Keira
“Sit,” he orders, shrugging off his coat.
“I’ll sit when you remove these cuffs.” I hold up my wrists, staying by the front door.
Saint stops near the kitchen table and turns. His gaze moves over me, slow enough to make my pulse thrum.
“Why should I take them off?” He reaches for the bottle of liquor on the table, unscrews the cap, and takes a drink. “You disobeyed me and almost sunk my family.”
When he moves back toward me, his intense gaze sticks to mine. Before invading my personal space, he stops. Saint owns the air and leaves me guessing if he’ll come any closer to steal all of it from the room.
“I don’t want to be part of this, Saint. Let me go home, and I promise not to tell my father anything about me being here,” I say. “Coming back to Black Heath was a mistake. I should’ve stayed in Paris.”
Hot air shoots down his nostrils.
“Right,” he says. “With your cheating boyfriend.”
I cock a brow. “At least he didn’t cuff me.”
Saint takes another drink, slower this time. His attention settles on the red skin on my wrists as the alcohol moves down his throat.
“Hold this.” He lowers the bottle, pushes it into my hands and waits for my fingers to close around the neck before reaching into his trouser pocket and fishing out a tiny key.
“This is your last chance, Harrington,” he says. “Leave without permission, and you’ll freeze in the barn.”
The cuffs come off with a dull click. My wrists tingle as I rotate them outward.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Don’t thank me. Just behave.”
While I rub the skin, Saint steps into me, reaches past my shoulder, and turns the lock on the front door.
He’s close enough that my chest brushes his when I breathe, so close that I stop breathing altogether without even meaning to.
My pulse jumps hard against my throat as he stays there for a beat.
He pulls away, flips off his cap, and rakes his fingers through the messy hair on top of his head.
“I’m taking a shower,” he says, hooking the cap by the door and pulling his phone out as he backs away.
“Shay,” he says, calm as anything. “If the Harrington girl runs again, dispose of her body in the heath.”
Saint stalks toward the bathroom, and I kick off the track shoes I’d borrowed, furious at him for dragging me into the feud.
“What a guy. Did you order someone else to do it for you because you’re too much of a gentleman?” I say, my tone full of sarcasm.
He stops mid-stride and glances over his shoulder.
“The plan was never to kill ya,” he says. “I’m a busy man and you’ve taken up too much of my time already. Understand the way of it here so I can run things without ya fucking everything up.”
“Well, my plan was to never make life easy for my kidnappers,” I say.
His mouth curves into a slight smile. “You know what? I did your cheating ex a favor by taking ya off his hands. You’re hard work.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And you’re awfully hung up on my ex.”
“Nah,” he says. “But one day you’ll learn there’s a difference between the men who lose you and the men who keep ya.”
“You sure as hell aren’t keeping me, Saint.”
He unbuttons his shirt, watching me as his fingers move. “Don’t forget you’re standing where I put ya. Push me, and that changes.”
With his shirt wide open, he turns on his heel and walks away. The bathroom door shuts, and the shower starts a moment later.
My feet stay rooted to the spot as I stand there, gaze flicking around his cabin as the situation finally sinks in.
Behind me, he locked the exit, yet my wrists are free.
I think about the distance to the yard, my failed attempt to escape, the men outside who’d leave me to rot in a peat bog, and take a mouthful of whiskey straight from the bottle.
The only sensible thing to do is wait… Wait for my father to figure it out.
I move to the couch and thump the bottle on the coffee table opposite me. The leather is cold through my clothes, and the wind has picked up again outside.
After a deep breath and a shake of my head, I get up again and round the furniture, kneeling at the hearth. I arrange the kindling in the grate, starting with the thinnest pieces before setting a chunky log on top. I flick the lighter until the kindling catches.
I stay where I am and stare into the flickering flames, not quite settled but content to be indoors.
When the water stops running from inside the bathroom, my stomach flips, and flutters burst against my ribs.
Saint returns with a towel wrapped around his hips. His hair is dark and wet, water dripping to his shoulders as he walks to the couch.
I look up before I can stop myself. With his bare chest and easy stride, he fills the space differently now, almost unguarded in a way he wasn’t before.
I catch myself tracking his movements without meaning to. My hands curl against my thighs as my attention sticks where it shouldn’t.
“Good girl,” he says, voice rough with approval. “Glad to see you’re making yourself useful.”
“I’m a woman,” I bite out, sliding my gaze back to the fire and fixing it there.
The sound of him moving closer makes it hard not to look again. When he sits, my willpower dissolves and my gaze cuts to him fixing his towel as he gets comfy.
“Yeah, you are,” he deadpans. “A woman who can’t stop looking.”
“True,” I say. “I’m looking at the genius who thought this was a good idea and wondering if his brains live in his balls. There are other ways to make a deal, you know.”
