Page 81 of Lawless Rivals

“And this…”

I turn toward the door and fix the collar of my shirt, buying myself a second. “This was me and you being something more than enemies, but nothing more than that.”

For a second, her eyes darken with an understanding of how things have to be. Even after what we just did.

Then she nods.

“And what if my father refuses to sign?” she asks. “What will your family do to me then? What will you do to me, Saint?”

My spine goes stiff, and I pull back my shoulders, not knowing the answer to her question.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Is that the same bridge that broke when I tried to cross it?”

The memory flashes—the snap of rope, the rush of icy water, her scream.

I glance over my shoulder to find her furrowed brow. “And didn’t I jump in after ya?”

“I hate how much I like you, Saint.” She wraps her arms around her middle in a self like hug, as if she’s holding herself together.

I turn away and stand at the door, fists clenched at my sides, because if I look at her too long I’ll undo everything I just said.

“Yeah,” I mutter, low enough only she can hear. “Well, I hate how much I can’t stop.”

I don’t hang around long enough to hear her answer, marching out of the feed room and into the yard, letting the cold air slap my face. The regular noises I’m accustomed to rush back in—horses’ hooves, metal gates squeaking, the murmur of staff getting on with their work.

Order. Structure. Things I understand.

The meeting with her old man is set for tonight at the auction house a few miles east.

Alasdair Harrington will sit across from me and pretend I haven’t got his balls in a vice. After decades of resentment, he’ll be forced to scrawl his name on the dotted line.

That bastard and I will never see eye to eye.

There will be no amicable alliance or even an honorable handshake that means anything.

I button up my jacket and head for the horse stalls to find Shay, not looking back to see if Keira has left the feed room yet.

Truth is, she’ll be tucked up in her own bed, safe behind Harrington gates and back where she belongs after her da signs.

That’s always been the plan.

But a quiet, treacherous part of me knows that if Keira Harrington ever knocked on my door to ask for anything—I’d open it without needing permission from my family or anyone else.

Alasdair Harrington and I might never stand on the same side of anything.

But his daughter would always be the exception.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching the concrete floor in a hard white glare while young stallions and broodmares are walked in quiet circles outside the ring, their coats brushed to a shine, ears flicking at the echo of the auctioneer’s voice.

The chemical smell of disinfectant does little to mask the manure in the air.

I stand with Dane and Rafe near the entrance to the sales ring, pretending this is business as usual.

It’s shortly after seven, and Alasdair Harrington is not fucking here yet. He set the time.

“He’ll show,” Rafe says under his breath, scanning the doorway for the third time. “He knows what’s at stake.”