Keira
His words stick with me in the shower.
I won’t ruin everything over wanting you.
By the time I get out from under the water, I’m too tired to bother drying my hair.
I rough-dry it with a towel and braid the damp lengths without tying them, then pat myself dry before listening at the door.
There’s only silence, which means he’s not around.
Thankful for the alone time, I pad to his bedroom and open his drawers in search of warm layers.
I shake out a big t-shirt and throw it on, then reach for a sweatshirt on a hanger in the closet, slip on clean sweatpants, and pick out a bundled pair of socks.
I ignore the fact that they’re his clothes and wrap around me in a way that feels like his touch.
Cursing myself, I wander to the chilly sitting room where I kneel by the hearth, strike a match, and watch the fire catch through stacked logs.
The crackle drags me back to the river. To the way he’d said my name and how that fireside kiss ripped down my defences.
Truth is, Lucien was easy to want because wanting him cost me nothing. He was temporary by design and we both knew it.
Saint is the opposite of that in every way I can think of. That’s what troubles me.
I suck in a breath, shake off the longing for a man who puts family rivalry first, and climb onto the couch.
I switch on the television and pull a blanket over me. Exhaustion has my eyes drifting closed somewhere between the rise and fall of canned laughter and the crackle of firewood.
The whine of the front door opening drags me awake, and I stare at glowing embers and shadows.
For a second, I forgot where I am. Then I turn my head to the thud of footsteps and see him.
Saint moves inside carrying a plastic bag that gives off warm and savory food vibes. He kicks the door with his foot, shoulders broad beneath his sherpa coat, jeans riding low on his hips.
The cap he wears shadows his eyes until he pulls it off. His hand rakes through dark hair that’s been flattened all day and now sits in a tousled mess.
The stubble along his jaw is darker in the shadowy light, rougher somehow.
Even though he looks exhausted, my core tightens as if I’ve been waiting for him to come home.
Our eyes meet for a brief second.
He gives me a nod, nothing more, and heads to the kitchen.
My muscles are stiff as I tuck my legs beneath me. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it over the back of a chair before ladling stew into two bowls.
Once they’re filled, he slips a spoon into one and carries it over to me.
“I told my ma our guest needed feeding,” he says, his expression blank.
“Right,” I whisper, reaching for it.
Our fingers brush beneath the weight of the bowl, sending awareness racing up my arm. Neither of us releases it. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my pulse beats harder with every second his hand remains beneath mine.
Then he lets go and returns for his own.
I settle the bowl carefully in my lap and remind myself that wanting me isn’t the same as choosing me.
When he returns, instead of sitting straight away, he sets his bowl on the mantel and crouches by the hearth. He reaches for another log from the stack beside it and tosses it into the fire.
Sparks jump. The flames climb higher, brighter, filling the room with more light and a deeper heat.
He straightens and picks up his bowl before sinking into the armchair. While we both eat, the television murmurs in the background, and the gentle scrape of forks against ceramic seems too loud.
I take a bite of chicken and glance at him.
He’s already looking at me.
Our gazes snare and hold for a silent beat. I hate how my heart races and the intensity in his stare forces me to look away first.
“You can take the bed tonight. I’ll be sleeping in here.”
I nod and continue to chew. “Good.”
“I’ve asked Sera to drop off clothes for ya,” he says, forking his food. “I’ll head into town tomorrow and pick up whatever ya need.”
My brow pinches tight. “Do you mean… Plan B? Because I’m not senseless, you know. You and me fucking was a mistake, but getting pregnant, that’s inexcusable.”
Saint sighs. “I meant woman shit…like body lotion or face wash or a hair dryer.”
“I hadn’t planned on staying that long.” I stab a red pepper with the fork. “You said a few days.”
“Fine.”
The room falls silent again, and once I’ve finished, I reach forward and set the bowl on the coffee table.
“Do you know who sent those guys earlier?” I ask. “The assholes who shot at you?”
