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6

Jackson

The wall of screens bathes my office in a cold blue glow, each monitor displaying a different angle of my stables. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of surveillance equipment, and every camera is fixed on one woman, as they have been for the past six years. My hellcat. My obsession. Every day I wait to fuck her, the anticipation builds for the both of us.

Once, darkness meant vulnerability—nights spent hiding from the broken and desperate man who was my father, curled up in closets and hiding under beds. Now, every inch of my territory is visible to me. Nothing moves without my knowledge. Nothing threatens what’s mine.

Shiloh Foster moves between the stalls with the same fluid grace she uses to gentle stallions, her braid swinging against her back as she measures feed. She doesn’t realize she’s humming—some old country song her father used to play. Even through the feeds, I can see the early morning chill has raised goosebumps on her arms. Such delicate skin to hide such stubborn steel.

My surveillance system tracks her every movement—the slight hesitation when she passes the office, the way she rolls her shoulders to ease the tension, the path she takes between the feed room and the stalls. I can watch her anywhere, and to my secret shame, I do.

She pauses at the newest addition to my stock—a coal-black Friesian with a habit of attacking handlers. My hands clench as she approaches his stall. The horse’s ears pin back, nostrils flaring, but Shiloh just leans against the door and starts talking to him in that low, steady voice that makes both animals and men want to surrender. That voice haunts my dreams, defiant even when begging.

The first time I witnessed Shiloh standing her ground before a stallion twice her size, something in me cracked. I knew then I had to own her. Break her. Possess every fierce inch of her spirit. But watching her now with the Friesian, moving with that quiet confidence that makes even the most dangerous animals yield, I feel that same crack widening. Her methods work better than mine, and I fucking hate how much I admire it.

The Friesian’s head drops as she scratches that spot behind his ear that all horses seem to love. She spent three years in Texas working with abused horses while she was in college, learning techniques that made her the most sought-after trainer in the state when she came home to Montana. What her file doesn’t capture is how her eyes turn molten when she’s angry, or the way her breath catches just before she submits. How she still manages to look proud even on her knees.

A phone rings, shattering the quiet. Shiloh pulls her cell from her back pocket, glancing at the screen. Her spine stiffens—that beautiful, stubborn spine I dream of breaking.

Irrational rage explodes behind my eyes. After all this time watching her, I know every tell. That slight shift of her weight to her back foot. The way her fingers tighten around the phone. She’s trying to hide something from me.

She doesn’t have the fucking right. Possession pulses through my blood as I storm out of the house. My focus is locked on the stables ahead, where Shiloh’s voice carries just enough tension to confirm my suspicions.

“I know what I owe.” A pause. “I’ll handle it.”

The heavy stable doors whisper open under my touch. Her back is to me, shoulders tight, phone pressed to her ear. She’s inside the Friesian’s stall now—seemingly a deliberate move to give her additional privacy, should she need it. Such a clever, defiant little hellcat.

The horse snorts at my approach. She steps away, but I hear the tension in her voice. “I have to go.”

I lean against the stall door, letting her see exactly how much space I command. “Anything I should know about?”

“You’re welcome to eavesdrop, but I promise you’ll still learn nothing.” Her chin lifts in that way that makes me want to force it back down. To watch that pride shatter into complete submission.

My voice is soft, deceptively so. “Something you don’t want me to hear?”

She takes a step back, bumping into the Friesian. The stallion’s ears pin flat, but he doesn’t strike. Of course not. She’s already gentled him to her hand, just like she gentles everything she touches. Except me. I’m the one monster she can’t tame.

“Our agreement was about my body and my professional expertise,” she says, that velvet-over-steel voice scraping against my control. “Not my entire existence.”

I enter the stall. The Friesian dances sideways, giving me space despite his reputation. Even the most vicious animals recognize a predator when they see one. “Nothing in your life is private, hellcat. You signed that away.” I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing just hard enough to remind her of her place. “Every single breath you take belongs to me now.”

Her pulse flutters in her throat, betraying how greatly I affect her. A fine tremor runs through her body—not true fear, but a delicious mixture of defiance and desire that makes me want to shove her against the wall and taste her. Her breath comes faster, shorter, her pupils dilating even as she tries to maintain that proud stare.

