Page 92 of Lawless Rivals

“Lay a hand on me and you’ll see what I can do with a broken bottle.”

I kick off my boots and climb onto the bed, turning my back to him as I lie on top of the floral duvet.

Behind me, he swallows a few more mouthfuls of Scotch. The floorboards creak beneath his steps before the door opens and cold, damp air sweeps through the cabin. A moment later, the bottle shatters somewhere in the darkness.

When he seals out the night air again, he bends to unlace his boots, then straightens and unbuckles his belt.

In a heartbeat, he’s crawling onto the thin mattress next to me in only black boxers.

The bed is narrow enough that I can feel the heat of him without touching. I stare at the ceiling and listen to him breathe, thinking about how much I hate him, and how that’s stopped being entirely true, and how both can apparently happen at the same damn time.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

The wind keeps rattling the metal-framed windows, and I lie there, wondering if Riley has given my father Saint’s message and what he’ll do about it.

At some point, the temperature dips, and the gas fire ticks as if it’s cooling. I refuse to get under the duvet, so I keep my back to him, drag the pillow lower and hug it close to my chest.

“Get under the blanket,” he says in a low rumble, breaking the silence.

“I’m fine.”

The frame beneath the mattress creaks under his weight as he moves and yanks the duvet out from under me, and then the fabric settles over my body.

I hold my breath rather than thank him.

Once he’s settled next to me, too close for comfort, I squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself of all the shitty things he’s done, making sure I focus on those details instead of how much I fancy him.

Even now. Even though I’m fuming that he shot Riley in the leg and told him he’d do whatever he wanted with me until my father signs.

Fuck him.

The bed isn’t wide enough for two people to stay apart all night, not with the way the mattress dips and pulls when he rolls to his side and then lies flat on his back.

Body heat gathers in pockets and leaves when the duvet lifts with his movement.

Drifting half-asleep, my foot brushes against something warm and solid.

I register the sensation the second it happens.

My eyes don’t open, but everything inside me flares hot and aware.

The contact is small enough to ignore if I wanted to. I should snap my foot back to my side of the bed and pretend I’m sleeping.

Rather, I wait for him to move his leg away first.

He doesn’t, though, and that’s the problem.

I could’ve blamed the narrow bed, the angle, the cramped space, but that doesn’t hold now I’ve stayed still. I could turn onto my back, take the risk of brushing his arm, or worse.

As for Saint, he stays exactly where he is, and I can’t help thinking he’s aware of it too.

The warmth of that single point of contact spreads out of proportion, claiming my attention and shaking up my senses.

Seconds stretch.

Or minutes.