CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Signals

SIGNALS

Lachlan

I slide into the car and grip the steering wheel. One deep breath is all the time I allow myself to take before I key the engine and drive away from Rock Rose Lodge.

I plow through the next several hours, and even though I’m kept occupied, my thoughts always return to Lark. My pulse pounds faster with every second that ticks closer to eleven. Part of me hopes she won’t call. That she’ll be sound asleep. But a more selfish part of me needs to hear her voice.

It’s two minutes after eleven when my phone rings.

There’s a pause. “How was your evening?”

She wants to ask. But she won’t. And I let the moment linger for a long beat before I finally say, “Want to see what I was up to?”

There’s a rustling sound in the background. I imagine Lark shifting off her bed, darting to the window of her room. “What do you mean? You’re here?”

My smile grows wider as I hear her gather her belongings. “Leave the giant bag there, duchess. And put on a sweater. Come out the back door of the lodge and try not to let anyone see you. Keep me on the line until you get to the car, I’m parked out front.”

In just a few moments, Lark is jogging down the path from the lodge and I key the engine as soon as she pulls the door open. In a whirl of motion, she’s seated next to me, her familiar scent and her bright energy a balm to the unexpected anxiety I’ve felt in her absence.

I glance at Lark and meet her wary gaze. But she can’t hide the excitement that glimmers in her eyes.

We hardly talk at all on the short drive to our destination, but Lark fills the silence with songs. Maybe she’s as nervous as I am. I think back to the Scituate Reservoir and how I pulled up to the scene of Lark’s “accident,” how my flashlight illuminated a woman standing alone on the road, blood trickling from the deep gash on her forehead. I wonder if Lark goes back to that memory too. She’s never told me about Jamie Merrick, the man I pulled from the lake, but I’ve been digging into him in Leander’s office in my spare time during my recent quest to learn more about my wife. One day, maybe she’ll be willing to tell me everything. Maybe even after tonight.

It’s eleven thirty when we turn down a gravel driveway and park between a white van and a vintage Jaguar. There’s an A-frame cabin in front of us, the lake shimmering just behind it, the black waves illuminated by the lights that spill from the tall windows of the cottage. Conor steps out onto the porch and gives us a wave. Lark takes hold of the door handle and moves to exit the Charger when I grab her wrist to stop her.

Lark’s eyes linger on me, falling to my mouth and resting there. She nods and I unfold my fingers from her wrist.

We step out of the car and I retrieve my toolbox from the trunk. I resist the urge to take Lark’s hand as we ascend the wooden stairs to meet Conor on the porch. He holds a gun in one hand, sheaves of paper in the other.

Lark’s head tilts. “How?”

With a swift kiss to Lark’s cheek, I give Conor a knowing look and then step inside Dr. Louis Campbell’s cabin.

The lights are low, the living room dim. There are shelves of old books. Oil paintings in heavy gold frames. Diplomas and awards. Photos with politicians, Campbell’s silver hair coiffed, his smile bleached, every suit finely tailored. Pictures of him with his wife, his nondescript children in school uniforms. I stop at a side table and glare down at a photo of his smiling face frozen in time. A whimper finds me from the dining room, and I meet the terrified eyes of the same man from the photograph, except this time he’s strapped to an ornate chair. The headmaster of Ashborne Collegiate Institute.

I’m genuinely feckin’ excited.

At first, I thought feelings like joy or hope or excitement had been dulled in me, worn down by the tides of an unforgiving world. But I was wrong. Since Lark came into my life, I’ve felt excited every day. It started when I followed Lark onto the balcony the night of Rowan’s restaurant opening, and though it had a vicious edge at first, it gradually transformed. I realize now that I’m excited every single time I see her. The need to push her away has become a desire to pull her closer. I don’t just want to hear her laugh, I need to earn it. Every time I gain a little ground, I want more. I want to break out of the shade and back into her light. Without even realizing it, I’ve become addicted to it. To her.

Lark’s needs are my priority. Even the ones she doesn’t know about.

Like the one bound before me now.

I close in on Dr. Campbell and tear the duct tape from his lips.

Campbell pauses, weighs the options, then picks the most disappointing one. “Money. If it’s money you want—”

A flicker of panic brightens in his eyes. His pulse surges above the sharp edge of his pressed shirt collar. “This has something to do with a political connection.”

He says nothing as I set the papers before me on the table. I pick up the top sheet and hold it up so he can read it.

Campbell’s cheeks brighten with crimson blotches as his eyes dart between me and the words on the printed email.

I lean closer and hold his focus as my smile stretches. “I’m here for vengeance.”

Campbell tries to shake his head, but we both know his protest is futile. “I spoke to Miss Sutherland. She told me nothing. There was no reason to believe Laurent Verdon was involved in any inappropriate activities with her or any other student. There was no evidence to support those concerns.”

The silence is so thick that it presses against my skin. Campbell swallows, his lips quivering. “Listen, whoever you are. While I understand you’re upset, the fact remains that allegations about inappropriate conduct are extremely serious and can have career-destroying implications, and they must not be pursued on rumor alone. Besides, Mr. Verdon is no longer with Ashborne.”

My hand trembles. My heart climbs up my throat with every beat. Rage paints my vision red the moment I hold the final message up between us.

Campbell goes rigid beneath his bonds as I take slow, predatory steps around the edge of the table until I’m standing next to him, my eyes fixed to the words on the page. To the name. To the image of the person it evokes, and all that must be hidden beneath what I can see.

I lower my gun and take a single step back.

The door opens. Campbell whimpers as slow footsteps approach.

