Page 34 of Lawless Rivals

Bodies would fall from both sides, and I’d be the excuse to justify violence.

The thought makes my stomach churn.

I don’t have to like the Tallons to know I don’t want to be the match that lights a feud older than all of us. Even if Saint struck it first.

His bedroom door is open when I wander down the hall. I slip inside, pull out a pair of sweatpants from the chest of drawers, step into them and awkwardly tuck in the plaid shirt tales.

Everything is huge on me. The sweats hang off my hips and bunch at the ankle.

The track shoes by the wardrobe are massive, too, meant for a man of his build not a petite woman like me.

Regardless of their boat size, I shove my feet in and tighten the laces as best as I can. It won’t be easy to walk in them, but I need something to protect my feet from the puddles and grit.

Next, I grab the woolly hat from the dresser and tug it down over my ears. It slips past my eyebrows, nearly to my lashes and hugs my head.

My pulse is thumping by the time I reach the cabin door and pull it open. Stepping onto the deck, I stop, listen and study the movement in the distance.

There’s a camera fixed on the cabin’s roof above my head. The tiny red light blinks like it’s already telling Saint I’ve stepped out of line.

Not waiting for the fallout, I hurry across the grass, keeping low, trying not to slip.

Ahead of me sits a horse box and a vintage gray Escort that definitely won’t be an automatic. If my wrists weren’t cuffed, I’d already be gone. But they’d make it impossible to change gears and steer.

Still, I creep toward it, the track shoes making my steps graceless and loud. At the driver’s side, the key’s in the ignition, and the front tires are angled toward the open laneway out of here.

A man appears, yawning into his sleeve, completely unaware he’s within meters of Saint Tallon’s hostage. I drop into a deeper crouch beside the car, breath tight in my throat.

Adrenaline pulses through me as I wait for him to pass. Once he’s out of sight, I rise and reach for the handle, thinking it’s my only option.

As my fingers curl around the silver handle, there’s a high-pitched whistle. I freeze when the dogs bark.

“Garda!” someone shouts. “They’re coming down the lane.”

I whip my head toward the long gravel road leading into Black Heath Stud. A police cruiser creeps along the bend, lights off, but unmistakable.

Forget about driving, they’re my ticket out of here.

As that thought spirals, there’s movement out of the corner of my eye. Two rottweilers shoot out from behind the horse barn, and Rafe storms in my direction.

“What the hell are ya doing out here?” he grits. “Jesus fuck this is all we need.”

When I go to run, he lunges for me. His arm bands around my waist, and his hand crushes my scream before it escapes.

My feet stumble in Saint’s oversized shoes, the soles scraping over concrete as he drags me backward into the barn.

I twist, kick, and thrash but this guy is all muscle and solid strength.

“Stop fighting,” he growls into my ear. “You’re making a bad situation worse.”

I bite him hard, loving it when he hisses. Cursing me under his breath, he continues to haul me further inside.

The barn scent is strong with hoof oil and horse sweat. Agitated dust dances around us, the flecks caught in the shafts of daylight pouring in through the doorway.

Rafe’s patience thins when I butt into him, not giving him a second. He shoves me against the wall, and in one blurred move, he pins my wrists above my head and gets up in my face.

“Stop fucking around.”

“Rafe.” Saint’s voice slices through the barn. “The Garda are parking up outside. What the fuck are ya doing?”