Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
The Ashby Princess costume.
But… it suits me.
And I don't know what to do with that.
What do you do with that?
I tug the neckline a bit higher, fix the sleeves, and smile with calculated modesty—the exact smile that used to bring in five-figure sponsorships from home goods companies who want their lavender sachets cradled in my perfect, lying hands.
The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should. Every damn portrait of Eleanor watching me as I pass, reminding me that I'm breaking character by wearing her costume while sleeping with an outlaw.
"Morning," I say to our housekeeper as I enter, keeping my voice light.
I take my usual seat—not the head of the table, never that. That's Cash's place now, has been since Eleanor passed, and I'm not about to rock that particular boat this mornin'.
Ever, if I'm bein' honest.
The chair feels cool against my thighs even through the cotton dress, and I swear this old furniture remembers everyone who's ever sat in it. I rest my hands on the smooth vintage wooden table, spreading my fingers to feel the texture beneath my nails—oak from the 1890s, imported from somewhere important that Eleanor would recite to dinner guests like Scripture.
Three generations of Ashby women have touched this same grain, planned empires across these knots and whorls, and I can almost feel the weight of that pressed into the polish. The table was here before me and will outlast me, same as the land, same as the rules.
I'm brought coffee in a delicate porcelain cup with blue wildflowers hand-painted around the rim. It's beautiful, and curated, and perfect.
I fully understand the depth of my privilege, as well as the hypocrisy of my contempt for it. I want it, but hate it at the same time.
Is there ever a middle ground? Is there a person alive who is satisfied with their situation? Happy and content?
Because I'd like to be that person. And I get it. I should be that person.
I just can't help feeling that this place is a trap. Has always been a trap. And yes, at the same time, it's a good trap. It's got everything I love about life.
It just doesn't have the one thing I truly want.
Legion.
Cash's voice cuts through the peaceful morning sounds before he even enters the room. He's barking into his cell phone, boots heavy on the hardwood, shoulders rigid. "I don't care what Montgomery said about the access road. We're permitted through 2032, and that document is filed with the county." His voice rises with each word. "Handle it exactly like I said, or find yourself another sponsor next election cycle."
He stabs the end call button with his finger like he's punching someone's face.
I raise my eyebrows as he finally acknowledges me with a quick nod. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Nothing worth discussing," he says, yanking his chair out and dropping into it. He takes off his Stetson and sets it crown-down beside him—something Eleanor would've pitched a fit over. Cash folds his hands on the table and just... stares at me.
I shift in my seat, feeling like a butterfly pinned to a board under his gaze. I take a slow sip of coffee, then set the cup down with a deliberate clink. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."
His mouth twitches. Not a smile, just a ripple across the surface of whatever he's actually thinking. "How's your biker?"
The question catches me so off-guard I nearly knock over my coffee. Cash has never once asked about Legion—not directly. He's threatened him, warned me about him, bailed my ass out when Legion nearly died from sepsis, but he's never asked about him like he's a person who matters to me.
"Since when do you care?" I keep my voice neutral, but my guard is instantly up. Cash asking casual questions about Legion is like a rattlesnake asking casual questions about your unattended baby.
"Just making conversation." He unfolds his hands, then refolds them. A tell—there's an agenda here.
"No, you're not." I narrow my eyes. "You didn't ask about him once when he was actually living under this roof with tubes running into his arms. You've spent years pretending he doesn't exist except when you're threatening him. So what's this about?"
Cash holds my stare, his face giving away exactly nothing. "Can't a brother take an interest?"
"A brother, yes. You? No." I lean forward slightly. "What do you want, Cash?"
"Nothin'." But he averts his eyes when he says this. Then quickly recovers. "You wanna come to the auction with me this week? People would really like to see you."
I actually consider it for a second. The fall run is an event—the whole county packed into the sale barn, the auctioneer's cadence echoing off the metal walls, the smell of dust, and coffee, and cow shit that somehow becomes nostalgic when you've been away from it long enough.