Keira
“I’m not wearing her clothes,” I say again, slower this time to get my point across.
Saint’s eyes stay fixed on me with that unreadable calmness of his that makes my skin prickle.
When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and deep. “Strip.”
I rest my hands on my hips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says. “It’s time to get changed.”
My pulse kicks, and I hate myself for it even as I fold my arms tighter across my chest.
“No—”
“Keira,” he uses my name in a warning, and the sound of it makes my face flush. “This stops being a discussion if I have to repeat myself.”
I hold his gaze. “How does she feel about your female prisoner wearing her clothes?”
The corner of his mouth twitches a fraction. “Are you really ready for my way? Because I won’t be gentle when I rip that shirt off your back.”
I narrow my eyes at him, projecting as much grit into the glare as I can. “Touch me and I’ll stub that cigarette out on your face.”
“I’d like to see ya try.”
My chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, the taunt of his smirk daring me to cross the line.
Truth is, I could fight, kick and call him all the scathing names I can think of, but he’s a mountain of a man who’d overpower me in seconds.
“Fine.” I return to the table, ready to grab the bag and change in his bathroom.
When my hand reaches for it, he steps into me and sets his on top of the bag first.
“Let’s have a lesson in manners, shall we? I went to the hassle of borrowing clothes that would fit ya better than mine, and you’re acting like a spoiled Harrington brat.”
I glare up at him, my pulse slamming in my throat. “I’m sure the clothes are fine. It’s where they came from that’s the problem.”
“Why?” he asks. “What’s it to ya?”
My forehead creases. “It’s weird.”
“You being weird about it… That’s what’s weird.” His brows drift upward. “You’re happy to borrow my stuff but not a woman’s?”
“I’m not dressing up as your girlfriend, and I sure as hell don’t need lessons from a man like you,” I snap. “Especially not in manners.”
Rather than answer, he moves.
One second, I’m scowling, the next he’s spun me around and my lower back hits the kitchen counter, his body closing the space before I can react.
The solid press of his pelvis pins me in place without effort. My pulse surges hard and deceitfully while his gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing, then cuts back to my face.
“I don’t agree,” he says. “And I don’t do girlfriends.”
His hand moves away just long enough to reach the knife block. He draws one free and brings it between us, the flat of the shiny as it reflects the shirt’s pattern.
I open my mouth to warn him off and lose the thought when the first button pings off.
“Saint…”
The knife slides lower, popping each button one by one while his focus lingers on the slow act, watching every breath, every flicker of reaction I can’t hide.
When he snips the final loop of thread, the fabric parts and falls away, uncovering my breasts and baring my skin to him.
My breath comes faster no matter how much I try to rein it in because he’s standing there, staring at my pointed nipples, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as if he’s holding himself back.
His head lowers a fraction, and my chin hitches higher. Our breath tangles, and the temperature in the kitchen reaches furnace-level heat.
My lashes flutter from the awareness of him this close when I’m so vulnerable. This is the part where a sensible woman would be frightened.
I’m not, though, and that’s a me problem.
I don’t miss the vein pulsating in his neck, and the sight of it sends a rush through me that scorches its way straight to my core, the desire to put my hands on him overwhelming.
For a split second, I think we’re going to kiss, until he slams the knife on the counter and takes a measured step back as if it pains him.
“You’ll appreciate women’s clothes now, Harrington,” he says, voice like gravel.
Then he turns away from me and runs a hand through his hair.
I stay where I am, shirt open, skin electrified, heart racing, knowing I shouldn’t be aching for his hands or his lips.
The silence hardly has time to grow uncomfortable when his phone rings.
Saint answers the call and listens for a second, eyes already distant, the moment between us fading fast.
“Great,” he says. “I’m on my way.”
He ends the call, pockets his phone, and reaches for his coat on the hook by the front door. Shrugging into it, he positions the cap on his head next and plays it cool like we weren’t a breath away from crossing every single line there is.
“Get dressed,” he says, not turning around. “I’ll be back later tonight.”
He pulls the door open and steps outside, closing it behind him without another glance my way.
The lock clicks.
I stand there alone in his kitchen and press a hand to my belly, off balance by the rush of heat coursing through my veins.
Nothing good would come from letting a man like Saint Tallon take up residence in my head.
The problem is he’s already there, though. And has been since the gala. Since a five second kiss had me wanting a man I didn’t know.
