Page 8 of Lawless Rivals

I open my mouth, but he keeps talking like a man explaining something to a child.

“I don’t give a fuck who made you cry, Harrington. I’m not the guy to fix ya. You’re here because your name happens to buy me leverage.” He leans in until the tip of his nose brushes mine. “And because sometimes, hurting a Harrington is the only way to get justice.”

My stomach sinks. “You’re insane.”

“No.” His hand catches my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “I’m patient. That’s dedication to the cause.”

His thumb sits at the corner of my mouth while he says it. It shouldn’t do anything to me. My pulse is beating so hard in my throat that he has to feel it under his fingers, and the traitorous part of me wants him to slide his hand lower and check.

He holds my gaze for a heartbeat, plucks the cigarette from my fingers, takes a drag, and then pushes it back between my lips.

The filter is warm from his mouth. I close my lips around it anyway.

“One spark in a dry hay loft and there’s no way out.” His tone dips. “You’d go up before ya even screamed.”

My throat tightens around the smoke. The image of flames crawling up the walls, air turning to heat hits me.

He smirks, satisfied he’s made a point, and takes the cigarette back.

“Sleep,” he says over his shoulder, walking away. “You’re gonna be in my territory for a while.”

I force my gaze away from his back, praying my father will learn the truth soon.

Chapter 3

Saint

Everyone’s asleep when I do my usual rounds. I prefer the yard at dawn. The first light of day has zero chaos.

With seasons changing it’s the kind of wintry morning that gets inside your bones.

My da used to say Black Heath had its own weather and the land held onto the cold longer than anywhere else because it had things worth preserving.

As a kid, I thought he was talking about horses. These days, I’m not so sure.

Pulling the collar of my sherpa lined jacket higher, I wonder if the Harrington girl turned into an icicle overnight.

Last thing I’d need would be the posh princess dying from hypothermia.

I sip the black, strong coffee in my thermos mug and tell myself I’m checking the horses again, but when I walk under the hayloft, I look up. Can’t see much through the cracks, though.

Before I know it, I’m repositioning the ladder under the hatch and climbing, the coffee sloshing.

The moment I look over at her, pretty inky lashes flutter open, her gaze catching my approach. There’s no sign of fear or biting demands from our captive. Just a glare.

I crouch beside the bales she’s huddled on top of, holding out the coffee. “No fancy French lattes around here. This is all ya get.”

She doesn’t move, or even blink.

I wait a beat, two, three. My patience has limits.

“Suit yourself,” I mutter.

But it pisses me off.

I set the mug on the hay beside her head. “Drink it or don’t.”

Still no damn reaction.