Chapter 3 #2
I’ve always had plenty. My trust pays out two point three million every January like clockwork.
Much more than his did. But he must’ve saved a lot over the last fifteen years since he came of age, because he didn’t blink when he walked away from everything so he could keep his child bride and brand-new baby.
"That's enough, Wyatt," Cash says calmly.
I sigh, pulling myself back to the dumpster fire that is my family life.
"No," Wyatt says. "She thinks she's so fucking high and mighty. So much better than the rest of us. She was on her knees, between his legs, sucking his dick like she couldn't get enough. It was disgusting. You're disgusting, Savannah.”
"That's enough," Cash repeats.
"Fuck off, Cash," Wyatt retorts. He's still looking at me.
"You know why there hasn't been an uproar, Savannah?
Do you have any idea why it disappeared so quickly?
It was Marcus. He paid all those people—every person who posted it—five-thousand dollars to take it down and shut the fuck up.
He paid for an army of bots to troll every corner of the internet searching for it, then threatened to sue anyone who didn't take it down. "
He shoves back from the table, knocking over his orange juice.
"So I don't wanna hear how you're the one polishing the Ashby image, Savannah.
You're the trash we need to take out. And if it were up to me, I'd give you back to Marcus in a heartbeat.
He paid enough for you. Might as well get his money's worth. "
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.
"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 get caught.
But you will marry me, and you will stand 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."
"You will. 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.