Page 67 of Lawless Rivals

When she rolls her shoulders, the movement pushes her breasts forward, and soaking hair clings to her collarbones.

Fuck, she’s beautiful.

And I’m an asshole for blurring the lines.

“If things were different—” I open the cubicle door, “—but they’re not. And I won’t ruin everything over wanting ya.”

The problem with boundaries is that you have to be standing still to build them. And won’t let myself linger long around this woman another minute.

I grab a towel from the shelf, knot it low around my hips, then lower to my haunches to fish my phone out of my jeans pocket. I straighten and walk out of the bathroom without looking back.

In my bedroom, I drop the towel and step into dry denim, the jeans stiff at the knees yet worn in from years in the saddle. I pull a thermal base layer over my head, then a flannel shirt, rolling the cuffs once before reaching for the shearling-lined jacket hanging off the chair by the door.

From the back of the closet, I pick out a pair of new boots that won’t be as comfy as my favorite pair, the leather still hard. Once they’re laced, I tug a cap onto my head.

When I pass the bathroom door, I stop mid-stride, then keep on walking.

I head straight to the whiskey bottle on the kitchen table, unscrew the cap, and take a long pull. It burns clean down my throat, and although it heats my belly, it doesn’t have the same ability to please me like she did.

The shower is still running, and Keira hasn’t come out yet. She’s probably decided that avoidance is her best tactic. And that works for me.

I take another drink, slam the bottle on the table, and prowl to the bathroom door, listening for fuck knows what—a change in the water pressure, the sound of movement, a sign she’s about to open it.

While I stand there, my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.

“Did ya get names, Dane?” I ask my brother and start walking to the front door, already shifting gears.

“We’ve got a problem in the south fields,” he says, voice like gravel dragged over steel. “Dead livestock scattered across the fence line.”

The warmth in my chest turns to ice, the whiskey dying where it sits.

“How many?”

“Enough to make a point.”

My gaze flicks back over my shoulder toward the bathroom.

“There’s more,” Dane adds. “Those guys in the white van? They were spotted talking to one of Alasdair Harrington’s lads in town. They slaughtered the cattle on his order. But that’s not all.”

Everything inside me goes still.

“The buyer…Eion,” he reminds me of the guy my brother interrogated. “He gave me the name Crowe. The machete guys at the forest weren’t Harrington lads. The Crowe brothers from the North are running a smuggling corridor straight to France through our port.”

“Do they know Harrington?”

“Apparently, these guys work alone.”

“Alone means they’ve no back up,” I say.

“Bastards thought we wouldn’t notice,” Dane mutters.

“I’m coming now.”

I end the call, glance at the bathroom door, and shake my head, knowing this is where I draw a permanent line between want and sense.

Chapter 18

Keira