Page 135 of Lawless Rivals

I keep my knife and fork moving.

“Crowley Junior will be here in the morning, Keira,” my father announces.

I set my fork down and dab the corner of my mouth with a crisp linen napkin. “Why?”

“To take your statement.”

My mother finishes her fourth glass of champagne, and Fionn’s eyes come to mine across the table.

“When did I say I wanted to make a statement?”

My father cocks a brow at me. “A bunch of criminals kidnapped you. We all want justice.”

The servers continue to skirt the table while a guest’s wife touches her pearl earring, someone clears his throat near the far end of the table, and the candle flame nearest to my plate bends in the draft from the open dining room door.

I hold my father’s gaze. “We didn’t discuss this.”

“Saint Tallon dragged you out of our family’s charity gala.”

“I walked beside him actually.”

His grip visibly tightens around his wine glass, though his gaze stays on me, almost mild. “Pedantry does not suit you.”

“She’s been through so much, Alasdair,” my mother says. “Let’s not talk about those uncouth people this evening.”

I’m aware of the pitiful eyes drilling into me, and my mother’s plausible performance. That was her way of containing embarrassment while she’s entertaining.

“You were stolen from us, Keira,” my father repeats. “The Tallons took your consent, and I won’t let anyone disrespect my family.”

A man to my father’s left gives a grunt of approval, then kills it when no one else joins him.

I turn my head and glare at him before I look back at my father. “I have nothing to say to Crowley.”

“It is not a discussion.”

“Clearly not.”

My mother lowers her glass and places a hand over my father’s wrist, not to stop him, not really. More to make her appear supportive from a distance.

“Darling, eat something. You’ve barely touched your plate.”

I stare at the potatoes beside my knife. “I’m not hungry.”

“Shock will do that,” one guest says.

My father’s mouth curves. “She’s had several days to recover from the shock.”

Candlelight hits the base of my mother’s champagne flute as she lifts it again, drinking deeper this time. Her eyes flick toward me, then away, as if looking too directly at me might make her responsible for what she knows.

The man near the end of the table leans forward. “The arrogance of it, taking her to that land of all places.”

My fingers tighten around the knife handle.

Fionn cuts through the meat on his plate and stabs a piece with his fork.

My father sits back, one arm resting along the side of his chair. “What I would have paid to see the look on his face when he realized the deal would never work.”

I keep my eyes on my father. “Why wouldn’t it work?”