Page 23 of Lawless Rivals

The fire pops, the sound punctuating the silence.

Saint sighs, sits back, spine sinking into the sofa, arms spreading along the top edge like a king.

“You’ll gather a lot of initials on that fine body of yours. Random names won’t protect you, though. If you’d had a decent guy by your side at the gala, no other man would have gotten near ya. Then you wouldn’t be sitting in enemy territory.”

His gaze drops to my bare legs and stays a beat too long before the fire takes it back. I press my knees together and swallow down a mouthful of whiskey, letting it burn as I think about that.

“I’ve played the field,” I say, honest in a way I’d never admit to anyone else. “And got bored. My ex is in the past…practically forgotten about. I’m in no rush to replace him, and I certainly won’t pick a man from Black Heath, that’s for sure.”

His eyes darken.

“Yeah, you want the lifestyle your da raised ya in. Private jets and snooty cocktail parties,” he says. “A sugar daddy who’ll take his place and wear ya on his arm like a Rolex.”

I exhale to let out an exasperated grunt from the back of my throat. “Why don’t you stop pretending you know what sort of woman I am. All you know is Alasdair Harrington and his legacy. But you have no idea who I am…or what I want. No one does.”

Saint stands without a word, saunters to the drinks cabinet and grabs a bottle. He heads in my direction and tops up my glass. Whiskey sloshes to the brim, and then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig.

He straightens and returns to his spot on the sofa, kicking up his feet again. “I hope ya find what you’re looking for.”

“Well, for now,” I reply, taking a slow sip, “I’m looking to get off your land as soon as possible.”

“Me too.” He doesn’t look at me. “I’d hate to have to make an example of a pretty young thing like you.”

A tingly shiver rolls up my spine, but I keep my expression flat. “You know he won’t stand for this. My father. He won’t tolerate bribery, or blackmail, or whatever you think this is. He’ll send men here to teach you and your family a lesson.”

Saint huffs once, not quite a laugh but it’s flippant. “Let them come.”

He takes another swig of whiskey, gaze fixed on the flames like he’s imagining something burning that isn’t wood. There’s no fear in him.

Silence creeps into the room as we both sit there and drink. After a while, my eyelids get heavy and my muscles relax. “It stands for Lottie…the tattoo. I had it done when I was at uni.”

He looks over at me. “And who is Lottie?”

“My father bought me a pony on my fifth birthday,” I say, the words slipping out before I can think better of it. “She was a spirited wee Connemara from the Clifden sales. Good stock, dappled gray…perfect.”

I watch the fire instead of him.

“I learned how to ride on her. Rode her for years.” My voice tightens and I force a swallow. “And then one day, she had an accident in the field. Broke her leg. He didn’t wait for me to come home from boarding school. The vet shot her and took her straight to incineration.”

A bitter breath leaves me and I clear my throat.

“When I got home that weekend,” I continue, “my father had a new pony standing in her stable. Just like that. He told me to stop crying and go ride the new one.”

My father has always been better at replacing things than grieving them. His sister died when I was young and no one in our family said her name after that.

When I finish the story, I let my head fall against the back of the padded armchair. The fire continues to crackle, and the wind presses against the windows.

Saint doesn’t say a word, though his foot waggles.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn’t be telling you personal things. I just thought I’d clear that up. I’d never want anyone thinking I’d wear a tattoo to represent Lucien. He was just a guy. And guys are easily replaced.”

His gaze locks with mine for the briefest of moments, and I sense there’s something on the tip of his tongue, until he looks back at the fire and shrugs.

“You don’t owe me any explanation. All I care about is your da signing off on my land. That’s it.”

I nod and think about what I just did.

I told him about Lottie. About my father’s ability to slap paper money over cracks. About the specific shape of a grief I’ve never talked about to anyone.