Keira
When I step out onto the porch, Sera is standing at the bottom of the steps, arms folded.
Beyond her, the path curves toward the yard, where trucks idle and horses linger in round pens.
Saint is near his truck at the far edge, phone pressed to his ear, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the fencing.
Whatever he hears takes the softness out of his face.
He turns slightly away from the yard, but the wind carries pieces of his voice back.
“No. Tell Rafe to keep two men on the gate and pull the lorries off the road until I say different.”
There’s a pause.
“I don’t give a fuck what Alasdair promised them. No Harrington vehicle enters the docks without me knowing who’s driving it.”
“I hope you’re ready for some hard labor,” Sera says, walking along the path. “Tallons don’t sit around all day in ivory towers brushing our hair and drinking tea.”
I roll my eyes and follow her. “Tea’s overrated. I prefer coffee before I start shoveling.”
She glances over her shoulder, her gaze dropping to my fingers. “Those hands have held champagne flutes longer than a shovel.”
“Think what you like,” I reply. “My father owns horses, Sera. I’ve been around them my whole life.”
“C’mon on, Harrington. Those soft hands haven’t worked in years.”
“That’s because I lived in Paris.”
“Of course you did.”
Halfway to the yard, Saint spots us and lowers the phone, slipping it into his pocket.
“Don’t screw with her, Sera,” he says, as she strolls past him, not looking at me.
“She’ll be fine,” she calls back. “If she’s not, we’ll know by lunchtime.”
Sera doesn’t break stride. Gravel crunches under her field boots until she reaches the concrete yard and keeps walking toward the barns.
I match her pace for a few steps before my core tightens, and I glance over my shoulder to find Saint.
Our gazes snare, though his expression stays neutral. He doesn’t tip his chin, and the line of his mouth stays firm. But he doesn’t look away either.
The moment hums as the wind lifts a strand of my hair across my cheek. I push it back without breaking eye contact and consider saying something.
However, he looks away first to pluck a cigarette from the pack, slots it between his lips, and as he lights it, his eyes hold mine over the flame.
He gives me one last glance before walking toward the driver’s door and climbing in.
I angle away and ignore the way my heart races.
Sera hands me a shovel and slides open the closest stall gate. “This one’s all yours. The bedding needs changing, and the stalls hosed out before you fill them with new shavings.”
Two stable hands move along the aisle ahead of me and ask Sera if I’m new. She offers them a jokey reply that implies I won’t last more than a week. They laugh. Even though her comment is a dig, it means they won’t ask where I am after they’ve set me free.
While I get to work, she joins me in the stall and leans one shoulder against the wall, boots planted, arms folded, watching.
“Bend your knees,” she says after a minute. “Or you’ll wreck your back.”
Without looking over, I soften my knees a little and carry on, driving the fork into the bedding and lifting with steady rhythm instead of speed.
“Does your da talk business at the dinner table?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
“So ya know what he’s up to then?”
I stop mid-scoop and lock eyes with her, sweat trickling the length of my spine. “My father doesn’t involve me in that stuff. If you want to interrogate someone, ask my brother Fionn.”
That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Pretty boys crumble under pressure. I’m sure he’d be an easy target.”
“Then win him over with your magnetic Tallon charm.”
Sera laughs and pushes off the wall, stepping away. “We aren’t swapping brothers, Harrington. Anyway, I prefer real men. And you’re built for men who send flowers. Not a guy who takes what he wants.”
I brush a curl of shavings off my sleeve. “Saint took what was offered to him. He hasn’t lied to me, which is more than most men can manage.”
“Finish this row,” she says, backing into the aisle. “The lads can handle the rest. A few more stalls will ease their load.”
She nods toward the outside. “Then you’re with me. We’ve got a new horse coming to the yard.”
The next few hours blur into rhythm and sweat.
I strip each stall down to rubber matting, shoveling damp shavings and wheeling the squeaky barrow back and forth. When I spray the stalls clean, the hose runs cold against my hands, the water sluicing hay and dust toward the drain.
My arms begin to ache, and I pull off the sweatshirt, revealing a thin t-shirt that clings to my damp skin.
After I brush the water away, I spread fresh shavings in even banks along the walls and smooth the center flat with the back of the fork, then stagger to the wall and lean my back against it.
I’ve mucked out plenty of times in the past, so this isn’t new to me. However, we have staff who do the daily rounds at the Harrington estate.
I swipe the back of my hand over my brow and steady my breathing.
Sera appears with a bottle of water and tosses it toward me. “Here.”
I catch it against my chest, twist the cap off, and drink, water leaking down my chin.
“Thanks.”
She steps inside and walks the perimeter of the stall, boots scuffing through the clean bedding, testing the depth with the toe of her boot.
“That’ll do,” she says, pulling out a cling-wrapped sandwich from her wax jacket pocket and handing it to me. “You’ve got ten minutes. Don’t leave the barn.”
When she steps back into the aisle, I slide down the wall to sit on my haunches, shoulders burning, thighs trembling now that I’ve stopped.
I unwrap the cheese and mayo sandwich and eat without looking up, listening to the clip-clop of a horse being led outdoors, metal chains clinking and men talking.
I’m chewing the last mouthful when the sound of a heavier engine rolls into the barn.
