Keira
I take a deep breath and resist the urge to hurl the whiskey bottle at the door after it slams behind him.
“Behave yourself,” I mutter, mocking his gravelly voice. “Right. I’ll just sit here waiting for whatever until he comes home.”
My belly rumbles in the silence. I cross to the fridge because starving myself would only hand him another victory.
Cool air seeps out as I tug it open and grab a packet of sliced beef.
I fumble with the plastic, the click-clank of my cuffs against the refrigerator shelf complete humiliation. I swallow my pride with every mouthful, knowing even the food I’m eating belongs to Saint Tallon’s.
Afterward, I two-handedly pour myself a glass of milk. The process is awkward, but I’m not a quitter.
While I sip, I study the open plan space. The cabin is warm, but it’s still his place, where his scent fills the air, his boots sit by the door, his presence lingers.
Still… I’d kill for a cappuccino, a croissant, and a jet heading to Cannes. Instead, I get to pick through the contents of Saint Tallon’s fridge.
It’s packed with beer and not much else. Apparently, he survives on alcohol, anger, and intimidation.
I’m guessing the guy doesn’t cook for himself, and the woman who’s unlucky enough to want him will be chained to the stove––literally.
I wander to the front window overlooking the deck and ease the curtain back. The storm has blown itself out, leaving the sky a washed-out powder blue.
Leaves are piled in wind-tossed heaps across the boards. Beyond, Tallon workers move like distant ants in the yard, getting on with their working day.
It won’t be long until my father learns the truth. He’ll piece together the bits Saint wants him to know and then he’ll send armed Harrington men to bring me home.
I sigh heavily and step away from the window. None of this sits well with me. Rationally, I should want them to storm the Tallons’ yard.
But the truth is, they wouldn’t come for me. My father would be more focused on rectifying the insult. Seeking revenge in a war of righteousness.
Bodies would fall from both sides, and I’d be the excuse to justify violence.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
I don’t have to like the Tallons to know I don’t want to be the match that lights a feud older than all of us. Even if Saint struck it first.
His bedroom door is open when I wander down the hall. I slip inside, pull out a pair of sweatpants from the chest of drawers, step into them and awkwardly tuck in the plaid shirt tales.
Everything is huge on me. The sweats hang off my hips and bunch at the ankle.
The track shoes by the wardrobe are massive, too, meant for a man of his build not a petite woman like me.
Regardless of their boat size, I shove my feet in and tighten the laces as best as I can. It won’t be easy to walk in them, but I need something to protect my feet from the puddles and grit.
Next, I grab the woolly hat from the dresser and tug it down over my ears. It slips past my eyebrows, nearly to my lashes and hugs my head.
My pulse is thumping by the time I reach the cabin door and pull it open. Stepping onto the deck, I stop, listen and study the movement in the distance.
There’s a camera fixed on the cabin’s roof above my head. The tiny red light blinks like it’s already telling Saint I’ve stepped out of line.
Not waiting for the fallout, I hurry across the grass, keeping low, trying not to slip.
Ahead of me sits a horse box and a vintage gray Escort that definitely won’t be an automatic. If my wrists weren’t cuffed, I’d already be gone. But they’d make it impossible to change gears and steer.
Still, I creep toward it, the track shoes making my steps graceless and loud. At the driver’s side, the key’s in the ignition, and the front tires are angled toward the open laneway out of here.
A man appears, yawning into his sleeve, completely unaware he’s within meters of Saint Tallon’s hostage. I drop into a deeper crouch beside the car, breath tight in my throat.
Adrenaline pulses through me as I wait for him to pass. Once he’s out of sight, I rise and reach for the handle, thinking it’s my only option.
As my fingers curl around the silver handle, there’s a high-pitched whistle. I freeze when the dogs bark.
“Garda!” someone shouts. “They’re coming down the lane.”
I whip my head toward the long gravel road leading into Black Heath Stud. A police cruiser creeps along the bend, lights off, but unmistakable.
Forget about driving, they’re my ticket out of here.
As that thought spirals, there’s movement out of the corner of my eye. Two rottweilers shoot out from behind the horse barn, and Rafe storms in my direction.
“What the hell are ya doing out here?” he grits. “Jesus fuck this is all we need.”
When I go to run, he lunges for me. His arm bands around my waist, and his hand crushes my scream before it escapes.
My feet stumble in Saint’s oversized shoes, the soles scraping over concrete as he drags me backward into the barn.
I twist, kick, and thrash but this guy is all muscle and solid strength.
“Stop fighting,” he growls into my ear. “You’re making a bad situation worse.”
I bite him hard, loving it when he hisses. Cursing me under his breath, he continues to haul me further inside.
The barn scent is strong with hoof oil and horse sweat. Agitated dust dances around us, the flecks caught in the shafts of daylight pouring in through the doorway.
Rafe’s patience thins when I butt into him, not giving him a second. He shoves me against the wall, and in one blurred move, he pins my wrists above my head and gets up in my face.
“Stop fucking around.”
“Rafe.” Saint’s voice slices through the barn. “The Garda are parking up outside. What the fuck are ya doing?”
“What am I doing?” he bites out. “What the fuck are you doing letting her wander around the yard? We’ve got a cuffed Harrington on the property, and the buyer tied up in the old barn. Do ya know what kind of shitstorm this is?”
Saint steps in close, shoulders squared, jaw taut. “You’re not helping. Back the fuck up.”
“Are you drunk?” Rafe barks out a laugh. “She was at Dane’s Escort. Another thirty seconds and she would’ve been waving at the Garda on her way past.”
