Page 157 of Lawless Rivals

Rain hammers the iron roof above us, turning the old barn into a metal drum full of damp bales, ancient machinery and two dickheads who think black ski masks make them brave.

“Fuck up, Tallon,” the taller one snaps.

The single bulb above me swings from a warped beam, light spilling over the dusty concrete floor, highlighting the wet tracks my boots made when they dragged me in here.

My hair sticks to my cheeks, and goosebumps cover my bare arms because my coat is still in the passenger footwell of my car, along with the yard keys and my phone.

“You’re on the Harrington payroll, right?” I ask, still twisting my wrists so the rope bites deeper but doesn’t give. “Bringing me to a shitty barn instead of putting a bullet in my head on the road tells me someone wants to send a message, and Alasdair never gets his hands dirty unless there’s applause waiting.”

The shorter guy steps in fast and jams the barrel of his gun under my chin, forcing the muscles in my throat to pull tight as I strain against it.

“Keep bitchin’ all ya want,” he grits. “You’re not going anywhere unless it’s an early grave.”

Charming.

I hold his stare through the holes in the mask and spit at him.

When he moves back, I swing my knee up and catch his balls. The hit makes him grunt as he creases forward.

“You’ll need the grave,” I laugh. “I’m not going anywhere quietly.”

Pride is a stupid thing to keep feeding when I’m hung from a hook, but I’ve never been good at letting it starve.

The other guy comes closer next, but the barn door slides open before he does anything.

Wind whips up the rain, pushing it inside so the bulb swings like a pendulum.

Both men straighten on instinct and that gives away more than the expensive black dress shirt, tailored trousers, and build of the third masked man walking toward us.

Rain clings to his shirt as he crosses the barn and shoves an old wooden stool closer with the toe of his polished shoe.

In silence, he takes his time to sit in front of me while the other two men wait.

“Watch the lane,” he orders. “Both of you.”

My pulse kicks at the deep tone of his voice, and I hate the little shiver that rushes over my scalp because of the texture of it.

The two men leave, boots scuffing over dirt, and the dusk beyond the door swallows them almost immediately.

Dogs bark somewhere close by, then farther away another dog answers.

From inside the barn, I should hear the regular hustle of a working yard, staff calling out, horses restless in their stalls, engines turning over, but there’s only pelting rain, barking and rusted machinery where a business should be.

This isn’t a ransom lift. It’s personal.

And whoever ordered it is either stupid, desperate, or too protected to care that my three brothers will turn Black Heath inside out once they realize I’m gone.

The man in front of me watches the rope bite deeper instead of telling me to stop yanking.

His dark gaze wanders to my T-shirt, soaked through and hitched high so the skin above my jeans is on show.

His attention stays there while I thrash, then ever so slowly lifts to my face.

“So, the Tallons thought they could snatch Keira Harrington from the gala and there wouldn’t be consequences?”

His voice is rich and familiar, carrying just enough amusement to make my teeth lock.

“I didn’t snatch anyone,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”