Page 6 of Lawless Rivals

Rafe grins. There’s nothing kind in it, though. “You talk too much for a girl in your position.”

“How about you explain my position to me,” I bite back. “Because from where I’m standing you’ve made a big mistake.”

He steps forward fast, fingers closing on my jaw. “Stop talking, little miss prim and proper.”

His fingertips dig into my cheeks, hollowing them so my lips pucker. I’d punch him if my wrists weren’t tied.

“Leave it, Rafe.” Saint appears, calm and stoic in his presence.

He stops a few paces away, half in shadow, his gaze locked on my face. The bow tie’s gone, his collar is open, and the jacket I’d worn earlier hangs from his fist.

“Fine.” Rafe unhands me, steps back, and nods to the doorway at the far end of the barn. “She can stay in the feed room. There’s a bolt and plenty of rope to hogtie her.”

My skin prickles.

Saint’s eyes flick back to me, unreadable.

“Nah. That’s too close,” he says. “She stays in the hayloft out of sight.”

Rafe grunts, grabs me under the arms, and lifts. He doesn’t bother with gentleness, hoisting me over his shoulder again. The barn tilts with every upward rung of the ladder, the wood creaking under us.

When we reach the loft, the air is musty. Warmer, alive with the sweet smell of hay and dry dust. Oddly, it’s a comfort I’ve known my whole life.

Rafe drops me on the worn planks and lingers for a moment, staring down at me with that smug half-grin of his.

His choppy dark brown hair’s long to his nape, shoved back with his fingers, but it still falls into wild green eyes. Stubble shadows his jaw, making him look older than he probably is.

I only know these men by reputation. Growing up, I never socialized with the Tallon brothers. While I learned manners and etiquette at St. Killian’s private academy, these guys were likely raised by thieves.

“You’ve got the best room in the barn, Harrington,” he drawls, the lazy Irish lilt wrapping around the insult. “Watch out for the rats, though. Those big fuckers love this place.”

I shift my weight, the strappy sandals I’m wearing too high for this situation. Despite that, if the cocky prick steps an inch closer, I’ll drive a pencil heel into his thigh and smile when he bleeds.

I might be a lady, but I’m not afraid of drawing Tallon blood.

Rafe flashes me the gun holstered under his suit jacket. “Behave yourself. Up here you’re safe. Even if you’re a Harrington. But down there, I’ll put a bullet in your skull if you’re found snoopin’. You won’t make it off our land alive if ya try to run.”

The sound of him climbing down the ladder fades into the horse barn below. I exhale a loud sigh and take in my surroundings.

Hay bales, twin loading doors that likely lead to a death drop and a small, grimy diamond-shaped window that lets in muted moonlight.

My scalp prickles when the ladder rungs creak and Saint appears, looking all casual and handsome like some dark knight in a twisted fantasy I don’t want to be part of.

When he tosses his suit jacket, it lands at my feet in a crumpled heap. Without a word, he turns to the bales, drags a few off the stack, and creates a level surface.

Agitated dust mites twirl around him, catching the silvery haze.

I wrangle with the restraints securing my wrists, gaze darting from his tight shirt to the carved beams above him.

The rafters are intricate in their design for a barn. Not the typical workmanship I’d expect to see.

Finished doing whatever, he turns back to me, clamps a hand around my forearm and pulls me toward the bales until my knees hit spiky hay.

“Sit.”

I do, mostly to keep from falling.

“You’ll sleep on this.” He scoops the jacket and tosses it onto the makeshift bed. “It’s dry up here. Sun breaks over the top beam every morning.”