“Jackson—” My name catches in her throat, and we both hear the weakness in it. Her skin flushes pink down her throat, disappearing beneath her collar. I’m desperate to know how far that blush extends—how it spreads across her chest when she’s aroused, how it deepens when she fights her own surrender.

“Show me your phone.”

“No.”

The word hangs between us. Her eyes have shifted from green to molten gold—the color they turn when she’s spoiling for a fight. The color that makes me want to pin her down and remind her who owns her.

“Last chance.” My voice has dropped to a register that makes her shiver. “Show me.”

Her fingers tighten on the phone. “You don’t own everything, Jackson.”

I crowd her against the wall. “The contract is explicit. Every part of you belongs to me now. Your time. Your body. Your privacy. You gave up the right to refuse me anything.”

I wrap my hand around her wrist and yank her out of the stall. A furious whinny from the Friesian cuts through my rage—I’ve undone hours of her careful work. The horse’s eyes roll white, showing the violence I’ve reawakened. Any other trainer would need weeks to regain his trust. But I’ve seen her do this dance before, turning savage beasts into willing partners. By tomorrow, the stallion will be eating from her palm again, and irrational jealousy burns like acid in my gut—I want the same attentiveness from her.

She pulls and struggles but once again proves no match for my strength. I drag her into the tack room and slam the door behind me.

“On your knees,” I growl.

“Go to hell.” But her voice wavers, her body already swaying toward me even as she resists.

I wrap her braid around my fist until she’s forced to arch her back. She gasps, her breasts pushing against her shirt, nipples visibly hardening through the thin fabric. Her hands come up to my chest—to push me away or pull me closer, she doesn’t seem to know. I tighten my grip until her lips part on a shaky exhale.

“Look at you. Still pretending you don’t need this.” I trace her jawline with my free hand, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin. “Your body’s more honest than your mouth, hellcat. All it took was the threat of violence, to drag you into the tack room, and now you’re wet for me, aren’t you?”

The way she bites her lip, trying to hold back a moan, sends fire through my veins. Her breath stutters, her thighs clenching, as if she could trap the need before I notice.

I use her braid to yank her head back until she gasps. “I said. On. Your. Knees.”

She fights me, but we both know how this ends. I force her down, the fresh hay crackling under her. Her chest heaves with each breath, pride warring with arousal in those magnificent eyes. Even now, she won’t fully submit. It drives me fucking crazy.

“You think you can hide things from me?” I unzip my fly with my free hand, still gripping her hair tight enough to hurt. “That you can have any secrets in my kingdom?”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “I’m not your property.”

“No?” I trace her lower lip with my thumb, smearing the wetness. “Then why are you on your knees in my stable? Why are you yielding so fucking beautifully right now?”

A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t look away. Even now, she challenges me. It makes me want to destroy her. To own every defiant breath until she admits what I already know. She’s mine.

“Open your mouth. Show me what a good girl you can be.”

She hesitates, her whole body trembling with the war between pride and need. That spark of rebellion, that moment of decision—it feeds the darkness inside me. Her hands clench into fists at her sides, tendons standing out in her neck as she fights herself. Then her lips part, and the small sound she makes—half surrender, half despair—nearly undoes me. Her eyes never leave mine, burning with a mixture of shame and arousal that makes my control fray. Even on her knees, she wields a power she doesn’t fully understand.

I fuck her mouth with brutal efficiency, letting her feel exactly how much her defiance affects me. Her submission should quench this rage inside me. Instead, it feeds it. Each choked breath, each flutter of her throat around my cock, just makes me want to possess her more completely. To own her so thoroughly she forgets she was ever free.

“Look at me.” My voice is guttural, barely human. “I want to see those eyes when you submit.”

She does. Christ. The gold in her irises has darkened to amber, punishment and pleasure tangled together in her gaze.

My grip on her hair tightens as I recognize my own obsession reflected back at me. My heart pounds against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears. Every muscle in my body strains toward her, my careful control splintering. Sweat breaks out along my spine, my hands almost shaking with the need to possess her completely.

