “Because you’re mine, and I take care of my toys,” I snap.

She says nothing, settling onto her knees, her luscious breasts swaying slightly as she gets comfortable.

“Good girl.” I stroke her hair once, letting her feel the approval in my touch. “Now stay.”

I should read, check my email, return calls, anything at all, but my entire body thrums with awareness of her kneeling beside me. Her breathing gradually steadies as minutes tick past. When I’m certain she’s settled, I reach for the tray I’d set down earlier.

“Open.”

Her lips part automatically as I press a grape to her mouth. The sight of her accepting my offering sends heat straight to my cock.

After she swallows, she takes a breath, like she’s going to say something sharp. I push a morsel of cheese into her mouth, cutting her off before she can even start.

“Don’t say a fucking word. Just sit there and enjoy the quiet,” I instruct her.

Shiloh blinks, then chews slowly. Her expression remains thoughtful, and then she nods, relaxing back on her haunches. Her agreement feels like a hard-won victory, and the pressure in my chest eases.

I feed her slowly, each morsel a reward for her submission. The mood turns languorous. When I feed her a piece of bread, my fingers brush against her lips. Her tongue flicks at my thumb when the juice of a strawberry rolls down my skin. Our breathing turns uneven as the meal turns into a ritual of worship and submission.

When I offer her a sip of water from my glass, she drinks it gratefully, and the sight of her lips touching where my own did is painfully erotic.

I finish the meal with squares of chocolate—a habit from my childhood I’ve never been able to break.

“Open your mouth,” I say quietly, no need to command her—her obedience is instant. “Tongue out.” I place a morsel of chocolate on her tongue, and she eats it, sighing softly with pleasure.

Fuck, I want more of this. More of her sweetness than her sharpness.

When she’s done, her eyes flick up to mine, uncertain.

“Easy,” I reassure her. I guide her head to rest against my thigh, feeling her whole body tremble with anticipation. “Just rest.”

Time blurs as I finally dig into my email on my phone, one hand always touching her, stroking her hair, tracing her spine, reminding her who she belongs to. Shiloh relaxes into me, leaning her cheek on my thigh. By the time I’m done, she’s dozed off. Protectiveness surges through me. I’m loath to disturb her.

“Hellcat,” I say softly, scratching the top of her head.

Her eyes blink open as she looks up at me, languid and sweet. I stand, my hand on her shoulder so she doesn’t overbalance, then scoop her up into my arms.

I should make a point of waking her up. Force her to walk through the house naked. Exert my control.

I do none of that, tucking her head against mine and chuckling softly when she nuzzles into my neck, curling into my chest as I hold her, marveling at her softness.

Miguel’s words echo in my mind as I climb the stairs. She’s not one of your horses. She’s not something you can break and rebuild.

I stop in front of the guest room door, then change my mind. Instead, I tuck her beneath my sheets, marveling at her hair strewn across my pillow and ignoring the screaming voice in the back of my mind that tells me I’m making a mistake.

No shit, Shiloh isn’t one of my horses.

She’s far more dangerous.