Saint chuckles, the sound deep and annoyingly hot.
“Your da doesn’t play well with others,” he says. “You embarrassing him did exactly what years of negotiations didn’t. It got his attention.”
He shrugs. “We’ve been chasing that land a long time. Turns out humiliation works better than handshakes.”
The fire crackles and pops next to me, flames chewing through the log and the heat warming my skin.
“And I’m just the collateral that gets screwed over while the men clash swords.” I get to my feet. “I’d rather not sit here and take part in idle chitchat about my father and your big ambitions.”
“You know where my bedroom is,” he says, unaffected. “Close the door behind ya.”
Rain hits the windows as I pad past him in the socks I’d taken from his drawers earlier and head along the short hall.
In his room, the temperature drops a few degrees. I exhale a loud sigh and sit on the edge of his bed, then lie back, staring at the ceiling while the tension and stress drain out of my muscles.
My body sinks deeper into the mattress, and I close my eyes, doing my best to block out the scent of him lingering on the duvet under me.
When the door opens, I blink and wipe a hand across my mouth, shocked that I’d nodded off.
“There’s food on the table,” Saint says. “C’mon.”
I sit upright, drag a hand down my face, and yawn. Saint’s standing in the doorway dressed in a navy shirt and dark denim Levi’s. His hair is dry now, and his expression gives nothing away.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“After four,” he replies, backing out of the room.
I push to my feet, fix the baggy track pants hanging off my hips, and join him in the kitchen.
He’s already sitting at the table, watching me take in the place opposite him. On the small plate there’s a toasted sandwich, a folded paper towel, a knife and fork laid to either side, and a mug of black coffee sitting beside it.
“You’re trusting me with cutlery?” I pull out the chair and sit. “That’s brave.”
He smirks, almost giving me a full smile. “What can I say? I like to live on the edge.”
Instead of using the knife, I pick the toastie up with my fingers and pull it apart. Melted cheese stretches between the halves, steam rising. The smell hits, and my stomach answers.
I take a bite and chew, grateful despite myself. It’s hot, filling, exactly what I needed. I don’t comment. I won’t give him that.
When I’m done, I wipe my fingers, push my chair back, and cross to the fridge. I take out the milk and add a splash to my coffee.
Saint leans back and folds his arms. “I figured you’d be a fussy little Harrington princess. The type who expects someone else to fetch and carry.”
“Look,” I say, sliding the carton back inside. “My name’s Keira. Stop calling me Harrington.”
He scratches his jaw, his gaze sweeping over me in his kitchen. “No need to blur lines. Let’s not make it personal.”
I snort and lift the mug. “It already is. I’m wearing your clothes and sleeping in your bed.”
Before he can answer, a loud knock hits the front door.
Saint exhales and shoves his chair back as he stands, all height and muscle and a presence that captures my attention whether I want to stare or not.
He crosses to the front door, unlocks it, and opens it just wide enough to step through. Rather than invite whoever it is inside, he walks out and closes the door behind him.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I move before I think better of it, padding to the window and peering out onto the porch.
There’s a woman with a black ponytail and a box-fit wax jacket standing with her back to the cabin. Her tight breeches are tucked into dirty field boots, and she stands close to him.
When Saint takes a bag from her, she jabs a finger at his chest, her body pitched forward like she’s mid-argument.
He listens, head tipped, expression unbothered. After a few minutes, he offers her a full grin that flashes teeth and warmth and has my fists clenching.
He leans down and kisses her cheek, then steps around her and heads toward the door.
I hurry back to the table, chair scraping as I sit and pick up my mug like I’ve been there the whole time.
Saint locks the door behind him and comes back to the table, but he doesn’t sit. He stays standing and sets the bag down between us.
“That’s for you.”
I frown at the supermarket logo stretched across the plastic. “What is it?”
He drifts toward the counter, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one free, and lights it. The first drag is a slow inhale.
“Women’s clothes,” he says, smoke leaving his mouth on the word.
My blood moves through me faster. I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I’d never be seen dead in your girlfriend’s clothes.
Saint leans against the counter. “That’s a strange way to put it.”
“You know exactly what I mean.” I push my chair back and stand. “I’m not doing this.”
“Harrington.”
I take another step.
“Get changed.”
I pivot to face him, hands fisted by my sides. “No way. First, I’ll dress like her, then you’ll start wishing I was her…then you’ll pretend I am her.”
He exhales smoke and sighs, more tired than amused. “Oh, believe me, Harrington, you’re one of a kind. There’s no mistaking you for anyone else.”
He straightens, leaving the cigarette hugged between his lips and takes a confident step toward me.
“So we can do this your way,” he adds, “or you can keep arguing and we’ll see how that goes for ya.”
When he draws on the cigarette, holds my gaze, and exhales, my pulse kicks.