She deserves the life she's building at the ranch. The one where Mercy thrives at Rimrock Academy, and wears pink riding helmets, and doesn't know what a prospect does to earn his patch.
I want a do-over.
Want to lay Savannah down gentle and worship every inch of her skin like she's something sacred, instead of something I use. Want to erase the last hour—the roughness, the degradation, the way I made her beg and called her mine while treating her like property.
But I can't.
What's done is done. And trying to fix it now just feels performative. Like I'm playing the part of the man she wants me to be instead of showing her the truth.
This is who I am.
Not the gentle lover who whispers pretty things.
I'm the crude animal that lives in the dark. The one who fucks rough, and leaves marks, and can't touch anything clean without destroying it.
So I don't try to pretty it up.
I help Savannah to her feet, steadying her when she wobbles. Hand over her white dress—now wrinkled and stained. Watch her pull it over her head, the fabric settling over skin that's already bruising where I gripped too hard.
She doesn't complain. Doesn't ask me to be softer next time.
Just pulls her panties up her legs, smooths the dress down, and looks at me with those blue eyes that see too much.
I tuck myself back into my jeans. Button. Zip. Pull my shirt over my head and shrug into my cut—the leather settling across my shoulders like the weight it is.
This is how I'll leave it.
Ugly, but true.
No apologies. No promises I can't keep. No fairy tale ending where the outlaw becomes the prince and the princess slums it in a trailer.
Just this: her in a white dress. Me in black leather. The space between us filled with everything we can't say.
"Come on," I tell her. Keeping my voice even. "I'll walk you back."
Savannah doesn't argue. Just takes my offered hand—her fingers small and pale against my scarred knuckles—and lets me lead her over to her horse.
Cassia's waiting where Savannah left her, reins trailing in the dirt, looking bored.
The mare huffs when she sees us. Probably judges me for what I just did to her rider.
I cup my hands for Savannah's bare foot—why does she always come barefoot? Then I give her a leg up into the saddle.
She settles onto Cassia's bare back, legs dangling, white dress riding up her thighs, looking down at me with an expression I can't read.
"Legion—"
"I'll see you," I interrupt. Because I can't hear whatever she's about to say. Can't stand here and pretend I deserve the concern in her voice or the love she keeps offering like it's free.
I turn to go, but words split the night open, stopping me.
"One word between us splits the very sky," she says quietly. "They come for us but still we strive to try."
The words freeze me mid-step.
My poem. The one I wrote when I was sixteen, still stupid enough to believe words could mean something permanent.
"To make a place where love can truly grow," Savannah continues, her voice steady. "To Hell with those above and those below."
