Page 152 of Lawless Rivals

I glance across the room again. Rafe averts his gaze to the main entrance with his empty glass held low, his jaw set around whatever storm he’s holding in. Dane leans beside him at the bar, loose-limbed and watchful, taking in the guests one woman at a time.

Twenty minutes later, the conversations nearest the entrance lose their rhythm.

Fionn lets the room notice his arrival first, shaking hands with Crowley’s eldest daughter, Aileen, and then he moves inside with three men behind him.

He wears a black suit with a white shirt buttoned to the throat and a narrow tie pulled into a neat knot, every inch of him arranged for public respectability.

The people nearest the doors stare at him, then the hush spreads.

A woman near the bar lowers her wine glass and catches the corner of her lip between her teeth before remembering her husband is beside her.

One councilman turns his wife by the elbow, putting his own body between her and my brother as if that will make her forget where she was looking.

He’s always had this effect on a room.

Fionn Vaugh Harrington has always made women look twice and men resent him for the power he holds.

In public, he’s all Harrington manners and charm, but I know what the suit hides because I grew up with him. Ink under the shirt, old fight scars beneath starched cotton, and enough mischief behind the smile to make sensible people step back.

His gaze travels over the guests, counting exits, loyalties, and weaknesses before it finally stops on me.

Saint keeps his hand at my waist, and I stay where I am, close enough for my brother to see I’ve chosen this.

Fionn gives me the smallest nod, respectful for witnesses and slight enough to make it hurt.

I offer him a smile but let him have silence in return. A muscle tightens in his jaw before one of the local men steps in front of him with a hand outstretched.

“Mr. Harrington. Good of you to come.”

Fionn accepts the handshake. “The Harringtons never miss a room worth watching.”

Saint’s mouth comes near my ear. “Still with me?”

“Always.”

He smiles as his attention lifts past me, and I turn a little to follow his gaze.

Máirín Tallon stands near the long windows with a champagne flute held between ringed fingers. She pinned her hair up for the occasion, threading silver through the dark, and the blue of her dress sharpens every cool line of her face.

Since I moved into the cabin with him, she has perfected the art of being in the yard without ever meeting his eyes.

Now she lets her gaze settle on us, her expression closed to everyone watching.

Saint’s hand stays on my back, but the pressure changes. His fingers press harder and his muscles stiffen.

Máirín’s eyes stay on him, and the insult of ignoring me isn’t missed.

Saint’s fingers press into my waist as he nudges me closer. My throat tightens, and I glance up at the dark shadow on his jaw and breathe in the intoxicating clean scent of him.

He doesn’t look away from his mother, yet his hand stays on me, publicly visible, and Máirín has to take in the scene without him saying a word.

Her shoulders draw back a fraction, and her mouth tightens at one corner, the first crack she has allowed all evening, and then she turns to the man beside her before Saint can be the one to look away.

Near the fireplace, Sera stands with her best friend Eilish, both of them barely tolerating the men who gravitate too close.

Sera has concealed her bruises well, hiding them beneath a black dress that covers her arms. Though no amount of make-up could fully hide the faint discoloration along her cheekbone. A bracelet of dark stones circles one wrist, catching the light each time she sips champagne.

She looks bored by the crowd and the men who try to speak to her. Even her stillness has teeth.