I force myself to maintain the punishing rhythm when I want to lose myself in her entirely. The darkness in me recognizes its match in her, the way she yields without breaking, submits without surrendering. My jaw clenches so hard it aches as I fight to maintain dominance over my own need to break her.

When I come, Shiloh swallows every drop, never letting her eyes fall from mine, furiously defiant. I roughly pull her up, shoving her against the stable wall. Her lips are swollen, her chin wet, tears streaking down her face, not from hurt, but from the rough fucking I just gave her mouth. She’s never looked more beautiful. More unbreakable.

“Who do you belong to?”

Her chest heaves, skin flushed and damp with sweat. “Fuck you, Jackson.”

The words come out raw, her voice still raspy from taking me.

I squeeze her throat, just enough to remind her of my power, and feel her pulse jump against my palm. Her back arches involuntarily, her body betraying how much she needs this even as she fights it.

“Even now you can’t admit what you are.” I drag my thumb across her collarbone, feeling her tremble beneath my touch. “My marks are all over you. The taste of me is still in your mouth. And you’re still pretending you don’t belong to me.”

“Never.” Even now, her steel core remains unrelenting.

I brush my thumb across her lower lip, but remain silent, gentling her like she gentles her horses.

Her thighs shift together, as if to relieve the ache I know has grown there. If I were to shove my hand between her legs right now, I’d find her soaked and wanting.

But I won’t.

I’ll wait.

Eventually she’ll relent, and I’ll enjoy every moment of the fight until she does.

Emotion flickers in her hazel eyes—shame warring with need, pride with fury. A bead of sweat trails down her neck, and my fingers itch to follow its path.

The visible marks on her skin and her disheveled clothes make my possessiveness surge—the hay sticking to the knees of her jeans, the bruises blooming on her throat, the way she winces slightly as she moves. But it’s the invisible marks that feed my obsession—the wet heat I know is still pulsing between her thighs, the phantom pressure of my hands she’ll feel for hours, the way her body will remember this submission even as her mind rebels against it.

She winces as she straightens her clothes, and an emotion vaguely resembling concern flickers through me. I push it down. We never discussed her limits, her boundaries. I never asked what might hurt her. That was the point—taking what I want, how I want it. Still, I find myself watching her movements. Taking care of my toys, I tell myself. Nothing more.

When she tries to step away, I pin her to the wall with my thigh between her legs. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she’s still sensitive, still wanting. “Next time you try to hide something from me,” I murmur against her ear, feeling her shiver, “remember how this ended.”

I back off and watch her walk away, leaving me alone in the empty tack room. The video feed on my phone shows her head high, shoulders back, that magnificent pride unbroken even now. Through the screen, I catch every detail—the tremor in her hands, the careful way she wipes her mouth, the steel in her spine as she forces herself not to run. Her thighs press together as she walks, and I know she’s feeling the ache of her need with every step.

The security feed catches the moment she thinks she’s alone. She leans against a stall door, eyes closing, hand drifting to her throat where my grip left its mark. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I know she’s tasting me still, hating herself for wanting more.

The screen flickers as she pauses by the Friesian’s stall. Even through the grainy feed, I see the subtle shift in her posture—all that fierce pride gentling as she murmurs to the stallion. My cameras capture the moment in perfect detail—her fingers sliding across his velvet nose, his massive head dropping in surrender.

But something’s missing. The feed shows me what she does, but not how she does it. Not the intangible connection that makes these killer horses yield to her will. For the first time, I wonder if all my careful surveillance has missed the most important part of her—that untamed spirit that makes dangerous creatures trust her.

The thought is gone before I can fully grasp it, buried under more pressing concerns. I have a woman to possess, an empire to protect. I don’t have time for doubts about my methods.

My control is slipping. Not just over her, but over myself. Every time she improves something I thought was perfect, I want to punish her. To force my way. To make her submit. But Christ, I want to watch her work even more.

And for the first time in my life, I find myself reluctant to burn this weakness from my system. The terrifying truth crystallizes with brutal clarity—I don’t just want to possess her defiance. I admire it. I crave it. I need it.

Fuck.