Page 13 of Lawless Rivals

His gaze lands on the sherpa jacket I’m huddled into. “You’re wearing Saint’s jacket.”

“Do you always state the obvious?” I say, tightening the collar.

The guy’s eyes narrow, and my nerves pulse.

“You’ve got a smart mouth, Harrington.”

I lift my chin. “And you are…?”

“Dane.”

“Right,” I say, keeping eye contact. “Another Tallon brother.”

“Do you always state the obvious?” he bites back, and I can’t tell if there’s humor there. “If Saint hadn’t said to feed ya, you’d be going without. None of us want a Harrington close. And you wearing my brother’s jacket is too fucking close.”

He holds my stare for a beat, then lowers out of sight.

My stomach aches from hunger, the smell of beef and potatoes better than any Michelin star meal. I scurry across the loft, snatch the bowl, and return to the bales, nursing the fading heat of it to my chest.

The fork scrapes against the bottom of the bowl as I dig in, sitting primly on the hay, eating mouthful after mouthful.

Saint’s jacket traps a layer of warmth along my back, the only thing stopping me from turning into a human ice pop.

I guess I’d be a tiny bit grateful if the damn thing didn’t stink of his distracting cologne, reminding me of the moment his arm slid around me and his lips stole mine.

I let out a frustrated sigh, roll my eyes at the memory, and stab a chunk of potato right through the middle.

Chewing the last of the stew, I lower the bowl beside me and study the metal fork.

I turn it between my fingers, watching the prongs in what little light there is now. They could puncture, scratch, or maybe even gouge.

A flurry of wind slips inside, and the hairs at my nape lift. Another wintry howl follows, and it rattles the loft doors like someone’s trying to get in.

Below, a horse snorts and stamps, hooves scuffing in a restless rhythm.

I slip the fork into the inner pocket of the jacket, thinking it might come in handy. The fleece folds over it, hiding the outline against my ribs.

Shivering, I pull the Sherpa tighter around myself and listen to the blustery storm take hold.

Outside an engine rumbles. For something to do, I move to the loading doors and try to shunt the old bolt sideways.

It sticks for a bit, so I jiggle it a few times until it unleashes a high-pitched squeal and judders across.

Holding a knotted rope attached to the handle, I let the wind tug the door open a few inches, letting in the late evening with its dark sky.

From up here, I make out two men leading skittish geldings out of the barn below and onto the ramp of a horse transporter.

Saint appears next, rain dripping off the brim of a baseball cap, his broad shoulders kissed by the yard floodlight. The driver hands him a zipped-up duffel bag and they shake hands.

When my father does deals, the money moves through accounts, not bags passed between men in the rain.

Whatever that man just delivered to Saint, it isn’t cash. Not the kind banks recognize.

The stud is only the respectable part of what he runs.

As if he senses eyes on him, Saint’s chin lifts, and his gaze snaps straight to mine. For three hard heartbeats neither of us looks away.

He knows I’m watching him.