CHAPTER 2
I come back in pieces. First, the pain—cataloged, filed away. Then sound—wind through wooden slats. Then awareness—my hands bound behind me, my shoulders wrenched backward against a support beam.
Rope, not cuffs.
Blood has dried tacky across my face. Left eye swollen to a slit. Two ribs are definitely cracked on my right side.
My breathing is shallow and uncontrolled. I feel like I can’t get enough of it. Like I need to gulp it like water.
But I've been in worse situations. Not a good thing to admit to yourself when you’re in the middle of being kidnapped and restrained by an Ashby militia of two, but it is what it is.
I keep my head slumped, chin to my chest, and try to control my breathing. There are two other people here. When I lift my eyes up, I see Wyatt at the window. He’s looking out, fingers tapping against glass. Cash paces the room.
They smell like money, even from here.
I'm in what appears to be a hunting shack. Off grid if the one kerosene lamp burning somewhere to my right is anything to goby. It's still dark. Same night? If so, it's the wee hours of the morning.
But there's no telling how long I've been out. Could already be tomorrow for all I know.
I've been in this cabin before. Eleanor took pictures of me everywhere. And after I turned eighteen, these photo shoots got more and more… planned. Professional. If these fucking boys knew just how well I knew their mother, they'd kill me.
Bad enough I know their sister better.
Savannah.
Just thinking her name makes my heart hurt. Just picturing her, up against the silo wall, skin silver in the moonlight. Her mouth on mine, her body arching. Then light, sudden and brutal. Her brothers. Men with rifles.
Her scream as they dragged her away, still echoing in my skull.
The rage builds slow and cold. It doesn't cloud my thinking—it sharpens it. Makes everything crystalline.
If they've hurt her, I'll tear this place apart with my teeth. I'll hunt them across every acre of their precious ranch. I'll become the demon they named me.
Even if she's untouched, they're all dead men walkin’ to me.
They just don't know it yet.
I keep my breathing steady, my body slack. Let them think I'm still unconscious while I allow my mind the freedom it craves to plan revenge.
Patience is just rage on a longer fuse.
Suddenly Cash mutters, "Family fucking legacy." His voice is pitched low but meant to be heard. "Six generations of Ashbys, and this is what it comes to." His boots stop. I can feel him lookin’ at me. "Trailer trash with prison ink thinking he has rights to what's ours."
He starts moving again, faster now. Agitated.
"She was supposed to marry well. That was the deal. That was always the fucking deal." A thud as his fist hits something wooden. "Mother made it clear. The land passes through the bloodline. And what does Savannah do? Spreads her legs for a Kane."
He says my name like it's something rotten in his mouth.
Wyatt is still standing by the window, a darker shadow against the night. He doesn't speak, but his silence feels like judgment. The patient kind. The kind that waits for you to move wrong before it pulls the trigger.
I test the rope binding my wrists. Tight, but not professional. There's give where the fibers cross. If I work it right, I can make space. Just need time.
"Three fucking years we kept her clean," Cash continues, circling back to where he started. Like a dog chasing its tail. "Three years rebuilding what he destroyed. And the minute he's out?—"
He kicks something that skitters across the floor. I keep my breathing even, head down. I'm counting steps to the door. Measuring the distance to Wyatt's boots. Calculating how much blood I can afford to lose and still make it to the tree line.
"Where the hell is Colt?" Cash suddenly demands, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "He was supposed to be here."
