Keira
Stones spit from the tires as the convoy pushes through the gates. The first vehicle brakes hard under the floodlights near the main house.
Sera climbs out of the passenger seat and plants her hand against the door to steady herself. Mud streaks her clothes in dark, drying smears, and dirt marks one side of her face.
Shay is there in an instant, his hand reaching for her arm until she brushes him off with a slight shirk.
She straightens, one shoulder held tighter than the other, her hand pressed low against her ribs.
My stomach drops as I take her in.
Rafe slams out of the Ford parked behind them, the door shutting loud enough to turn heads. The ferocious expression he wears cuts through everything else before he even reaches me.
He comes straight for me, closing the distance fast.
“Take a good fuckin look at what your brother did to her.”
The accusation hits, but I don’t believe it. My gaze cuts back to Sera, to the split in her lip, to the way she holds herself, hunched and guarded in a way that doesn’t match the woman from earlier.
It’s always Riley who did that stuff.
Not Fionn.
Rafe’s hand catches my elbow, and he yanks me into him, his grip hard enough that I lose my footing, his other hand already coming up, close enough that I brace before I can stop it.
His grip tightens, and then it’s gone.
I don’t get the chance to react. Saint is already there, twisting Rafe’s arm behind his back.
Rafe pushes into him, but Saint doesn’t give in. He drives forward instead, forcing Rafe back step by step.
“Don’t,” Saint mutters low.
“Have ya seen our sister, Saint?” Rafe tries to pull himself upright. “Those bastards made her bleed.”
“And they’ll pay for it,” Saint says. “The fuckers who hurt her, not Keira. Am I clear?”
Saint bears down on Rafe’s arm. “Don’t touch her again, Rafe.”
“Or what?”
“Do ya really wanna find out?” Saint’s voice drops lower. “Try me.”
Saint’s grip tightens, folding Rafe forward, neither of them giving ground.
I stay where I am, the imprint of Rafe’s grip still on my arm, my pulse still running hard as it happens inches in front of me.
“She ratted out her da so you could find me,” Sera calls over, her voice steady even as she stands there, bone-tired.
Rafe turns his head just enough to catch sight of his sister. Shay stays close at her side while she swipes the edge of her bloodied lip.
“It’s been a long night, boys,” she says. “Let’s sleep it off.”
Rafe exhales hard, the fight still there, his shoulders tight, jaw set, but he stops pushing against his brother.
Saint keeps his hold for a beat, his gaze fixed on Rafe, unblinking, holding him there a second longer before letting go.
“We done here, Rafe?” he asks.
“Since when did ya side with them?” Rafe straightens and rakes a hand through his messy hair.
“You’re asking the wrong question.” Saint smooths his jacket back into place. “Maybe ya should ask when Keira sided with us?”
Rafe looks straight at me and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a pack of smokes. “You gonna side with us when I kick the fucking shit outta your brother?”
I open my mouth to defend him, but my gaze lands on the blood spattered across Sera’s arm. Nothing comes out.
A lighter sparks, and the flame catches the cigarette between his teeth. Rafe drags in smoke and takes a slow step back.
“What about when I kill your da, Harrington? Will ya still be on our side then?”
A response presses against my closed teeth. My father left me here. He chose retaliation over bringing me home. Rafe speaks as though his death is already decided, and my fingers have gone numb at my sides.
Saint moves to my side, his hand settling at the curve of my spine. “Leave it, Rafe.”
Rafe shakes his head and walks toward Dane. “You know ya can’t keep her, right?”
Heat builds under my skin. I pull back my shoulders and take a step forward.
“What makes you think I want to be kept? You’re so full of your Tallon bullshit that you can’t see past it. It might come as a shock to you, Rafe, but I’m not into kidnapping and being trapped.”
His gaze tightens, and he takes another drag. “But you’re into Saint Tallon—and he’s into you.”
Beside me, Saint’s hand presses harder at my back. My skin tingles under the contact while my heart thrums—he doesn’t deny it.
“We’ll talk about payback first thing in the morning.” Saint looks at Sera. “I’ll get the doctor to call in and check ya over.”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He nods and pulls me away, guiding me along the path toward the cabin. As we leave his family behind, he doesn’t let go.
When his place comes into view, my pulse kicks hard.
He steps aside and lets me go in first. I hesitate on the threshold, not because I don’t know what’s inside, but because I know exactly what going in means.
Inside, the air holds the faint trace of him, of the hunger that hasn’t settled between us. I take a few steps and glance over my shoulder, catching him watching me.
One hand braces against the frame, shoulders filling the space, his gaze steady, fixed on me.
“It’s not a secret anymore, then,” I say.
He pushes off the frame, comes inside, and closes the door.
“Oh yeah. What’s the secret?” He takes off his jacket and hangs it on a hook.
While I shrug off the coat I’m wearing, my gaze drifts over his lips, the pull of him tightening low in my body. “Your family’s figured out you like Alasdair Harrington’s daughter.”
His eyes narrow at that. He drags his thumb across his bottom lip as he stands there, his gaze locked on mine.
“They’ve got no idea what this is, Keira.”
My breath catches, but I don’t move. “Why don’t you tell me what this is?”
His jaw muscles clench. And that’s all the warning I get.
He covers the distance in two confident strides, his hand coming to my neck, and then his mouth is on mine.
It presses hard, as if he’s done holding it back, done pretending this is a situation he can manage from a distance.
The force of it pushes me backward before I answer it, my hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer.
He grunts against my mouth, rougher, dirtier than anything he’s let slip before, and it goes straight through me, scorching my veins.
His hand jumps from my neck to my waist, locking me in place against him.
My body reacts as it always does, pressing into his, matching the need, taking what he’s giving and returning it just as hard.