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
“They shot at us,” he corrects. “Firing at me put you in danger, princess. That doesn’t happen on my land.”
I drag the sleeves over my hands and pull the blanket higher as if the material could stop his gaze from setting my skin alight.
“So?” I push further. “Who were they?”
“Harrington hired help,” he replies. “Apparently, they were last seen talking to one of your da’s men.”
I don’t look away. “So that was about me.”
He shrugs. “It’s about territory.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Saint chews a mouthful of stew and stares at me as he swallows.
“Those fuckers didn’t expect to see me out there. They weren’t sent to bring ya home. They were leaving a job that put down thirty head of my best beef stock. Prime animals, bred for export, already contracted to France.”
“That was him, wasn’t it?” I breathe. “My father sent a warning.”
“Looks that way.”
I frown as the realization sinks in. “Then he knows I haven’t run off with Lucien. He knows I’m at Black Heath Stud.”
He knows exactly where I am, and the first thing he did was kill defenceless animals so Tallon’s would know they’d been warned.
All this time, I’ve been waiting for my father to come for me. To prove that beneath the feuds and threats, I’m still his daughter.
Yet, he knows I’m here.
I keep my eyes on the fire, refusing to let Saint watch that truth hollow me out.
Saint finishes chewing and drops the fork into the empty bowl. He sits deeper in the chair, the firelight dancing on the side of his face.
“If you belonged to me, Keira, I wouldn’t waste time wiping out innocent animals. I’d hunt you down first. Then I’d kill the people who hurt ya.”
My throat tightens because the way he says it has me wishing it could be real.
“Do you think you’ve hurt me, Saint?”
He reaches sideways and puts his bowl on the hearth. “I think this could’ve been a very different experience if things had gone another way.”
“What things?” I push.
“Let’s just put it this way,” he begins, his voice raspy from tiredness. “I buried those men in the heath this evening and I’ll sleep like a fucking baby.”
“You’d still kill for me,” I whisper. “Even if you won’t choose me.”
When he sits straighter in the chair and opens his mouth to speak, I beat him to it. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t choose you either.”
Air shoots down his nostrils, and he props his elbows on his knees, the flames dancing in his inky pupils.
“If I chose you,” he says, “there wouldn’t be a choice for ya to make.”
His words spark heat in my veins, the same current that’s been humming between us since the first night at the gala.
I push the blanket aside, rise from the couch and stop right in front of him, then lower myself to sit between his knees.
“You don’t want to choose me,” I say, meeting his gaze head on. “You just want to give in again.”
Saint doesn’t move. There’s no flicker of a smile or twitch of his hand.
I stay in place, my knees on the floor between his ankles and my hands resting on my thighs, not touching him in any way.
“Don’t you?”
Both of his hands settle on the arms of the chair, his fingers curling around the wood instead of reaching for me.
“Take off that sweatshirt,” he says at last, voice a low rumble. “It’s mine.”
Heat blooms under my skin.
I rise just enough to catch the hem and drag it upward, slow enough that his stare tracks every inch revealed. The air kisses my skin as the fabric falls away.
His jaw tightens. “And the t-shirt.”
I obey without a word, my fingers already curling around the soft cotton that holds a faint trace of him. Taking my time, I pull it away from my ribs and my bare breasts.
The shirt clears my head, and I let it drop to the floor beside the sweatshirt. Bare now from the waist up, the firelight licks across my skin, painting me in shifting orange light and shadow.
Heat warms my skin, but it does nothing to stop the goosebumps that race down my arms, across my collarbone, tightening my nipples into aching points.
Anticipation coils low in my belly, charged and electric.
I lower myself again, letting my bare breasts brush down the front of his shins as I go. His breath hitches, a barely audible inhale, but I hear it.
The awareness of it sets off sparks inside me.
When my knees hit the floor between his spread thighs and I settle there, naked, exposed and almost panting.
