Page 62 of Lawless Rivals

The fabric hits my chest and falls into my hands. My skin still burns where he’d touched me only seconds ago, but whatever was alive between us has fizzled out.

He reaches for the shirt we were sitting on and throws it back on while I redress in damp clothes. The soggy fabric clings against skin that hasn’t stopped humming.

Grabbing the jacket, he pulls out his cigarettes, taps one free, and sparks the lighter. The flame flares briefly, reflected in his eyes before he inhales and lets the smoke settle his breathing.

Then he holds the jacket toward me without looking.

“Put it on.”

He turns his back to me and walks away, smoke trailing behind him as he calls out to his brother.

“Rafe! Over here.”

Hoofbeats break through the trees before I finish pulling the jacket on.

Saint is already halfway down the slope when they appear between the trunks, Rafe in front, Shay behind him, Bran led on a loose rein between them.

The horse snorts when he sees Saint and tosses his head.

Rafe reins in first, scanning the clearing with sharp eyes. Shay follows, gaze sweeping over me once before settling on Saint.

“What the hell happened?” Rafe calls.

“Two guys in a van came outta nowhere and started shooting. The old bridge gave way,” Saint replies, short and flat. “She went in. I got her out.”

That’s all he offers.

Rafe’s gaze flicks to the river, then to the fire, then back to Saint. “You were sitting here in wet clothes?”

“That’s all ya gotta say?” Saint strokes Bran’s neck and checks him over. “How about you tell me who those fuckers in the van work for.”

Shay swings down from his saddle without joining the conversation. He walks to the fire and kicks dirt over the base, then drags a boot through the embers until the flames gutter and die.

A final shove of soil smothers what’s left.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find out.” Rafe reaches into his jacket and pulls out a hip flask, tossing it toward Saint. “That’ll warm ya up.”

Saint catches it. He stares at the metal case, then turns and hands it straight to me and nods.

Rafe blinks. “Jesus, Saint. I don’t want a Harrington supping from my flask.”

Saint’s jaw tightens. “You sound like a little bitch, Rafe.”

The liquor burns down my throat and settles warm in my belly.

“Thanks.” I pass the flask back, keeping my face neutral. “I’ll ride back with Shay.”

Saint’s brows draw tight.

He takes the flask from me and tips it back without breaking eye contact. His throat works as he swallows, gaze fixed, unblinking.

When he lowers it, his fingers flex once around the metal before he passes it to Rafe and walks over to Bran.

After he gathers the reins and swings into the saddle, his stormy gaze clashes with mine.

“Get over here, Keira.”

My heart skips.