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.
"This is between me and my fiancée," Marcus protests, but his voice lacks conviction. He takes a step toward me, hand extended to help me up, but Colt moves between us, taller, with shoulders squared like he's bracing for impact.
"Not anymore," Colt says. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't make a scene, but something in his eyes makes Marcus back up a step. "Cash is waiting to drive you back to the resort. Your father's already in the car."
The dismissal is absolute, leaving no room for argument. No negotiation. No saving face. Just the kind of swift, brutal efficiency the Ashbys are known for when someone crosses a line.
Marcus looks past Colt to where I'm still on the floor, my hair falling from its careful arrangement. "This isn't over," he says.
But we all know it is.
He turns and walks out, his expensive shoes clicking against the hardwood, the sound fading as he moves down the hallway toward the front door.
Colt helps me to my feet, his touch gentle where Marcus's was demanding. "You okay, sis?" he asks, studying my face with genuine concern. When I nod, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—not the polished Ashby smile for cameras, but the real one, the one we share when no one's watching.
"He's waiting for you," Colt says simply. He doesn't need to specify who. "At the silo. I saw him in Terry the other day.”
My eyes crinkle up in confusion. “What do you mean you saw him in Terry? That’s forty miles from here. You don’t see anyone casually in Terry, Montana. Especially Legion Kane.”
“Yeah, well…” Colt runs his fingers through his hair. “Another story for another time. Anyway. He told me he was gonna do this and I said I’d help. He told me to make sure you knew that he’d be waitin’ for you at the silo. Even if you couldn’t get away, he wanted me to tell you that.”
At my surprised look, Colt shrugs, a gesture so casual it almost hides the weight of what he's saying. "What? You think you're the only one with secrets around here?" He winks, the gesture loaded with meaning and permission.
Go. Run. Live.
I hug him fiercely, breathing in the familiar scent of my brother—hay, and expensive cologne, and the faint trace of cigarettes he thinks no one knows about. "Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder.
He squeezes me once, then steps back, gesturing toward the hidden pocket doors of the library that lead to the kitchen, and a back staircase that will take me upstairs. "Better hurry," Colt says. "A man has doubts after three years inside without a word."
I blow out a breath. But just shake my head and leave.
I wanted to visit. I wanted to write. He told me absolutely not. If I came to visit, he would not accept it. If I wrote him letters, he'd sell them to other prisoners for commissary money. Which I know for a fact he would absolutely not do, but the threat was enough.
He didn’t want me to visit. He didn’t want me to write.
I had to respect that.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I move with quiet urgency. I strip off the designer outfit—the cream pencil skirt, the tangerine blouse hand-sewn by some woman in Paris who probably hates me, the white Lucchese boots that have never seen actual ranch work.
I shed my engagement party skin like a snake outgrowing its constraints.
From the back of my closet, behind the camera-ready clothes, I pull out a simple summer dress—pale blue cotton with a pattern of tiny white flowers, somethin’ left over from more carefree years.
I wash the makeup from my face, scrubbing until my skin feels raw and real. The diamond ring catches on my washcloth, a reminder to take it off.
I place it on the vanity, where it glitters accusingly in the lamplight. Three carats. Flawless. Cold as ice against my skin, even after two weeks of wearing it.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror—no longer the polished Ashby heiress, but someone younger, freer, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. I look like the girl who used to climb through grain silo doors to feel alive.
I look like myself.
Then, I leave. Down the back stairs, out the back door, slidin’ into shadows as the few people still here get too loud to notice a woman sneaking away in the middle of the night.
Inside the barn I relish the smell of alfalfa hay, oiled leather, and memories.
At the end stall, Cassia—my massive warmblood mare—raises her head in greeting, ears pricking forward with interest. It’s late, what are you doin’ here, those ears ask.
She nickers at me. A rumble that is so warm and real, it calms my racin’ heartbeat and forces me to let out a breath.
I place my hand on the side of her face, smiling.
“No time for a saddle,” I tell her, reaching for the bridle hanging on a hook next to her stall.
Then I enter, slip the bit in her mouth and the crown over her ears.
Then I lead her down the walkway, her hooves clip-clopping in the silent night.
But I don’t care if anyone hears me now.
They couldn’t stop me even if they did.
Once outside, I walk her over to the mounting platform, swing up onto her broad back, and grip her sides with my lower legs as she dances sideways. She knows this isn't a normal ride—there's something wild in the air tonight, something that smells like freedom.
We start at a trot, then break into a canter as we reach the first pasture. The fence looms ahead—five rails of dark wood tall enough to keep stallions in.
But Cassia was a three-star eventer back in her prime and charges forward when she sees the question I'm askin’.
I lean back, feeling her gather beneath me.
Powerful muscles bunching as we approach.
Then we're airborne, flyin’ over the fence like it's nothing but mist, landing on the other side with a soft thud.
I laugh out loud, the sound carried away by the wind as we race across the pasture, across the night, toward the silo.
Toward Legion.
Toward the only real thing I've ever wanted.
This man.