I remember standing there, shocked stupid, as she took me in her mouth for the first time. Her hands trembling but determined, her eyes locked on mine like she was proving something.
And while I enjoyed it—fucking immensely—I was surprised at her intensity. Couldn't help picturing all the college boys she'd been practicing on. All those rich pricks with their clean hands and pressed shirts. The thought made me want to put my fist through the wall.
But it was like she was reading my mind, because she pulled back, lips swollen, and told me I was her first. That she'd never done this before.
I didn't want to believe her. Pride, maybe. Or just the need to protect myself from how much that would mean.
But she gagged a lot when she took me deeper. Kept having to stop and catch her breath. She wasn't good at it—not then. Not like now, when she knows exactly how to take me apart with her mouth. She knows exactly how far my cock can slide down her throat.
And anyway, her word is good enough for me. Why would I want to call her a liar? Deep down, I've always wanted to be the only man she was ever with. Stupid as that sounds.
The Jeep bounces over a rut in the road, jarring me back to the present. We're approaching the ranch house now, thatmassive log monstrosity with its perfect symmetry and endless windows. I've never felt more out of place than I do on Ashby land.
I park near the side entrance, cut the engine, and swing out of the driver's seat. My chest still aches, but it's a lot better than it was just a couple days ago. And nothin’ near the constant fire it was the day I got here.
I walk around to Savannah's side and take her hand when she offers it. But instead of leading me inside like I expect, she pulls me toward the riding arena where Mercy's lesson is still going on.
My feet drag a little. I don't want a confrontation with Cash. Not with Mercy watching. Not when I'm still weak enough that he might actually win if things get physical.
But Savannah's grip is firm, her smile determined as she tugs me forward. "Come on," she says. "Let's show your sister how proud you are."
So I let her do it. Let her pull me toward the arena, my boots kicking gravel like it’s dread. The riding arena rises before us—all perfect black rails and manicured sand. Everything the Ashbys touch, turns expensive. Even dirt.
Mercy spots us and starts waving frantically, her little body bouncing in the saddle of a stocky pony with a wild mane. Her smile stretches ear to ear, the kind of genuine happiness I haven't seen on her face since long before I went inside.
"Eyes forward!" Cash barks from the edge of the ring. "Watch where you're going, not who's watching!"
The pony tosses its head, sensing Mercy's distraction. Her balance shifts. For a second, my heart seizes—she's going to fall. I take a half-step forward, useless at this distance, as the pony sidesteps sharply.
"Heels down, Mercy!" Savannah's voice cuts through the air, clear and commanding. "Look between his ears, not at us!"
Mercy's face snaps forward, her body correcting itself. The pony settles immediately.
Savannah slips between the rails like she was born doing it—which she was—and crosses to a tall woman in riding pants who must be the instructor. Madeline, I think her name is. They fall into easy conversation, laughing and gesturing as they both call out instructions to Mercy.
Which leaves me standing alone with Cash Ashby.
The man who beat me unconscious, left me to die tied to a support beam, and orchestrated my sister's kidnapping through the family court system. Not to mention, sanctioned the kidnapping of his own fuckin’ sister.
This is the man Savannah wants me to trust?
What a joke.
Neither of us says a word.
The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. My muscles tense, ready for whatever comes. Cash stands with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Stetson pulled low over his eyes.
"I like your sister," he says finally, his voice level. No emotion I can read.
I take him in properly for the first time since that night at the cabin. Cash Ashby stands six-feet-four in his custom boots, shoulders broad from actual ranch work, not just gym time. His face is all hard angles, tanned from days outside. Blue eyes—Savannah's eyes—cold as winter under the shadow of his hat brim.
"She's a quick learner," he continues when I don't respond. "Natural seat. Good hands."
I watch Mercy trot a circle, her face set in concentration. "She's a Kane," I say, like that explains everything.
Cash makes a sound that might be a laugh or just air escaping. "I missed most of Savannah's childhood," he says,surprising me with the shift. "Her riding lessons. Her first shows." He nods toward the arena. "All this. I was away at school, then college, then working the northern properties."
His gaze stays fixed on the riders, but I can feel the weight of something unsaid.
