"Maybe we—" Craig started, his voice low and rough, then he cut himself off. He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration clear in the tight set of his jaw. "Maybe we should head back. It's getting late." Without waiting for her answer, he turned away, the sharp edge of his words hanging between them like a warning.
Inside, Craig's mind was a storm. Every fiber of his being screamed to close the distance, to reach for her again—to claim her like he'd imagined a hundred times before. But the weight of the risks pressed down on him like a stone.
If Conor found out, if his father caught wind of it… the fallout would be chaos. She was a girl who came to Belford to accuse his family of murder—how could he let himself fall for her? How could he risk being owned, completely, by someone so dangerous to his world?
He clenched his fists, forcing the tension down, fighting the pull that threatened to undo him. He needed control—he needed to hold the line before everything slipped.
