Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
I freeze, the air punched from my lungs.
Wyatt storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Cash sighs, dabbing at the spilled juice with his napkin. "Ignore him. He's high. Doesn't know what he's saying."
But I can't ignore it. Wyatt's words burrow into my brain, unearthing something I'd deliberately buried—Marcus's claim that I was promised to him.
I hadn't let myself think about it since the kidnapping. Not with everything Legion went through after—the infection, the brand, nearly dying. But now the memory rises like bile in my throat.
"Your mother had been grooming you since childhood to be the perfect political wife."
"Our marriage was arranged before your birth."
I'd dismissed it as the ravings of a deranged man. But what if it wasn't? What if I really was sold off like one of our prize heifers?
"Cash," I say, my voice smaller now. "Did… was I… promised to Marcus in some way?"
He doesn't answer immediately, which is answer enough.
"It wasn't like that," he finally says, not meeting my eyes. "It was an arrangement. Beneficial to everyone. The Whites have connections we need."
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. "How many times a day," I ask, opening my eyes, "does one have to be reminded that no one around them cares?"
Cash stares at me for a long moment, then stands, straightening his collar. "I have work to do." He hesitates at the doorway. "The auction. Tuesday. Be ready by nine."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone at the table with cooling coffee and congealed eggs.
This is what life without Legion feels like—present in body, gone in spirit. We will fuck, and we will do it regularly, but we will live separate lives. That's the current state—and maybe the future. A series of midnight meetings at the silo, brief moments of connection in a life otherwise spent apart.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find Colt's name. I've tried calling dozens of times, but it always goes straight to voicemail. I want to find him, to know he, and Destiny, and little Marigold are safe. But there's no trail. No charges on the family accounts. He's disappeared completely and his trust fund buried treasure was how he did it.
I don’t really understand what’s happening with Marigold, but I know Cash is stressed about it. What she means for the will and Eleanor's estate. A Kane by blood, but an Ashby by name. The lawyers are having a field day with it.
Nothing is final until I marry. "Properly." That was Eleanor's stipulation. The ultimate control from beyond the grave.
But I won't. Maybe ever.
Because the only man I'd marry is the one I'm not allowed to have.
I stare at my phone for a long time after Cash leaves. The screen dims, then goes dark. I press the power button to light it up again. Marcus's contact sits there, untouched for weeks. The last message from him—sent while I was at the clubhouse with Legion—reads: Call me. We can fix this.
My thumb hovers over his name.
I don't want to call him. Every cell in my body rejects the idea. But if what Wyatt said is true—if Marcus paid to have that video scrubbed from the internet—then I owe him... something. Not gratitude. Never that. Not after what he did to me in that cabin.
But acknowledgment, at least.
The world, after all, works on favors.
Debts paid and collected.
That's the currency of the elite.
I walk to the window, phone still in hand. Outside, the ranch sprawls in every direction, forty-seven thousand acres of Ashby land. My land. The horses graze in the pasture, the cattle low in the distance. All mine. But only if I play by Eleanor's rules.
"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
I press call before I can talk myself out of it.
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, but it doesn't. It feels like freedom—the one time I truly chose for myself.