Keeping a distance isn’t an option anymore.
His boots scuff as he turns me without breaking the kiss, driving me deeper inside until my calves hit the couch. His arm comes around my waist, and he dips me lower.
Lying flat, he climbs on top, his hand bracing beside my head, trapping me beneath him.
Air leaves my lungs in a rush when he pulls back just enough to look at me, his forehead close to mine, his breath uneven against my mouth.
Neither of us moves, and then his eyes flick to my mouth.
“I knew you’d be trouble the second I kissed ya at the gala.”
“You knew it… and you didn’t stop yourself.”
His hand comes up, closing around my jaw, and his mouth crashes over mine, the kiss all wet heat and pressure.
Our lips move, slower now but hungrier, both of us crossing the line all over again.
“I’m not stopping now,” he says into my mouth.
“Me either,” I whisper.
And then he kisses me again.
His weight pins me flat to the couch, heavy and perfect, crushing every shred of resistance we’ve clung to.
I’m breathing hard beneath him, my jumper twisted up around my ribs, his shirt fisted in my hands.
His cock presses thick and rock-hard against my clit through both our jeans, grinding against it.
A needy whimper escapes my throat, and I spread my legs wider for more.
“Fuck,” he hisses against my mouth, voice rough. “Knowing you aren’t wearing a bra under this jumper drives me fucking insane.”
His tongue dips inside my mouth in a rhythm that matches the roll of his hips. I arch up into him, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.
Every drag of rough denim against my clit makes me wetter, aching, desperate.
He pulls back and in one swift motion grabs the hem of my jumper, yanks it up and over my head.
Cool air hits my bare breasts before his hands are on them, squeezing, thumbs brushing over my stiff nipples.
Then his fingers attack his shirt buttons. They pop open one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, that delicious trail of hair leading into his boxers.
God, he’s beautiful—broad shoulders flexing, inked muscles tight as he arches over me.
Skin to skin now, his chest burning against my breasts. I moan at the contact, nails raking across his back.
“That’s it, princess.” He rocks harder, grinding his cock against me. “Mark me.”
He’s already working his belt, the metallic clink sending a fresh rush of heat through me.
Between us, I lift my hips and unzip my jeans, shoving them as far as I can manage with his weight on me.
“Fuck… I’ve been dying to have ya naked again,” he rasps, mouth at my neck, sucking a mark that’ll bruise tomorrow. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this exact fucking thing.”
Sitting back, he drags my jeans to my ankles in rough, impatient tugs, his knuckles grazing my thighs.
“Lift,” he orders.
The second my hips rise, he hooks his fingers under my panties and pulls them off, tossing the fabric away. He gets to his feet for a beat, frees himself from his jeans, his thick cock springing out—hard, flushed, the head glistening.
My pussy clenches at the sight of him.
In a racing heartbeat, he’s on the couch again, draping one of my legs over his arm, spreading me wide open, and running the heavy length of his cock through my wet folds.
The crown teases my swollen clit until I’m shaking and whimpering.
“Just do it,” I pant. “Do it already.”
He captures his lower lip between his teeth and locks eyes with me. At the same time, he fists his cock and positions it at my entrance, not pushing all the way in.
“Saint.” I gasp, voice cracking. “Inside me. Now.”
A low, satisfied rumble moves through his chest when he pushes in deep, burying himself.
The stretch is so good it steals my breath. I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as my walls clamp around his thick cock.
“Fuck, Keira.” He groans, forehead pressed to mine. “It shouldn’t feel this fucking good.”
He moves, each thrust rocking the couch beneath us. His grip on my hip is bruising, holding me where he wants me as he fucks me harder, faster. Skin slaps against skin. Our ragged breaths mingle.
He kisses me hard for a mind-melting minute before rearing back.
“Look at you taking every inch,” he rasps, voice strained but still so controlled. “All this time… Acting like ya didn’t want my cock again, and now you’re gonna come all over it.”
I’m close already, the coil in my belly winding tighter with every punishing stroke. He senses the rise and changes his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside me while his thumb finds my clit.
“Give it to me. Let go. I want to feel this tight little pussy soak me.”
The command, the raw dominance in his voice, sends my temperature soaring. Pleasure explodes through me, my walls clamping around him as I cry out his name, shaking and pulsing beneath him.
He keeps fucking me through every wave, drawing it out until I’m trembling and oversensitive.
Only then does his rhythm falter. He buries his face in my neck, hips snapping.
“Keira,” he growls against my skin, my name vibrating through me. “You’re so fucking bad for me.”
With one final, deep thrust, he comes hard, pulsing hot and thick inside me. His groan is low and guttural, muscles tensing as he empties himself inside me.
We stay locked together, panting, his weight a delicious anchor. His fingers stroke through my hair, surprisingly gentle after the storm.
My heart hammers against his chest, and I trail featherlight fingers over the raised track mark I’d left on his shoulders.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I whisper. “Not when I want it as much as I do.”
Saint lifts his head, eyes still dark but softer at the edges.
A small, possessive smile curves his lips as his thumb brushes my swollen lower lip. “I’m not done with ya.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper.
“It’s impossible, Saint.” I slide my fingers into his hair. “Why do you think I moved to Paris? My father controls everything. And we both know I don’t belong here.”
“Maybe ya don’t, princess,” he says, voice gritty. “But you belong with me. I don’t give a fuck who has a problem with it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t care about your da or that you’ve got his surname, Keira. We can change that. It’s not a problem.”
My heart stutters.
“Saint…” I trace my fingertips across his jaw and stare into his eyes. “The only way this could work is if you let me walk out of here tomorrow morning.”
His eyes fix on mine, his brow tightening. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” I whisper, holding his gaze even as something tight works around my ribs.