Page 33 of Lawless Rivals

She blinks a few times and then nods into my hand. I don’t push any further and release her instead.

I pivot away and head to the bedroom, pulling a clean shirt from the closet and gritting my teeth as the fabric settles on the wound. I reach for a jacket next, shrug it on, then snatch a baseball cap off the dresser.

Returning to the kitchen, she’s exactly where I left her, spine straight, chin hitched.

“Behave,” I mutter, correcting the angle of the cap as I pass her to grab my smokes.

When I pocket the pack and stalk to the door, her voice slips over my shoulder. “One of us is going to regret underestimating the other, Saint. And it won’t be me.”

My hand stills on the door.

She should sound ridiculous. Barefoot in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, threatening me like she has the upper hand.

But all I can think about is that mouth of hers and how fast the fight would turn if I crossed the room and kissed her.

My grip tightens around the handle until the metal bites into my palm.

Fuck that.

Her blood is Harrington blood. Rotten at the heart.

She’s leverage. A Harrington under my roof. That’s all.

I open the door and welcome the cold air, its bite sharp enough to keep me from taking what I shouldn’t want.

Chapter 9

Keira

I take a deep breath and resist the urge to hurl the whiskey bottle at the door after it slams behind him.

“Behave yourself,” I mutter, mocking his gravelly voice. “Right. I’ll just sit here waiting for whatever until he comes home.”

My belly rumbles in the silence. I cross to the fridge because starving myself would only hand him another victory.

Cool air seeps out as I tug it open and grab a packet of sliced beef.

I fumble with the plastic, the click-clank of my cuffs against the refrigerator shelf complete humiliation. I swallow my pride with every mouthful, knowing even the food I’m eating belongs to Saint Tallon’s.

Afterward, I two-handedly pour myself a glass of milk. The process is awkward, but I’m not a quitter.

While I sip, I study the open plan space. The cabin is warm, but it’s still his place, where his scent fills the air, his boots sit by the door, his presence lingers.

Still… I’d kill for a cappuccino, a croissant, and a jet heading to Cannes. Instead, I get to pick through the contents of Saint Tallon’s fridge.

It’s packed with beer and not much else. Apparently, he survives on alcohol, anger, and intimidation.

I’m guessing the guy doesn’t cook for himself, and the woman who’s unlucky enough to want him will be chained to the stove––literally.

I wander to the front window overlooking the deck and ease the curtain back. The storm has blown itself out, leaving the sky a washed-out powder blue.

Leaves are piled in wind-tossed heaps across the boards. Beyond, Tallon workers move like distant ants in the yard, getting on with their working day.

It won’t be long until my father learns the truth. He’ll piece together the bits Saint wants him to know and then he’ll send armed Harrington men to bring me home.

I sigh heavily and step away from the window. None of this sits well with me. Rationally, I should want them to storm the Tallons’ yard.

But the truth is, they wouldn’t come for me. My father would be more focused on rectifying the insult. Seeking revenge in a war of righteousness.