Page 27 of Lawless Rivals

He sucks in air and scrambles away, not looking at me for even a second.

“You’re bleeding,” Dane mutters.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“You sure about that?”

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” I growl. “Let’s get him back to the yard and find out what Eion knows.”

“Wait…” Eion bleats. “I don’t know anything. I swear. They just showed up.”

Dane grabs him by the Barbour jacket and forces him into the backseat. “They just happened to show up in the arsehole of nowhere at the same time as us?”

“They must’ve followed me.”

Through the glass, the buyer keeps staring at me. Sweating. Praying.

I lift the gun just enough for him to see it. He looks away first, and I return it to the holster before climbing into the front passenger seat.

Dane looks over, takes off his puffy coat and tosses it at me. “For fucks sake, Saint, don’t bleed over the interior.”

I cock a brow at him. “Get Shay to feed the body to the pigs.”

As we pull away, dawn breaks over the treetops, welcoming a new day, a new body to dispose of, and a wound that’s not done bleeding.

The dogs bark when we pull up in front of the main stable block.

“Take him down the track to the old barn,” I say, half out of the car. “We need to know who thinks they can fuck with us. I’ll get sorted and join ya in five.”

“What about the girl?” Dane asks when I’ve climbed out and dumped his coat on the seat. “You just leaving her up there to rot?”

“Harringtons don’t rot.” I duck down and peer inside at him. “They always come up smelling of flowers. She’ll be fine.”

I straighten and slam the door shut. Tyson sits at my heel because the big Rottweiler was trained to sniff out blood. I rub his head and watch Dane drive off.

“Look after the yard, Ty… Be a good boy and stay here,” I order, before heading back to my cabin.

It’s not typical for my veins to buzz when I’m about to lash antiseptic over an open wound, but fuck, I’m wired.

My pulse is thrumming and my dick is straining against my zipper. Must be the adrenaline of a fight. Because it sure as fuck can’t be the fact she’s cuffed and waiting.

Voices from the television fill the cabin when I step through the front door.

Keira is curled on the couch, wrists pulled in front of her, a blanket tangled on her lap. She looks almost relaxed, until her eyes land on the blood flipping from my fingers.

Her gaze widens a fraction, but her voice stays cool. “You irritate someone else today?”

When I shrug out of my coat, pain bites deep as the movement pulls at the raw cut.

Next, I peel off my shirt with a sucked-in wince, the fabric sticking to half-clotted blood. As I turn toward the kitchen, something glints on the floor.

An array of forks, spoons, knives…even a spatula and a plastic whisk.

All arranged carefully to spell out: Fuck you.

“What the hell is this?” I glance over my shoulder at her.

She lifts her bound wrists, eyes narrowed. “A ‘Fuck You’ spelled out in cutlery is the only language a low-life criminal like you understands.”