I straighten my spine and go back to thinking about home. The Harrington estate takes longer to picture than it used to.
I cover my chest and move toward the plastic bag waiting on the table.
Inside, there’s a packet of unopened panties, a pair of breeches, and a jumper that are very obviously someone else’s.
I groan at the thought of sliding into the black-haired woman’s clothes. No wonder she looked furious.
I don’t linger on it, though. He’s her problem to deal with. Rather, I snatch the bag and head for the bathroom, turning the shower on and letting the heat work its way through me until the heat in my veins dulls.
When I’m dry, I pull on the new panties and leave the rest. I go straight to his room, take one of his fresh T-shirts from the drawer instead, pull it on and return to the sitting room.
Another log goes on the fire, and I punch the remote-control button to turn on the television.
By the time the light outside is gone, the only glow in the cabin comes from the flames and the film playing on the screen.
I pull the blanket over my legs and settle into the couch, staying there until the credits roll.
It’s midnight, and he’s still not home.
Not that I care. The more space he gives me, the easier it’ll be to get through this.
I yawn, stretch, and switch the television off, listening to the quiet settle back into the cabin. In the distance, dogs bark somewhere in the yard and then stop.
Abandoning the blanket, I get up and hurry down the hall to his bedroom, so I don’t fall asleep on the couch and give him a reason to think I’d waited for him.
The bedsheets are cool and the duvet heavy when I climb in, turn off the bedside lamp, and tuck myself into a ball.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out when my lashes flutter open and hushed voices carry through the darkness.
I stay still to listen and hear both a male and a female. Saint and another woman are down the hall, doing whatever.
My chest tightens. I scoot off the bed, cross to the door, and crack it ajar to peer through the gap.
Saint is in the kitchen, stripped down to his jeans, chest bare, a cigarette hooked between his fingers and a glass in his other hand. The light catches the line of his shoulders and the dark ink at his ribs.
He looks relaxed in a way I haven’t seen yet, weight shifted to one hip, head tipped as he listens to the woman standing in front of him.
Her back is to me, the black ponytail from earlier glossy under the overhead light.
“Jesus, stop moving,” she says. “How d’ya expect me to do this if you won’t stay still?”
“I’m not doing anything,” he fires back. “You’re the one swaying.”
She snatches the cigarette from his mouth without asking, takes a drag, then passes it back like it’s nothing to share. He accepts it just as easily.
“This will hurt,” she adds. “But ya don’t mind a little pain, right, Ciarán?”
I open the bedroom door and tiptoe into the hall, keeping close to the wall where the light doesn’t quite reach. My breathing goes shallow.
For some stupid reason, my pulse is thumping as her hands touch his inked chest, and the ease between the two of them cuts deeper than it should.
The floor is cool under my feet as I move, wearing his T-shirt, the hem brushing my thighs.
I don’t need to announce my arrival because Saint looks up the second he senses me.
His gaze drops to my bare legs, and he takes another draw of his cigarette, not saying a word.
The woman still hasn’t noticed me. From this angle I can see what she’s working on now, her head bent as she cleans a fresh wound at his side.
“The fucker got ya good this time,” she says. “You’re like a patchwork quilt.”
She presses the gauze into place and tapes it down before glancing over her shoulder. Her navy eyes skim over me and move on as she turns back to Saint and smooths another strip of tape over his skin.
When I look at Saint, his gaze dissects me, skating from my flushed cheeks to my clenched fists, the tells I can’t quite hide.
“Pick a fight with the wrong guy?” I ask, sliding an arm around my middle.
The woman washes her hands in the basin while Saint knocks back the last of the liquor in his glass.
“The guy picked a fight with a Tallon,” she says, no warmth in her voice. “He won’t do that again.”
Saint drags out a chair, sits, and pours himself another whiskey.
“He pulled a blade on me,” he says, holding my gaze. “Reminded me of someone else I know.”
She bends and slips her arms around his neck. Saint’s hand comes up, settling at her back, his expression easing in a way I haven’t seen yet.
When she straightens, she gives me one last look before grabbing her wax jacket from the hook by the door.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” she says to him. “Make sure she doesn’t try anything while you’re asleep. I’d hate to mess up that pretty Harrington face of hers.”
“Oh, really?” I bite back. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do to him? I wouldn’t put my mouth anywhere near the guy if you paid me. I’ve got standards. I’d rather die.”
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.