Page 34 of Bones and Ashes

That was the whole architecture of it, the unspoken blueprint my mother built when she was still alive and framing shots and decidin' who belonged inside the composition and who got cropped out.

Forty-seven thousand acres of land that followed the bloodline, not the name, and Legion Kane was never part of that bloodline.

But this is the second day in a row where he just rolled up like he belongs.

And nobody stopped him.

No alarm tripped.

No brother appeared barkin' threats.

Just Legion, smilin' at me like the property line doesn't exist.

And maybe it doesn't anymore.

Somehow, it got erased.

Which particular incident did that, I'm not sure.

The end of Marcus?

The protective custody of Mercy?

The birth of Marigold?

Hard to tell.

And no one cares, anyway.

I take his hand and start leading him back towards the house. "Then stay here you will."

CHAPTER 8

Savannah's hand is warm in mine as she leads me into the house. Once inside, there is no hesitation, she takes me right over to the grand stairway. Throwin' me a coy look over her shoulder as we ascend.

"Ya know, we don't have to fuck right away, Miss Ashby. You could offer me a lemonade and we could sit on the porch a spell before I rip your clothes off and spread your legs open."

She looks over her shoulder again—but this time she's blushin'. Doesn't stop her dirty mouth. "If I wanted to sip something, I would. But I don't. I want to suck something, Mr. Kane."

We reach the top of the stairs and I'm already hard. "Well," I say, following her down the hallway and into her room. "If you've got the urge to suck, I won't be standin' in your way."

I kick the door closed with the heel of my boot and pull her towards me in the same moment. She's already undoing my belt, I'm already reaching for her face. And she's got the zipper down and her warm palm around my cock before I can even start kissin' her again.

Her mouth tastes like coffee and somethin' sweet underneath, some gloss she put on hours ago that's near gone now. I kiss her slow even though my cock's already achin' in her hand. She's got a rhythm on me—slow pull, slower drag, thumb workin' the tip every pass—and I let her have it because the woman could stroke me through a blizzard and I wouldn't feel the cold.

Her tongue meets mine and I lose a second of time. Maybe more.

When we finally break, she's breathin' hard against my mouth, lips parted, eyes half-closed. I look at her and there's no crisis factory in my head, no Mike, no Lazarus, no dirt under my nails from a month ago that still won't come out. Just her, standin' in front of me in that prairie dress lookin' like somethin' I shouldn't be allowed to touch.

I touch her anyway.

My fingers go to the row of little buttons down her bodice and I work them one at a time. Slow. I could tear the damn thing but I don't, because she likes these dresses and I like her in 'em, and there's somethin' about takin' my time with a woman who spent twenty-eight years bein' rushed through her own life. Each button pops and more of her shows up underneath, pale skin and lace, some soft white thing with little scallops along the edge that's got no business bein' that pretty.

"Fuck, Savannah."

She smiles at me, still workin' my cock, grip gettin' tighter now like she's feelin' how much I want her. I push the bodice open and pull the cup of that lacy bra down with two fingers, and her tit falls free into my hand, warm and heavy and already tightenin' up at the nipple.

I palm her. Roll my thumb over her. Pinch just enough to make her draw a breath in sharp through her teeth.