Page 42 of Lawless Rivals

I catch myself tracking his movements without meaning to. My hands curl against my thighs as my attention sticks where it shouldn’t.

“Good girl,” he says, voice rough with approval. “Glad to see you’re making yourself useful.”

“I’m a woman,” I bite out, sliding my gaze back to the fire and fixing it there.

The sound of him moving closer makes it hard not to look again. When he sits, my willpower dissolves and my gaze cuts to him fixing his towel as he gets comfy.

“Yeah, you are,” he deadpans. “A woman who can’t stop looking.”

“True,” I say. “I’m looking at the genius who thought this was a good idea and wondering if his brains live in his balls. There are other ways to make a deal, you know.”

Saint chuckles, the sound deep and annoyingly hot.

“Your da doesn’t play well with others,” he says. “You embarrassing him did exactly what years of negotiations didn’t. It got his attention.”

He shrugs. “We’ve been chasing that land a long time. Turns out humiliation works better than handshakes.”

The fire crackles and pops next to me, flames chewing through the log and the heat warming my skin.

“And I’m just the collateral that gets screwed over while the men clash swords.” I get to my feet. “I’d rather not sit here and take part in idle chitchat about my father and your big ambitions.”

“You know where my bedroom is,” he says, unaffected. “Close the door behind ya.”

Rain hits the windows as I pad past him in the socks I’d taken from his drawers earlier and head along the short hall.

In his room, the temperature drops a few degrees. I exhale a loud sigh and sit on the edge of his bed, then lie back, staring at the ceiling while the tension and stress drain out of my muscles.

My body sinks deeper into the mattress, and I close my eyes, doing my best to block out the scent of him lingering on the duvet under me.

When the door opens, I blink and wipe a hand across my mouth, shocked that I’d nodded off.

“There’s food on the table,” Saint says. “C’mon.”

I sit upright, drag a hand down my face, and yawn. Saint’s standing in the doorway dressed in a navy shirt and dark denim Levi’s. His hair is dry now, and his expression gives nothing away.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“After four,” he replies, backing out of the room.

I push to my feet, fix the baggy track pants hanging off my hips, and join him in the kitchen.

He’s already sitting at the table, watching me take in the place opposite him. On the small plate there’s a toasted sandwich, a folded paper towel, a knife and fork laid to either side, and a mug of black coffee sitting beside it.

“You’re trusting me with cutlery?” I pull out the chair and sit. “That’s brave.”

He smirks, almost giving me a full smile. “What can I say? I like to live on the edge.”

Instead of using the knife, I pick the toastie up with my fingers and pull it apart. Melted cheese stretches between the halves, steam rising. The smell hits, and my stomach answers.

I take a bite and chew, grateful despite myself. It’s hot, filling, exactly what I needed. I don’t comment. I won’t give him that.

When I’m done, I wipe my fingers, push my chair back, and cross to the fridge. I take out the milk and add a splash to my coffee.

Saint leans back and folds his arms. “I figured you’d be a fussy little Harrington princess. The type who expects someone else to fetch and carry.”

“Look,” I say, sliding the carton back inside. “My name’s Keira. Stop calling me Harrington.”

He scratches his jaw, his gaze sweeping over me in his kitchen. “No need to blur lines. Let’s not make it personal.”