He answers on the third ring. "Savannah." His voice is smooth, controlled. No hint of the man who tied me to a bed and force-fed me cherry pie. "I was beginning to think you'd never call."
"I need to know if it's true," I say, skipping any pretense of pleasantries.
"You'll have to be more specific."
"The video. Of me and Legion at the clubhouse. Wyatt says you paid to have it taken down."
There's a pause, and I can almost see him sitting in his study, adjusting his cufflinks, considering his response.
"Yes," he finally says. "I did."
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. "Why?"
"Why do you think?" A hint of irritation creeps into his voice. "It wasn't exactly flattering footage, Savannah. You on your knees in a biker bar, surrounded by criminals, with a cock down your throat."
I swallow hard, remembering that night. How desperate I'd been to prove I belonged with Legion. How I let myself be claimed in front of everyone. The memory should shame me, butit doesn't. It feels like freedom—the one time I truly chose for myself.
"I didn't ask you to do that," I say.
"No, you were too busy playing outlaw's whore to consider the consequences." The words are harsh, but his tone remains even. Clinical. "Someone had to protect the Ashby name. And the White name, by extension."
"I'm not calling to thank you," I clarify, gripping the phone tighter. "But I want you to know I won't press charges for what you did to me at the cabin."
He laughs, the sound so unexpected it makes me flinch. "Charges, Savannah? On what grounds? That I took care of my fiancée when she was having a mental break? That I protected her from herself? Good luck with that narrative."
"You drugged me. Kept me tied to a bed."
"I sedated you under medical supervision when you became violent. I restrained you when necessary for your own safety." His voice drops lower. "Who do you think a judge would believe, Savannah? The senator's son with an impeccable record, or the heiress who's been fucking a convicted felon?"
The truth of his words lands like a slap. Power has never been about what's right—only about who has the leverage to make their version of events the official one.
"I didn't do it for you anyway," Marcus continues, his voice softening into something almost kind. Which, somehow makes it worse. "I did it for myself."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're still going to be my wife, Savannah."
The room seems to tilt beneath me. "No. That's over."
"Is it?" Another soft laugh. "Nothing's changed. You can live your own life. You can fuck anyone you want—hell, you can suck your biker's dick all day and night as long as you don't getcaught. But youwillmarry me, and youwillstand by my side like a good little political wife when I tell you to."
Who the hell does he think he is? "I won't."
"Youwill. Because there's no getting out of it. It's for the best. A win-win for both families." His voice takes on that practiced political cadence he uses at fundraisers. "Expect to hear from my lawyer."
The call drops before I can respond.
I lower my phone slowly, staring at the ended call screen. My hand trembles slightly. I feel cold all over, despite the warm Montana sunshine streaming through the window.
Marcus thinks he's won. That I'll fall in line like I always have, smile for the cameras, play my part in his political ascension. Maybe he's right. Maybe there is no escape from the life Eleanor crafted for me.
But Eleanor never accounted for Legion Kane. For what happens when you spend your whole life performing, then finally taste what it means to be real.
I look down at my wrist, at the "PROPERTY OF DEMON" tattoo hidden beneath my watch. Legion may have walked away, but I'm still wearing his mark.
Still his, whether he wants me or not.
And tonight I'll show him just how much he’s missing by pushing me away.
