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7

Shiloh

The slashed tires on my tractor shouldn’t surprise me. Daddy always said desperate men do desperate things, and the ranch’s creditors are getting more desperate by the day. I crouch next to the flat rubber, fingering the clean slice. Professional job. Message received.

But I can’t deal with this now. Jackson’s “appointment” won’t wait, and being late would only give him another excuse to exert control. He’d let me come home last night to check on my own animals, and make sure the ranch hands hadn’t burned the place down.

Of course they hadn’t. They were professionals, hired by my father, doing their damnedest to keep the place afloat, same as me.

I hurry to my truck, tired, frustrated, and not sure how I feel about another day of Jackson’s torment. I catch my reflection in the truck’s window. The marks on my neck from yesterday’s encounter in the tack room are darkening to purple, stark against my skin.

I dig through my glove compartment for a scarf, a bandana, anything to hide them, and find one folded clean—one of my father’s. Hot tears press at my eyes as grief overwhelms me. This would be so much easier if I could hate him. If my fury at losing the ranch wasn’t balanced with the memories of him teaching me to ride, my first rodeo, learning how to fish at his side, how he fell to pieces when Mom got sick.

Worn red-and-white cotton slides cool against the bruises as I carefully arrange it. Professional. Controlled. Everything a respected horse trainer should be, instead of a kept woman, useful only for how well she sucks cock.

The drive to Jackson’s ranch gives me too much time to think. About the vandalism. About the scarf. About how much I hate that my body responds to him even when I’m furious. But as I pull through his gates right on time, I shove it all down. I have a job to do.

Miguel Luján, Jackson’s ranch foreman, is already at the Friesian’s stall when I arrive, his weathered face creased with concern. “He’s not eating.”

I check my neck coverage before approaching. The Friesian’s ears pin back, but I recognize the pattern—fear aggression, not dominance. Classic signs of early handling trauma. “How long?”

“Since yesterday afternoon. After—” Miguel’s eyes flick to my bandana, then away. He’s known me since I was a kid, and I flush, ashamed that he knows what Jackson does to me, and twice as ashamed that he dare not mention it.

I focus on the horse. His weight distribution, the tension in his hindquarters, the way he favors his left side—every detail tells a story. “Your current feeding schedule is wrong for his temperament. He needs smaller, more frequent meals. Less pressure. You’re treating him like he’s barn sour, but this is deeper.”

More hands gather as I explain, their attention sharp. They know their jobs, but they also know my reputation. When I demonstrate the proper approach, the Friesian’s ears flick forward. His head drops. Classic signs of submission without fear.

“You see?” I move to the side, letting Miguel copy my motion. “It’s about?—”

“What the fuck is this?”

Jackson’s voice cuts through the stable like a scythe. The Friesian startles, but I maintain my position, keeping my body language calm. The ranch hands scatter like dandelion seeds in the wind, leaving me alone in Jackson’s crosshairs.

I turn slowly, letting him see how little he scares me. “This is me doing my job.”

His eyes fix on my makeshift scarf—slightly askew from working with the horse. Three long strides and he’s inside my space, thumb hooking under my bandana. “Seems like you’re enjoying having an audience.”

“Seems like your horse needs proper handling.” I stand my ground despite the heat pouring off him. “Or would you rather lose a fifty-thousand-dollar stallion to stress colic?”

The cotton slides away from my neck. His eyes darken at the marks beneath. “My office. Now.”

“No.” I step back, professional mask perfectly in place. “You want to discuss proper training techniques? Fine. But I’m not leaving until you understand exactly what your people are doing wrong with this horse.”

For three beautiful seconds, I think I’ve won. Then his fingers wrap around my arm, and everything goes sideways.

He doesn’t drag me to his office. The tack room is closer.

The door slams behind us, leather and hay dust filling my lungs. He shoves me against the wall, one hand pinning my wrists above my head. “You want to explain yourself?”

“The feeding schedule is wrong. The exercise program is wrong.” My voice stays steady even as my body betrays me. “‘I’m doing my job.”

His free hand slides up my throat, thumb pressing against the marks he left yesterday. “You undermined my authority in front of my men.” His fingers flex against my throat.

“I saved your fifty-thousand-dollar investment where it needed saving.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “You want a trainer? Let me train.” I press against his grip. “You want a submissive? Choose which matters more.”