Saint’s eyes flash. “I said back the fuck up, Rafe.”
Rafe jabs a finger at my face without looking at me. “This is what I was talking about. She’s a disaster waiting to explode in our faces.”
Saint fists his brother’s jacket and hauls him off me. “I’ll deal with her. You go out there and get rid of Crowley.”
“You’d better keep her quiet then,” Rafe fires back. “Or I will.”
“No, Rafe,” Saint grits. “You won’t.”
The barn falls into a tense, brittle silence. My pulse thrums, and I can’t tell if Saint’s protecting me or keeping control of the situation.
After a beat, he exhales through his nose and wraps his hand around my bicep, yanking me tight to his side, away from Rafe.
“Go meet them in the yard,” he orders his brother. “I don’t care how ya do it, just figure out a way to get them off our backs.”
Rafe shakes his head.
“I knew this whole Harrington bullshit was a mistake,” he mutters as he stalks out of the barn.
As soon as Rafe disappears, Saint’s attention snaps to me. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, and the flutter in my chest has nothing to do with fascination anymore.
It’s the jolt of standing directly in the path of his anger.
The moment I swallow, Saint’s hand snares my elbow, and he yanks me to move with him, my feet scrambling in his big shoes to keep up with his long strides.
The barn stretches ahead of us, shadows creating a tunnel of darkness.
By the time he pulls me to the very last stall, my pulse is frantic. A chestnut thoroughbred lifts its head, ears flicking forward as Saint slides the stall door open.
Before I can argue, his hand closes harder around my arm, and he hauls me inside.
While the horse munches, Saint moves into my personal space and backs me into the far corner until there’s nowhere left to go. His shoulders block out most of the light, leaving only a thin haze.
His breath mingles with mine in the small hay-scented pocket of air he’s trapped me inside.
“What were you doing out there?” he growls, the words low and vibrating inside my chest.
His mouth is inches from mine, heat rolling off him in waves.
“I told ya to behave.”
I glare up at him because I refuse to back down.
“And you expected me to listen?” I say. “I want to go home.”
His eyes narrow, a slow, lethal movement that makes my pulse jump.
“Is that so?” he says. “You still don’t get it, do ya?”
A car door slams somewhere outside, and murmured voices drift around the fake peacefulness of Black Heath Stud.
My heartbeat kicks up, hope and panic knotting in my chest. And before I can second-guess myself, I draw in a breath and go to scream. However, Saint moves faster than the air leaving my lungs.
His hand clamps over my mouth so hard my lips crush against my teeth. My back hits the stall boards and his body cages mine, solid muscle pinning me in place, his heartbeat thundering against my ribs.
I twist beneath him, anger rushing through me. In a moment of defense, I jab my fingers into the bandage where I’d patched him up.
The grunt leaving the back of his throat is low and vicious. His body jerks, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he crushes me harder into the corner.
“Don’t,” he snarls, voice raw and dangerously close to losing control.
“Get. Off. Me,” I pant.
“Do not test me, Harrington.”
I thrash once, but he presses harder, his thigh locking my legs in place, his chest a wall of heat and power.
“Try to scream again,” he whispers, “and I won’t humor you anymore. This rare glimpse of compassion toward ya will end. Are we clear?”
A traitorous spark ignites in my veins. The sheer proximity of him has my core throbbing. His body pinned to mine is heat and muscle and danger.
Despite the pitiful ache building, I continue to glare, telling myself the rush is adrenaline. But every time I wriggle, it only causes friction that makes my skin tingle.
When the footfall grows louder, Saint’s head turns a fraction, his muscles bracing. Then Rafe’s voice cuts through the rising tension.
“I told ya,” he calls out, “Saint’s not here. He took a new mare up to the north field. Won’t be back for hours. Ma’s in the main house if ya want to call in, and Sera’s at Eilish’s place.”
A female Garda officer responds. “You seen Alasdair Harrington’s girl. Keira went missing during the gala. There’s a rumor about her running off. He thinks she’s been taken.”
As they talk, Saint’s gaze holds mine like he’s trying to work me out. There’s a slight softness in the depths of it, though. A focused intensity that knots low in my stomach and simmers.
The longer we stand pressed together in the shadows, the warmer the air becomes, his full attention raising my temperature.
“Seriously, Aisleen? You think I’d entertain a stuck-up Harrington? You know we’ve nothing but hate for that family. She’s not my type.” After a beat he adds, “Women in uniform are more my thing.”
The female officer lets out an unamused snort. “Whatever you say, Rafe. We still need to look around.”
Saint’s grip tightens over my mouth, and his forehead stays close to mine, both of us breathing deep, heavy breaths.
Footsteps move dangerously close to the stall door. If she looks right, she’ll see us pressed into the corner, and if she listens carefully, she’ll hear the frantic hammering of my heart beating against his chest.
“You’ll need a search warrant, sweetheart,” Rafe replies, all lazy charm and smart arrogance. “Not that we’ve anything to hide. But ya know the law better than anyone. You can’t just wander in on a hunch…or believe everything that comes outta Alasdair’s mouth.”
My chest goes tight.
“Anyway, Harringtons aren’t welcome here.”
“You sure about that?” she asks. “Maybe Saint thought he could charm the girl as part of a vendetta—”
“Nah,” Rafe laughs. “Saint’s into a blonde he met at the track. His times occupied with working and fucking. He’d never bring a Harrington home and risk screwing things up.”
Saint’s eyes hold mine, and his hand stays over my mouth, breath brushing my temple.
I’ve no way of escaping him.