Page 150 of Lawless Sinners

Not because he knows how to chase, kiss, touch, or turn every argument into a thrill, but because there’s more to him under that suit.

And somewhere between hating him and craving him, I started looking for proof that he wanted me too.

Eilish is right. Saint must’ve reached this point with Keira, where her family name stopped being an issue and the person standing in front of him mattered more than the war waiting behind her.

If I’m honest with Fionn, if I stop pretending this is only sex, and he stops pretending we’re enemies, then maybe all this generational bullshit doesn’t have to end with more hatred.

Maybe it could end with us.

Two men follow at a distance, far enough away to make him look alone.

My mouth dries, and the pulse in my throat thrums with every step he takes.

A woman moves into his path. He smiles at her, mutters something so she has to lean in to hear it, and the flirty smile she offers him twists under my ribs.

After a few racing heartbeats, his eyes find mine, and in that moment, every part of me remembers him at once. His teeth on my throat, his voice in the dark, the way he looked at me when he marked my skin.

Despite all that, his face gives nothing away.

He looks straight past me, and the blankness hollows me out.

The glass trembles in my hand.

“Are you okay?” Eilish whispers.

“Absolutely fine.”

Fionn accepts a drink from a waiter and joins the men near the auction table. He smiles again, easy and empty, while something in my chest folds in on itself.

“That’s not a man who’ll choose me.” I drain my glass and set it aside at the same time as Alasdair Harrington enters the room.

Fuck, he’s a smug bastard.

I stay near the edge of the ballroom after that.

It is easier to watch without being judged. Easier to keep my glass full and let Eilish drift toward her mother when Mara clicks her damn fingers.

I’d break her hand if she did that to me.

Alasdair strolls through the crowd, greeting people, shaking hands, and kissing women on their cheeks. He accepts praise and gives nothing away except the exact amount of warmth required to make everyone think he’s their friend.

While Alasdair makes power look inherited, Fionn makes it look deserved.

He moves from one group to the next with a faint smile, listening to every dull bastard in Cork.

When an older woman speaks, he laughs and leans in. Touches a shoulder here, offers a hand there, gives each person just enough of himself to make them believe he’s interested in them.

When Fionn nears the stage, he pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, sets his glass on a passing tray, and excuses himself.

He leaves the circle and slips through a side door.

My pulse kicks hard.

Stupid, stupid thing.

I wait three seconds.

Then five.