Page 38 of Lawless Rivals

Something shutters behind his eyes like a barrier locking into place.

“Yeah,” he says, voice level again, stripped of heat. “We’re done here.”

He steps back, finally giving me air.

Without another look my way, he turns to the horse, runs a slow hand over its neck, and presses a brief kiss to its muzzle, his movements grounded, controlled, his thoughts entirely elsewhere.

“Let’s go,” he says.

Rafe stalks toward us, shoulders tight, eyes already narrowed like he’s been gearing up for a fight.

“So what happens now, Saint, huh?” he demands. “Where are ya putting the girl so she’s out of the way?”

His emphasis on girl burns, a reminder that to him I’m not a person, just a problem.

Saint doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t even blink. “She’ll stay with me. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Rafe steps into his path. “You’re talkin’ responsibility for her then? Cuz look how that’s worked out so far. She almost sunk us.”

“Move.”

Rafe stays still. “She needs to be locked up, somewhere away from the yard.”

“Don’t push me on this,” Saint replies, his voice a husky snarl. “It’s not up to you what I do.”

Rafe huffs out a dark laugh. “Saint, that’s a Harrington beside ya. She’s Alasdair’s blood. Her loyalty sits with him.”

Saint’s hand comes up, commanding silence.

“This conversation is boring, Rafe. We all knew this job wouldn’t be easy. So back the fuck off and stop thinking ya know better,” he says. “What happens on this yard is my call. I’m responsible for not fucking things up.”

Rafe studies him, unease flickering in his eyes. “Why keep her at your place? Why not shove her in one of the outbuildings and block up the door?”

Saint runs a hand over his mouth. “Because I know how to manage a threat.”

He angles his head, meeting my gaze with a look that heats the air between us.

“And she’s not much of a threat when she’s cuffed and stripped of all her riches.”

Rafe’s brows draw tight. “Christ, Saint⁠—”

“That’s enough,” Saint snaps, his tone hard. “Unless I ask, keep your opinions to yourself.”

Rafe’s jaw works, anger chewing through. “When this all goes to shit, don’t say ya weren’t warned.”

“Harrington,” Saint snaps. “Keep moving.”

Saint shoulders past his brother hard enough that Rafe stumbles half a step. In a few more strides we walk straight into the daylight and crisp fresh air.

Rafe stalks away, muttering curses that grow faint with distance.

Saint doesn’t look back at me. Rather, he walks on with an unhurried, confident gait that leaves me trailing behind.

“You’re staying in my cabin until I say otherwise,” he throws over his shoulder, not slowing. “That’s the end of it.”

Before I can respond, a loud, blaring horn rips through the yard.

Saint stops dead.