Page 47 of Lawless Rivals

The woman frowns. “I don’t have the patience to unpack that, Saint. Night.”

The second the door slams shut behind her, I regret every word that spilled out of my mouth. I side-eye Saint, who’s staring right at me, his eyes glinting under the light, the muscles in his arms flexed.

“You been having sweet dreams about me, Keira?” he asks. “Wanna tell me all about them?”

“Fuck you, Saint.”

I spin on my heel, head for the bedroom, and shut him out.

I’m just sliding under the sheets when he fills the doorway, cast in moonlight, the hard lines of his abdomen cut from shadow and strength.

“What are you doing?” I bolt upright.

“I need a night’s sleep,” he says, stepping out of his jeans and prowling toward the bed wearing nothing but his boxers. “There’s a lot of work to be done on the yard tomorrow, and you’ll be stuck by my side like an annoying strip of tape. You’ll need to keep up and I need rest.”

“There’s zero chance in hell of me sharing a bed with you.” I throw the sheets off. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Saint climbs under the duvet, lies flat on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting at his side like this isn’t even a discussion worth having.

“You’re not sleeping out there,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

I let out a burst of laughter. “That’s not a reason.”

“I can’t trust you to be left alone, and I won’t let ya slow me down in the morning because you haven’t slept,” he says. “We’re up in five hours.”

“I’ll be fine on the couch.”

In a blur he’s out from under the covers and on his feet, all height and solid muscle as he rounds the bed and stops toe to toe with me. I square my shoulders and tilt my head to look up at him.

“You stay on your side,” he says, scooping me up and tossing me onto the mattress like a spare blanket. “Don’t touch me. Don’t speak once the lights are out. And if you go to the fucking couch, I’ll drag ya back. We sleep. Those are the rules.”

The mattress dips under his weight as he lies beside me, the distance between us shrinking to something slight and inescapable.

“Relax,” he says, stretching his legs out so his foot brushes mine for a millisecond. “I’d never touch a Harrington.”

“You just did,” I mutter. “Maybe you should stop lying to yourself.”

I keep my face turned away. It is easier to be brave when I’m not looking at his mouth, easier to pretend the brush of his foot didn’t travel through me with more force than it had any right to.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

I squeeze my eyes, but the double bed feels too small with him in it. Saint’s too damn close for either of us to pretend he’s the only liar here.

Chapter 13

Keira

Saint fell asleep first while I lay there, wide awake and poker straight, afraid if I moved that I’d brush against him.

After what seems like an eternity, the digits on the nightstand clock change to 04:45, which means he’ll be getting up soon.

The room rests in half-darkness, tranquil beneath the steady cadence of his breathing beside me.

Even though the bed is warm and comfy, I refuse to be next to him when his eyes open.