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)
Maybe.
It costs me a lot to admit that.
A piece of my heart actually cracks open.
But it's just to prepare myself for my inevitable future and has little to do with Legion ever actually… replacing me.
We're… kind of a thing.
"The clubhouse," I say, certain as sunrise. "He's at the clubhouse and he took Mercy with him."
Which is no place for a nine-year-old girl. But then, neither was that falling-down trailer with its empty cupboards and broken locks. Neither was being left alone while everyone who should have protected her, disappeared one by one.
I sigh, my shoulders dropping an inch. "I'm coming."
Colt, the only Ashby brother who always takes my side, nods and steps away to let me pass.
He never judges, though he probably should.
He never lectures, though I could probably use one now and then.
He only sees and hears me. The real me. The sad me.
My heels click against the hardwood as I walk toward the stairs. Each step takes me closer to the future I'm supposed to want.
Colt doesn't follow. Will probably show up later, but he hates the jail cell this mansion has become just as much as I do.
That's why I can talk about Legion with him.
He gets me in a way that neither Wyatt nor Cash ever will.
Outside, the night air wraps around me like silk. Warm enough for bare shoulders, cool enough that goosebumps rise on my skin. The fairy lights strung between trees cast everything in gold. The white tent glows from within, making shadows dance across the outside.
Three hundred people waiting to celebrate the union of two families.
Two fortunes.
Two futures.
And there he is—Marcus White Jr., golden boy of Montana politics. Georgetown Law. Son of Montana State Senator White. Future congressman, if his father has anything to say about it.
He sees me and smiles that campaign-poster smile. Perfect teeth. Perfect hair. Perfect life waiting to fold me into it.
His lips find my neck as I reach him. Warm and soft and nothing like I want.
I close my eyes and see ink instead of skin. Black lines etched across muscle. Angels and demons locked in eternal battle. A map of scars and stories I used to trace with my fingertips in the dark.
Legion’s tattoos.
Legion’s body.
Legion’s ghost, haunting me even here, even now, with another man’s ring on my finger and the only future I ever wanted quickly slippin’ away like the inheritance money the Estate will never get if I don’t ‘marry proper’.
Inside the massive party tent on the Ashby Ranch lawn, I hold a flute of champagne that I haven't sipped. Marcus introduces me to another circle of nodding faces—his father's business associates, a state judge, his wife, and two lawyers whose names I hear, but don’t remember.
They all wear the same expression: calculation wrapped in politeness.
"My future wife," Marcus says, his hand possessive at my waist. “Savannah Ashby.”
I smile the smile Mama taught me. Lips curved just enough, teeth barely showing. The smile that says I'm listening when I'm not.
These people don't see me. They see followers. Engagement metrics. The Ashby water rights. The land that stretches farther than their imported cars can drive in a day.
"Savannah's platform reaches over four million people," Marcus explains, like I'm a television network instead of a person. "Her influence in the rural demographic is unparalleled."
The judge's wife nods, her diamond earrings catching the light. "Such a blessing for your campaign."
My gaze drifts past them to the long gravel driveway curving between the cottonwoods. I imagine headlights cutting through darkness. Not the soft purr of German engineering, but the growl of a motorcycle engine that sounds like a threat.
I imagine Legion walking across the perfect lawn toward this perfect tent. Leather-clad and dangerous. Knuckles still bruised from prison yard fights. Tattoos climbing up his throat like prayers that got twisted into curses.
These polished people would scatter like frightened birds. Their champagne flutes abandoned. Their fake smiles frozen.
"Savannah?"
Marcus's voice pulls me back. His eyes narrow slightly. He's noticed my attention wandering.
"Would you excuse me?" I say, placing my untouched champagne on a passing waiter's tray. "Just need to freshen up."
I feel Marcus watching as I walk away. He always watches. Tracks my movements like I'm an investment that might depreciate if left unattended.
Inside the carriage house, the powder room is a sanctuary of cream marble and subtle lighting. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, eyes closed, letting the quiet wrap around me.
And then I'm not here anymore.
I'm fifteen again, climbing the rusted ladder inside the abandoned grain silo. The metal cold against my palms. My heart hammering with anticipation, not dread.
Legion waiting at the top, a shadow against shadows until I got close enough to see his eyes. It was a hot summer night, but it was dark like winter. He reached for my hand, pulled me onto the platform where we'd been meeting for three years.