My heart stops.
The man rising from the seat at the head of the table isn’t Tom at all.
Jackson Hawkins unfolds from Tom’s chair with predatory grace, ice-blue eyes locking onto mine like I’m prey he’s finally cornered. His power fills the room like a physical force—the man who’s devoured every struggling ranch for fifty miles, whose reputation for ruthlessness is matched only by rumors of his billions. His lips curve into a smile that sends an unwanted shiver up my spine, an emotion darker than fear coiling in my stomach.
“Miss Foster.” His voice is a low drawl that raises the hair on my neck, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as lethal. One hand rests casually on the polished table, but I’ve seen enough wild stallions to recognize the violence contained in his stillness. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
2
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’tallowher 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 crossedpaths 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.
