Page 68 of Lawless Rivals

His words stick with me in the shower.

I won’t ruin everything over wanting you.

By the time I get out from under the water, I’m too tired to bother drying my hair.

I rough-dry it with a towel and braid the damp lengths without tying them, then pat myself dry before listening at the door.

There’s only silence, which means he’s not around.

Thankful for the alone time, I pad to his bedroom and open his drawers in search of warm layers.

I shake out a big t-shirt and throw it on, then reach for a sweatshirt on a hanger in the closet, slip on clean sweatpants, and pick out a bundled pair of socks.

I ignore the fact that they’re his clothes and wrap around me in a way that feels like his touch.

Cursing myself, I wander to the chilly sitting room where I kneel by the hearth, strike a match, and watch the fire catch through stacked logs.

The crackle drags me back to the river. To the way he’d said my name and how that fireside kiss ripped down my defences.

Truth is, Lucien was easy to want because wanting him cost me nothing. He was temporary by design and we both knew it.

Saint is the opposite of that in every way I can think of. That’s what troubles me.

I suck in a breath, shake off the longing for a man who puts family rivalry first, and climb onto the couch.

I switch on the television and pull a blanket over me. Exhaustion has my eyes drifting closed somewhere between the rise and fall of canned laughter and the crackle of firewood.

The whine of the front door opening drags me awake, and I stare at glowing embers and shadows.

For a second, I forgot where I am. Then I turn my head to the thud of footsteps and see him.

Saint moves inside carrying a plastic bag that gives off warm and savory food vibes. He kicks the door with his foot, shoulders broad beneath his sherpa coat, jeans riding low on his hips.

The cap he wears shadows his eyes until he pulls it off. His hand rakes through dark hair that’s been flattened all day and now sits in a tousled mess.

The stubble along his jaw is darker in the shadowy light, rougher somehow.

Even though he looks exhausted, my core tightens as if I’ve been waiting for him to come home.

Our eyes meet for a brief second.

He gives me a nod, nothing more, and heads to the kitchen.

My muscles are stiff as I tuck my legs beneath me. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it over the back of a chair before ladling stew into two bowls.

Once they’re filled, he slips a spoon into one and carries it over to me.

“I told my ma our guest needed feeding,” he says, his expression blank.

“Right,” I whisper, reaching for it.

Our fingers brush beneath the weight of the bowl, sending awareness racing up my arm. Neither of us releases it. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my pulse beats harder with every second his hand remains beneath mine.

Then he lets go and returns for his own.

I settle the bowl carefully in my lap and remind myself that wanting me isn’t the same as choosing me.

When he returns, instead of sitting straight away, he sets his bowl on the mantel and crouches by the hearth. He reaches for another log from the stack beside it and tosses it into the fire.