I close my eyes and see ink instead of skin. Black lines etched across muscle. Angels and demons locked in eternal battle. A map of scars and stories I used to trace with my fingertips in the dark.
Legion’s tattoos.
Legion’s body.
Legion’s ghost, haunting me even here, even now, with another man’s ring on my finger and the only future I ever wanted quickly slippin’ away like the inheritance money the Estate will never get if I don’t ‘marry proper’.
Inside the massive party tent on the Ashby Ranch lawn, I hold a flute of champagne that I haven't sipped. Marcus introduces me to another circle of nodding faces—his father's business associates, a state judge, his wife, and two lawyers whose names I hear, but don’t remember.
They all wear the same expression: calculation wrapped in politeness.
"My future wife," Marcus says, his hand possessive at my waist. “Savannah Ashby.”
I smile the smile Mama taught me. Lips curved just enough, teeth barely showing. The smile that says I'm listening when I'm not.
These people don't see me. They see followers. Engagement metrics. The Ashby water rights. The land that stretches farther than their imported cars can drive in a day.
"Savannah's platform reaches over four million people," Marcus explains, like I'm a television network instead of a person. "Her influence in the rural demographic is unparalleled."
The judge's wife nods, her diamond earrings catching the light. "Such a blessing for your campaign."
My gaze drifts past them to the long gravel driveway curving between the cottonwoods. I imagine headlights cutting through darkness. Not the soft purr of German engineering, but the growl of a motorcycle engine that sounds like a threat.
I imagine Legion walking across the perfect lawn toward this perfect tent. Leather-clad and dangerous. Knuckles still bruisedfrom prison yard fights. Tattoos climbing up his throat like prayers that got twisted into curses.
These polished people would scatter like frightened birds. Their champagne flutes abandoned. Their fake smiles frozen.
"Savannah?"
Marcus's voice pulls me back. His eyes narrow slightly. He's noticed my attention wandering.
"Would you excuse me?" I say, placing my untouched champagne on a passing waiter's tray. "Just need to freshen up."
I feel Marcus watching as I walk away. He always watches. Tracks my movements like I'm an investment that might depreciate if left unattended.
Inside the carriage house, the powder room is a sanctuary of cream marble and subtle lighting. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, eyes closed, letting the quiet wrap around me.
And then I'm not here anymore.
I'm fifteen again, climbing the rusted ladder inside the abandoned grain silo. The metal cold against my palms. My heart hammering with anticipation, not dread.
Legion waiting at the top, a shadow against shadows until I got close enough to see his eyes. It was a hot summer night, but it was dark like winter. He reached for my hand, pulled me onto the platform where we'd been meeting for three years.
But that night was different.
That night, he spread his leather jacket on the wooden planks. That night, his hands shook when they touched my face.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice rough at the edges.
I answered by taking his hand and placing it over my heart. Over the lace of my bra. My skin burning everywhere he touched.
He eased me down on his jacket, the leather still warm from his body. His calloused hands moved over me like I was something sacred. Something he'd been starving for.
His lips traced a path from my throat to my breasts until I couldn't breathe right.
Couldn't think right.
Could onlyfeel right.
