Page 30 of Lawless Rivals

“Funny thing about blood, Harrington. It loses the family name once it’s out.”

“Yet you’re the one who goes out looking to get cut.” She folds her arms over her chest and pushes off the counter. “You brought that on yourself. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you after what you’ve done to me.”

“I don’t need ya to feel anything.” I put the liquor bottle to my lips. “You gonna help or watch me bleed?”

“What’s it worth?”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Then what is it?”

“An order.” I take a long pull of whiskey, let it burn, then fix my eyes on her mouth. “Patch it up, Harrington.”

Keira moves closer, reaches for the first aid kit, and starts pulling stuff out. A plastic wrapped bandage lands on the table, followed by gauze and a box of wound closure strips.

“Helping is never beneath me,” she says before her light touch skims my skin and my heart rate thrums. “But helping someone who’s kidnapped me, that’s what I’m struggling with.”

“It’s not like I left ya outside with the animals for long.” I suck in a breath when she drags an antiseptic wipe over the slice.

The tips of her hair brush my chest when she steps closer, light as a whisper, and it sends a slow ripple of heat down my spine. I hold still, every nerve ending tuned to her whether I want her this close to me or not.

“Come on, Saint,” she half laughs. “We both know I’d still be in the loft if the storm hadn’t hit.”

Despite being right, it still doesn’t change a damn thing.

She’s standing in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, her freckled skin warm and flushed, and I know better than to stare for too long.

Nothing good comes from wanting her. I don’t need another complication. Especially not this one.

“True.” I shrug, keeping my eyes anywhere but the soft rise of her breasts under the shirt she’s wearing. “But you’re here now. Don’t be bratty about it.”

Keira huffs out a breath, the sound equal parts disbelief and irritation, then tears open the packet of strips with her fingers. “Bratty? Being trapped in this place…with you…should make me happy?”

Her bare feet step around my boots as she moves closer. My mind scrambles at the almost taunting touch, as she presses one strip to the edge of the cut, then pulls the skin tight and fixes it in place.

The sting is nothing. It’s the sensation of her hands on me that’s the problem.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper,” she murmurs. “Otherwise, these strips wouldn’t do a thing. I think they’ll hold if you don’t stretch your arm too much. Maybe let the air at it instead of covering it up.”

A low laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You want me walking around shirtless, Harrington?”

Her eyes flick up and mine lock on hers.

“For my health,” I ask, “or yours?”

She makes a cute, flustered noise from the back of her throat and steps away. “I don’t care what you do. Shirt on or shirt off, it doesn’t affect me in the slightest.”

Her expression shutters tight, giving me nothing, and she wipes her fingers on the hem of the shirt as if she’s offended by the idea of having touched me at all.

I reach for the bottle and take a long pull straight from it, the liquor nursing the pain in my arm and the burning ache buried deeper.

“Since you’ve been a good girl,” I say, voice rough, “you can stay in the cabin while you’re here. I won’t send ya back to the yard.”

Her brows rise, not in gratitude, but in wary curiosity, as though she’s waiting for the trap hidden beneath my words.

“It’s warmer than the loft,” I continue, leaning back in my chair as the heat from the wound pulses.

She watches me with those cool, sea-gray eyes, searching for the angle, the threat, the part of this that doesn’t add up. And she’s right to be cautious. With me, there’s always more beneath the surface.