Page 7 of Lawless Rivals

I raise my bound hands to scrape hair from my lashes and sigh. “What do you think this stunt will achieve?”

His forehead furrows as his brows pull together. “It’ll even the score once and for all. That land your da thinks is his—the same stretch he claimed as his—that’s Tallon land. Always has been. He’ll get his precious little princess back once he returns it.”

I shake my head and shoot air down my nose. “You think I won’t go to the Garda and tell them you kidnapped me?”

His mouth curves, and for a heartbeat, he just stares right at me. My pulse flutters and the vein in my neck thrums.

“You wouldn’t want to make a personal enemy of me, Harrington.”

I let out a grunt of indignation. “I think it’s a bit late to pretend we’re not enemies, Saint Tallon.”

The whites of his eyes gleam as a flicker of unspoken words pass behind his eyes. He straightens, unhurried, and reaches into his trouser pocket. A lighter flame sparks between us, catching in the blackness of his pupils.

He lights a cigarette, draws smoke into his lungs, and exhales like he has all the time in the world.

Then he sits beside me, so close the hay crushes beneath his weight, and dry stalks scrape against my thigh.

Without asking, he puts the cigarette between my lips. I should jerk back. Instead, I let his thumb drag across my bottom lip only to let it spring back into place, and the pull of it lands somewhere it has no business landing. Then his touch is gone, his hand resting on his knee as if he hadn’t done a thing.

“You never did get that smoke, princess.”

I keep the cigarette between my lips without drawing on it. The paper dampens where it rests. Smoke coils up past my cheek, and his gaze follows it for a beat before dropping to my mouth, and lower to the thin strap sliding down my shoulder.

He doesn’t touch the strap. He just looks at it, jaw working, then drags his eyes back up.

My wrists strain against the rope before I lift both hands and pinch the cigarette between two fingers.

His eyes flick to the rope, then back to my mouth. A faint smirk ghosts across his face as I trap the cigarette between my fingers and exhale through my nose.

“Wow,” I say, voice rough. “You’re really pulling out all the stops, Saint. Penthouse accommodation, luxury bedding, and the finest tobacco.”

I take another drag, letting the ember flare between us. “Shame about the lack of consent and roped wrists, though.”

He tilts his head a fraction, studying me. “Shit happens. I just need ya here long enough to be useful.”

I meet his gaze over the glow of the cigarette. “You need me? Wow, that’s a big admission. Next thing you’ll pretend you have a heart, too.”

Saint rises to his feet, towering above me, the floorboards groaning under his polished dress shoes.

“My heart beats for my father’s legacy,” he says. “They’ll have to put a bullet in it to stop me from protecting what’s ours.”

“If you weren’t such an asshole, I’d call that admirable,” I shoot back. “If not a little sad.”

“Sad?” His brow lifts.

“You’re just like my father,” I say. “He obsesses over business, land, reputation—everything that gives him status. We love him out of loyalty because he’s our father, but the man’s never once asked my mother if she’s truly happy. I guess all you Black Heath men are the same. Small-minded. There’s a big world out there that doesn’t involve age-old grudges.”

Saint’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “And I’m guessing you’d rather live in Paris with a stellar guy like Lucien. All suave sophistication and no loyalty?”

“He was good to me,” I snap, a little too fast. “We had interests in common. Spent lazy days in bed together, and he even took me to see all the incredible French architecture.”

Saint lets out a gruff laugh. “Yeah, and in between those field trips, he was screwing half of Paris. You’re deluded.”

I glare at him, smoke curling past my face. “Says the man who kidnapped a woman because that’s all he knows. Violence and criminal activity.”

When he leans over me, his face dropping before mine, the loft seems to shrink with his presence.

“You really don’t get it, do ya?” His voice comes rougher, quieter. “You think I care about your daddy issues, or Paris, or that French bastard who couldn’t keep his dick in his trousers?”