His knuckles are bone-white now, and a muscle flickers in his jaw. He stares at me—eyes dark, pupils blown, his gaze tracing the line of my throat, the swell of my breasts, the way my stomach trembles with every shallow breath.
He wants to touch me. I know he does.
I inch closer and feel his thighs close in ever so slightly, and when I chew the corner of my mouth, my gaze drops to where his thick dick sits behind the zipper of his jeans.
Still, he doesn’t reach for me.
“Do you want me?” I whisper.
His throat works, and he leans forward, his eyes dark as he drags a thumb across my lower lip, parting it.
Saint exhales a rough, frustrated sigh, then places both hands over my breasts and squeezes. When I moan, he pinches my nipples hard enough to make me gasp, my back arching, pressing myself into his hold.
He makes a low, broken grunt in the back of his throat and lowers his face, his mouth closing over one nipple. As he sucks, those deep pulls drag a whimper out of me.
My fingers dig into his thighs, nails biting denim. Every flick of his tongue sends a fresh pulse straight to my clit. I’m wet for him all over again.
He switches to the other breast, teeth grazing just enough to force out another whimper. My hips rock forward, seeking friction against nothing but air.
He pulls away, his breath ragged against my shivery skin.
“Stand up,” he orders.
When I stand, his eyes devour me in slow sweeps from my face to my breasts, down to my navel.
“Sweatpants off.”
Given their baggy size, they fall down my legs with little effort and puddle at my ankles. I slip off the socks and kick everything else to the side.
He stays seated but moves to the edge and yanks me closer, widening his legs to slot me between them. Rough fingertips ghost over my hips, tracing the curve, dipping into the sensitive hollows above my pelvis, then skate across my belly, raising fresh goosebumps in their wake.
My stomach quivers under his touch.
“Part your legs for me.”
His hand moves between my thighs, and he hums out a thick rumble of satisfaction.
“Who would’ve thought you’d be this tempting.”
Two fingers slide through my wetness, parting me, finding how needy I am.
“Fuck, Keira…”
He slides one thick finger inside, and my knees almost give out. I grab his shoulders to stay upright, nails digging across his shirt. My legs tremble almost immediately when he drives in a second.
My breath comes in shallow, fractured pants. Every pump of his fingers creates more slickness, and every rub of my swollen clit winds the coil tighter, pleasure building so fast it borders on pain.
“Look at me,” he orders, his voice hoarse and thick.
I stare into his dark, stormy eyes and wonder if killing me would have been the kindest option because right now, I want him to pick me.
But he never will.
My hips jerk forward, chasing the pressure, grinding down onto his hand.
“I can’t—” Heat floods my cheeks. “I can’t hold it—”
“Then don’t.”
His thumb presses harder against my clit and the coil snaps.
Pleasure detonates through me, white-hot and blinding. My muscles lock up and my back arches while my inner walls pulse around his fingers.
My knees wobble and my breath comes fast. One arm circles my waist, and he presses his coarse-haired cheek to my belly, holding me upright.
His fingers stay buried inside me, the strokes slower to draw out every tremor, every aftershock, until I’m oversensitive and weak.
I sense the tension pulled tight in every line of his body, from the hard length of his dick straining against his jeans to the shallow rasp of his breathing, the way his fingers twitch inside me like he’s fighting the urge to start all over again.
“Saint…” I say breathlessly.
He removes his fingers, sits back, and cleans them with long licks.
I sink to my knees before him, heartbeat thundering against my ribs, and place my hands on his thighs.
“This changes nothing,” he says. “You’re still a Harrington and outside of this cabin, we don’t fit together.”
I swallow hard and reach for the sweatshirt. “Yeah, I get it. A little fun won’t shake up the snake pit.”
He sits forward and grabs my arm. “You think I’m enjoying this?”
Saint’s jaw clamps shut and his nostrils flare. In that beat of time, there’s a flicker where he almost gives in again. “I’m fighting with myself every time I’m with ya, Keira.”
Then his fingers leave my skin and he drags a hand down his face.