Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
I imagine him at the silo, leaning against the weathered tin, watching the moon rise over the eastern ridge. Waiting. Patient as stone. His shoulders would be relaxed but his jaw tight—the way he always looked when he was trying not to hope for something. The image is so vivid I almost gasp out loud, earning a strange look from Wyatt's latest girlfriend.
Marcus appears at my elbow like a leash, materializing from the shadows at the edge of the tent. His fingers circle my wrist with practiced casualness—a grip that looks affectionate to observers but feels like a shackle against my pulse.
"We need to talk," he says, voice low enough that the remaining guests can't hear, but tight enough that I know it's not a request. "The library. Now."
His breath smells of expensive scotch and barely contained rage. The combination makes my skin crawl, but I nod like the well-trained Ashby girl I am. Always agreeable. Always accommodating. Always aware of watching eyes.
Except for tonight.
Eleanor really would be turning over in her grave if she heard my outburst.
But Legion's appearance wouldn't bother her.
She would've loved it.
Not him and I together, mind you.
Just him.
CHAPTER 6
I follow Marcus across the manicured lawn and up the stone steps to the mansion's heavy oak doors. Once through them, each step feels like a choice being made. Each footfall on marble, then hardwood, then the Persian runner that leads to the library door—all of it sounds like a countdown.
The library is filled with dark-stained wood, leather-bound books, huntin’ trophies from years past, and crystal decanters filled with amber liquid that burns all the way down.
Cash’s domain. A place for men. We could’ve had this meeting in any other room on the main floor of the mansion, but no. Marcus chooses places he feels comfortable. And this dark, masculine, testosterone-filled nod to manhood everywhere is where he’s comfortable.
So ironic. Because Legion doesn’t require all this pomp and he’s the poster-boy for masculinity.
As Marcus closes the door behind us, the click of the latch brings to mind images of prison cells. The room smells of polish, and privilege, and… endings.
"I can't go on like this," Marcus says, his voice crackin’ as he pours himself a drink without offering me one. The amber liquid sloshes over the rim of the crystal tumbler, sticking to his fingers. "Knowing you love him."
The words hang between us, honest in a way we've never been. Marcus looks smaller somehow, his campaign posture collapsed under the weight of truth. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him.
"I don't love him," I lie smoothly, the words practiced from a thousand imaginary conversations. "I don't even know him anymore." I keep my voice casual, dismissive, like we're discussing a childhood hobby I've outgrown. My fingers twist the engagement ring on my left hand, the diamond catching firelight from the chandeliers.
Marcus slams his glass down on the mahogany desk, alcohol sloshing over the rim and seeping into the wood that's older than both of us combined. "Bullshit." The word sounds foreign in his Georgetown-educated mouth, like he's trying on someone else's anger. "I saw your face when he arrived. You’ve never looked at me like that. Not ever.” His cheeks flush with alcohol and humiliation as he runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way his campaign manager would never allow. "Not once in two years."
"You're drunk," I say, moving toward the door. I need air. I need space. I need to be anywhere but trapped in this room with the smell of scotch and desperation.
But Marcus blocks my path, his feet swaying slightly.
"Marcus, move." I try to step around him, but his arm shoots out, grabbing my shoulder harder than he ever has before. His fingers dig into the silk of my blouse, pressing against bone.
"Tell me the truth," he demands, voice rising to fill the cavernous room. "Just once, Savannah. Just once, be real with me."
When I try to pull away, he pushes—not hard, but enough. I stumble backward, losing my balance on the edge of the Persian rug, and fall. My palms slap against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room like a gunshot.
For a moment, we both freeze—me on the floor, him standing over me, his face a mask of shock at what he did. The perfect politician, the gentleman who opens doors and pulls out chairs, has been suddenly transformed into something else. Something with teeth and claws.
The library door flies open, and Colt stands there, taking in the scene with cold clarity. His normally easy smile is gone, replaced by something harder and more dangerous. Something that reminds me that we share the same blood, no matter how different we seem.
"Get out," Colt says to Marcus, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of generations of Ashby men who defend what's theirs.