Page 16 of Bones and Ashes

His words stop me mid-stride, like a well-trained horse hitting an invisible fence line. Something in his tone—a certainty, a weight—makes my spine straighten automatically.

I turn, keeping my expression carefully arranged into polite confusion, the way Mother taught me when photographers asked questions that cut too close to bone. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

Wyatt's not even looking at me. He's wandered over to the table, picking food from platters with the entitled ease that comes from a lifetime of having things handed to him on silver.

He's stuffin' bacon in his mouth as he turns, chewing it slow and deliberate, like he's weighing his words by the ounce. He reaches for another piece and points it at me, a greasy scepter of accusation.

"I see you, ya know. I always did. Every time you thought you were being sneaky, I was watchin'."

"Were ya."

He smiles, takes another bite. "That's right. All those years you were actin' in your own show, I was in the audience, Savannah. I can read you like a damn book. And I'm not sayin' your plan is bad or nothin'." He pauses to laugh and chew. "But if you think I won't put up a fight—" He points a piece of bacon at me again. "You're wrong."

"Spoken like a true middle son." The insult pours out of me like smooth, expensive whiskey—burning at first contact but leaving that warm, lingering sensation that makes you forget the sting.

I don't even know where it comes from. It's completely out of character for Savannah Ashby, Instagram darling, ranch princess with the perfect smile.

But I don't take it back.

Mostly because Wyatt has always been the middle son. He's grown up with it like a second skin, squeezed between Cash's authority and Colt's charm.

He didn't just try it on for size, he had that label custom-tailored for him decades ago, stitched into every disappointed look Eleanor ever gave him, woven into every chore that wasn't quite important enough for Cash but too dangerous for Colt.

My insult doesn't land hard, like a fist. It floats down slow like silk in the air, settlin' on his shoulders the way snow falls on fence posts—soft at first, then heavy with truth.

"You have always had a high opinion of yourself, Savannah. But here's the thing no one else knows. You didn't come by it naturally. That self-assurance you wear like armor, it was handed to you. Never earned. So I'll say it again, so you take me serious. I won't give in without a fight."

Then he turns back to the table and starts making himself a plate of food. Wearing his entitlement the same way I wear my certainty.

I leave. Mind spinnin'.

He's lyin'.

Wyatt Ashby is many things, but clever is not one of them.

He's got no idea what I'm doin'.

And even if he does… he's got no say in it.

I… am the Ashby heiress.

I'm the one with power here.

CHAPTER 5

After the initial sizin' up.

After the slow circlin' that men do when they're not sure if they're meetin' a brother or a ghost.

After the surprised faces—the squinted eyes and the tilted heads and the yeah, yeah, I know that guy, whatever happened to him?

After the half-drunk recognitions, and the low whistles, and the elbows nudged into ribs like, that's him, that's the fuckin' Demon.

After the shots lined up on the bar like little glass soldiers waitin' to die.

After the toasts that don't mean shit but feel like scripture when the room's loud enough.

After the back slappin' that rattles my teeth and the handshakes that squeeze too hard because every man in this room needs to prove somethin' with his grip.