“Both,” he growls against my bruised lips, the word vibrating through my bones. “I want both. Everything you are belongs to me.”

His kiss crashes against me—all punishment and possession, and I don’t care because I’ve been craving this, his mouth against mine, affirmation that he wants me as much as I want him, that I’m not the only one trapped in this maelstrom of desire. I bite back, our eternal battle of wills drawing blood and surrender in equal measure.

And god help me, my body responds even as my mind rebels. He doesn’t stop kissing me, just strokes across my lips with his tongue, then plunders me, as if he owns me, claiming my mouth with the same fury and violence with which he claims everything else in his life.

His hand slides from my throat to the wall beside my head, reaching for the training crop hanging there. The leather whispers against wood as he takes it down. The sound sends heat pooling low in my belly despite my fury.

“Strip.” His voice carries that edge that brooks no argument. When I hesitate, the crop cracks against the wall beside my head. “Now.”

My fingers tremble as I unbutton my shirt. Each piece of clothing hits the floor until I’m naked in the cool air, holding onto my anger like armor. The soft swell of my belly draws his heated gaze.

“Hands up.” He takes down a set of training reins, wraps the leather around my wrists, and secures them to a hook above my head. The position leaves me stretched and exposed. Vulnerable. “For every change you made without my permission, you’ll count a stroke.”

The first strike lands across my breasts, sharp and cruel. I grit my teeth against the pain, against the unwanted pleasure building beneath it.

“Count.” The crop traces where he hit. “Or we start over.”

“One.” The word comes out steady. Defiant.

He works his way down my body methodically, each strike calculated to push me higher while denying release. By five, I’m shaking. By ten, I’m wet and aching, fighting back moans.

“Look how your body begs for correction.” His fingers slide between my legs, discovering the evidence my pride can’t hide. “My perfect little hypocrite—fighting me with words while surrendering with everything else.”

I try to press against his hand, desperate for friction, for relief, but he withdraws. The crop traces up my inner thigh, a whispered threat.

“Please—” The word escapes before I can stop it.

“Please what?” He presses the leather against my clit, letting me feel what I could have. “Please let you come? Please forgive your insubordination?”

“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m asking for, what I need.

He steps back, leaving me trembling and unfulfilled. “No.”

The training reins loosen. I stumble as my arms come down, muscles protesting. Before I can recover, he spins me to face the wall, kicks my legs apart.

“You want to make changes on my ranch?” His voice is cruel silk in my ear. “Fine. But you’ll learn there are consequences.”

His belt buckle clinks behind me. I brace against the wall, thinking he’ll finally give me what I need, the oblivion of having pleasure forced upon me. But when I shiver against the cold concrete, something changes. His massive frame shifts, deliberately blocking the draft, and the hand that was bruising my hip gentles unexpectedly. The contrast makes my breath catch—this dangerous man who terrorizes everyone else, suddenly careful with me.

His fingers slide between my legs, finding me embarrassingly wet, but there’s something different in his touch now.

“Tell me why you’re being punished.” His voice is still hard, but his hands betray him—they tremble slightly as they map my skin, like he’s not quite sure how to be gentle but is trying anyway. Just for me.

“Because—” My voice breaks as he curves his fingers, but I don’t know how to answer him. “I don’t know! I’m trying to do my fucking job!”

Jackson grunts, but doesn’t stop his steady pumping, working me higher and higher.

“Because I don’t like other men looking at you with admiration,” he snarls. “Because I’m a jealous bastard, and I can’t kill the hands for looking at you.”

Oh. Oh. I try to articulate how fucked up that is, but can’t do anything but moan as he slides a soaked finger between the cheeks of my ass and presses against that forbidden entrance, even as he continues to finger fuck me.

“Jackson,” I whine, not sure if it’s to protest his unhinged possessiveness or because I need to come so damn badly. “ Please .”

He brings me to the edge again, holds me there until I’m shaking. Until I’m ready to beg. Until I’ll promise anything. Our game has gone on for too long, and I fucking need him. And I hate myself for it.

Then he steps back, leaving me empty and aching.

“Turn around.”

I face him on trembling legs. His eyes are midnight dark, promising things that make me shiver. That make me want to yield.

“Jackson—”