Page 78 of Lawless Rivals

“He’ll settle,” she says. “Just needs to remember he’s not boxed anymore.”

In the distance, Saint’s Ford bounces along the track toward the yard. My gaze drifts before I can stop it, tracking the truck as it pulls in.

My pulse shifts under my skin, and I become all too aware of the sweat clinging to my t-shirt and the loose strands of hair all over the place.

He climbs out and pushes his dark hair back off his brow, scanning the place.

The stallion snorts and tears past again, but my focus stays fixed on Saint.

“Eyes this way, Harrington.” Sera elbows me.

I drag my attention back to her and fold my arms across my chest.

“There’s still work to be done,” she says. “New feed was delivered this morning. It needs tipped and sealed in the bins before the rats get into it.”

She nods toward the far barn where stacked bags sit on pallets just inside the open doors.

“Grab a few and keep yourself busy,” she adds. “And don’t wander off thinking he’ll drop everything because you look at him like that.”

“I didn’t ask to be here, remember?” I sidestep her and head for the barn.

Anger simmers in my veins. I hate how Sera thinks I’m the one chasing her brother, like I tripped over myself to get here instead of being dragged into this mess.

I sure as hell didn’t expect to like my kidnapper. Nor did I think in my wildest fantasies that I would be naked in the middle of nowhere with him, skin to skin, and loving it.

“Not everything is straightforward, Sera,” I mutter to myself out of earshot.

The feed room smells of sweet alfalfa and molasses, dust motes drifting lazily in the slanted afternoon light that cuts through the high window.

I’m on my knees in front of the open fifty-kilo bag, scooping pellets into a feed bin, when I hear a shuffle of boots behind me.

“Hard work looks good on ya, Keira.”

Saint’s voice is low, rough-edged, and it slides under my skin like molten lava. I jolt upright so fast the scoop falls from my hand and clatters on the ground.

My heart slams against my ribs—half surprise, half something darker, hotter. The ratio of those two things has been shifting for days.

I stopped keeping track of which one was winning.

He’s already inside and the door bangs shut behind him. I hear the metal slide of the lock catching, and my heart pumps faster.

“What are you doing?”

He closes the distance in three strides. I back up until my ass hits the edge of the old wooden counter. There’s nowhere left to go.

His body crowds mine, broad shoulders blocking the light, heat rolling off him like a furnace that’s been burning all day. The air changes with him in it.

One hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my throat to hold the wild thump of my pulse against his palm. His thumb rests right over the flutter, pressing against it with a possessive pressure that makes my breath hitch.

I swallow, and his eyes track the movement.

“I’ve been thinking all morning about your nightmare,” he says, voice gravel dragged over velvet.

My breath catches. “What part?”

“The part when he made ya take your clothes off.”

Heat floods my face, my chest, and lower, a slow burn that feels reckless. My hands come up to fist the front of his jacket, knuckles whitening against the fabric.