My pulse spikes, thinking Saint’s returned, and then I curse myself for being so hopeful. He left in his truck, not a horse transporter.
Air brakes hiss as a truck reverses into position outside, the beeping noise loud.
Before I see it, I hear the horse inside.
A violent thud reverberates through the metal box, followed by the scrape of iron shoes striking steel.
I get to my feet and head outside, where the truck’s suspension rocks under the force of the horse inside. The driver climbs down from the cab and rolls his shoulders.
“It’s been a long drive,” he tells me.
Another heavy bang reverberates through the metal box.
The ramp lowers, chains rattling as it drops into place, and the stallion’s labored breathing carries through the narrow compartment before he kicks out again.
“He’s been boxed for too long,” Sera says as the stable hands gather. “If he gets injured as we offload him, Saint will be pissed.”
One lad slips inside, keeping low and to the shoulder, and frees the quick-release knot. The rope comes loose, and the horse tosses his head.
While they work to get the stallion out of the horse trailer, I stand where I am and watch how Sera commands the situation.
She moves with quick, economical gestures, her voice strong so the men listen when she speaks. I guess that comes from growing up with three brothers.
Envy twists low in my stomach. Fionn and I get along, but our father raised us differently. My brother was taught to command men. I was taught not to question them.
The stallion tears across the round pen, muscles bunching under his dark coat as he kicks out, burning off the last of the trapped journey. He rears once, striking the air, then lands hard and circles again, neck arched high.
Sera stands beside me with her arms folded, watching without blinking.
“He’ll settle,” she says. “Just needs to remember he’s not boxed anymore.”
In the distance, Saint’s Ford bounces along the track toward the yard. My gaze drifts before I can stop it, tracking the truck as it pulls in.
My pulse shifts under my skin, and I become all too aware of the sweat clinging to my t-shirt and the loose strands of hair all over the place.
He climbs out and pushes his dark hair back off his brow, scanning the place.
The stallion snorts and tears past again, but my focus stays fixed on Saint.
“Eyes this way, Harrington.” Sera elbows me.
I drag my attention back to her and fold my arms across my chest.
“There’s still work to be done,” she says. “New feed was delivered this morning. It needs tipped and sealed in the bins before the rats get into it.”
She nods toward the far barn where stacked bags sit on pallets just inside the open doors.
“Grab a few and keep yourself busy,” she adds. “And don’t wander off thinking he’ll drop everything because you look at him like that.”
“I didn’t ask to be here, remember?” I sidestep her and head for the barn.
Anger simmers in my veins. I hate how Sera thinks I’m the one chasing her brother, like I tripped over myself to get here instead of being dragged into this mess.
I sure as hell didn’t expect to like my kidnapper. Nor did I think in my wildest fantasies that I would be naked in the middle of nowhere with him, skin to skin, and loving it.
“Not everything is straightforward, Sera,” I mutter to myself out of earshot.
The feed room smells of sweet alfalfa and molasses, dust motes drifting lazily in the slanted afternoon light that cuts through the high window.
I’m on my knees in front of the open fifty-kilo bag, scooping pellets into a feed bin, when I hear a shuffle of boots behind me.
“Hard work looks good on ya, Keira.”
Saint’s voice is low, rough-edged, and it slides under my skin like molten lava. I jolt upright so fast the scoop falls from my hand and clatters on the ground.
My heart slams against my ribs—half surprise, half something darker, hotter. The ratio of those two things has been shifting for days.
I stopped keeping track of which one was winning.
He’s already inside and the door bangs shut behind him. I hear the metal slide of the lock catching, and my heart pumps faster.
“What are you doing?”
He closes the distance in three strides. I back up until my ass hits the edge of the old wooden counter. There’s nowhere left to go.
His body crowds mine, broad shoulders blocking the light, heat rolling off him like a furnace that’s been burning all day. The air changes with him in it.
One hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my throat to hold the wild thump of my pulse against his palm. His thumb rests right over the flutter, pressing against it with a possessive pressure that makes my breath hitch.
I swallow, and his eyes track the movement.
“I’ve been thinking all morning about your nightmare,” he says, voice gravel dragged over velvet.
My breath catches. “What part?”
“The part when he made ya take your clothes off.”
Heat floods my face, my chest, and lower, a slow burn that feels reckless. My hands come up to fist the front of his jacket, knuckles whitening against the fabric.
“And?” I whisper.
He leans in until his mouth is a breath from mine. “It made me so fucking hard I couldn’t think straight.”
I whimper when his other hand finds the hem of my t-shirt and he drags it up and over my head. My nipples tighten as the cool air hits them, the contrast making me shiver.
“Sera’s watching me—”
“I’m watching ya.”
His mouth lands on mine and he kisses me like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin, like he wants to devour every sound I make and keep it.
His tongue strokes deep and claiming, while his hand returns to my throat and tilts my head exactly where he wants it, leaving no doubt who controls the angle, the pace, the moment.
My fingers dig into his shoulders; my hips arch forward, pressing against the hard ridge of his dick behind his jeans.
I break just enough to gasp against his lips. “Don’t you care that she’ll catch us?”
Saint groans into my mouth, the low rumble turning ragged as his fingers dig into my waist. Christ, I’ve never heard his control slip before.