Page 120 of Lawless Rivals

The front door opens with slight resistance, the wood catching before it gives. Fresh heath air stings my cheeks.

My attention moves across the fields full of cattle, scanning the fences, the shadows between the trees, then searching the distant yard for a glimpse of him.

I head for the barn, even though I suspect he’s in the main house, plotting and planning my father’s downfall.

The enormous doors are already open.

Sera stands halfway down the aisle, working hay into one stall with slow, even movements. Daylight pours through the slats, catching her face, and this time I see it all.

The thin slice at her lip has dried darker at the edge, the bruising along her jaw messier looking, and when she angles her head at the sound of my footfall, it shows black blobs like fingerprints on her throat.

“I’m going to make a coffee,” I say, making a point not to stare as I move past her. “Want one?”

She pauses, the fork resting against the ground before she nods once. “Sure.”

I head toward the small staff room where Saint had finger-fucked me, the memory feeding the ache in my core.

Inside, I flick the light on and fill the kettle, setting it to boil.

Sera follows in behind me and reaches for the milk carton left out on the counter. She unscrews the cap, lifts it to sniff it, then sets it back down.

I glance at her. “Did my brother really do that to you?”

Her gaze darts away instead of answering, catching somewhere past my shoulder.

“You look a bit like him,” she mutters.

“I take after my mother.” I shrug. “Fionn’s more like my father.”

Her head turns at the mention of him; her eyes are sharper than before.

“Don’t say his name around here.”

I don’t argue. The reaction is already there, written in her locked shoulders and the way her focus slips for a second.

“If he hurt you, Sera…” I keep my voice even. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” She spoons coffee into the mugs. “I see things with my own eyes, Keira.”

The kettle clicks off, and I pour the water, steam rising in the fresh air.

“Saint’s inside with Ma,” she says when I slide her a full mug. “Telling her how it is. He’s always done his own thing. And this time, she’s pissed.”

“What’s he saying to her?”

She lifts the mug and blows across it before taking a small sip.

“Saint’s never been in love before.” Her gaze drops to the coffee. “So, she’s taken it bad that her golden boy picked a Harrington.”

My heart rate speeds up and the skin on my neck turns pink, creeping up to my cheeks.

The sound of boots echoing from the barn carries into the small room. I angle toward the door as Saint appears.

My pulse kicks hard.

His expression sits tight across his face, his coarse-haired jaw set, a hardness in place that comes from contained anger.

I smile anyway, and his mouth twitches. Just enough that the line softens for a fleeting instant.