Lark’s voice is low and quiet when she says, “Hello, Dr. Campbell.”

I see the exact moment he realizes who Lark is, and a misguided hope floods his watery eyes. “Miss Montague, please—”

Lark sets the toolbox down on the table and rests a hand on the lid as she turns to pin her glare to the trembling man at the end of my gun. My beautiful wife. An angelic devil, so wickedly innocent, her sweet and welcoming features contrasted by the lethal coldness in her crystalline eyes.

Campbell sobs as Lark flicks the lid open.

A murderous squeak leaves Lark’s lips as she claps her hands. She beams her smile at me and I can’t help but grin as she pulls out a small glass pot. “You brought me glitter,” she says, shaking the jar. I shrug and try to look nonchalant, but I can feel my cheeks heat with a shy blush. Lark has mercy on me and turns her attention back to the contents, taking her time to examine and announce each item, everything from gold star stickers to a brand-new set of polished knives.

Lark pulls a needle and gold thread from the box.

With a steady hand, Lark pierces Campbell’s lower lip. He wails in pain, but there’s no one in the distance to hear his pleas for help as Lark slowly pulls the thread through his flesh.

Blood beads around the hole as Lark slides the needle through his lower lip for the second stitch.

Tears stream down Campbell’s face and I feel no pity. No remorse. Only pain for the suffering my wife has endured. Only admiration for her resilience as she makes another stitch. And another. And another, until his lips are sewn shut with gold thread.

Lark comes to my side, her palm held aloft. I lay the weapon onto her waiting hand.

She doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t waver. There’s no fear in her voice when she says, “Enjoy hell, Dr. Campbell. Tell the devil that the Kanes send their regards.”

There’s a quiet pop. A crimson spray of blood. The room falls into silence. She passes me the gun, but says nothing. The only sound is Lark’s steady sigh. And then, finally, I feel her hand on mine, a gentle squeeze, and the relief she feels finds its way into my veins.

Her hand lifts away, and then I watch as Lark leaves the cabin, passing Conor, where he watches next to the door.

A current slithers down my spine. “Oh yeah?” I ask as I bend to start cutting away the ropes at Campbell’s ankles. “What’s that?”

Conor chuckles as I take the grinder from the toolbox and plug it in. “Of course, bro.”

I turn the grinder on to drown out Conor’s delighted cackle as he leaves the cabin. When he’s gone, I turn it off again for just a moment to listen to the engine of the van start and the crunch of gravel beneath the tires as it departs. And then I get to work.

It’s close to three in the morning when I make it home, and though I’m tempted to text Lark, I don’t. Still too hyped up by the night’s events to be ready for sleep, I walk Bentley instead, then take the toolkit with me to Lark’s craft room, my trophy hidden inside. There’s a wooden box there that will suit my needs perfectly, and several cans of unopened clear epoxy left over from one of her projects. I connect my phone to the speakers and start playing my latest book as I pour myself a drink. I then clean my prize at the sink and pat it dry before I bring out gold crafting wire and start bending the pieces into shape.

I’ve just finished forming the wire frame when I receive a call from Lark.

Lark huffs a laugh. “It did. But then again, I’m always tired.”

She must be, I think. Always tired. Physically tired. Mentally tired. Stretched thinner and thinner until she’s a warped and distorted image of who she’s supposed to be. It fills the bottom of my stomach with something that burns. “How’d it go earlier at the retreat, anyway? Think you’ll enjoy the next few days? I never got a chance to ask.”

My cock twitches, demanding attention. I shift on my seat. “Right. Yeah …”

My phone dings and sure enough, it’s a photo of Lark twisted into some kind of impossible shape, her shorts stretched tight across her ass, her strong, sweat-slicked legs trailing up the length of her body to where her ankles cross beneath her head. If she wasn’t wearing those shorts …

Christ Jesus.

I take my glasses off and drag a hand down my face. “That’s … awesome.”

Lark giggles, and I wonder if she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I’ll need to wank off for the third time today to yet another yoga-inspired fantasy of Lark if I have any hope of falling asleep myself.

Trying not to die of the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever had in my feckin’ life.

Fucksakes, no I was not. That would make me worse than Fionn.

Lark gifts me with an unsure breath of a laugh. “I feel like I should ask what you’re reading.”

She laughs again, and this time I know it’s for real. “Okay, Budget Batman. You keep your secrets stuffed in your neoprene suit, then.”

I don’t press her. I just let her come around to it, and it takes a moment of waiting that feels eternal.

At first it feels a little strange to read aloud to someone, but I quickly fall into the rhythm of a story that opens with an ancient city and a prisoner who finds a strange relic during a daring escape from his cell. I describe how the artifact seems to affect him. My tone is hushed and sinister when I tell her the prisoner hears voices when he holds it, and though he looks everywhere for the source, there’s no one nearby. He breaks out in a feverish sweat. He seems compelled by a hidden force, driven to run. When the prison guards discover he’s missing and chase him through the city, he’s hit by a car, the metal crumpling around him, and yet he stands uninjured, the relic still clutched in his hand. The man looks down at his forearm where a symbol burns through his flesh.

Silence permeates the line.

I lift one shoulder, though of course Lark can’t see it. “Yeah.”

With another invisible shrug, I place the spiral wire into the box and start shaping the two ends so it will stand upright on a smaller spiral frame. “The first time would have been about two weeks ago.”

I grin as I lift my prize from the damp and bloody tea towel and place it in the wire cage within the box. With a few minor tweaks, the golden spiral will be a perfect fit. “I thought you were supposed to be falling asleep. You gonna let me keep reading or what? I haven’t even gotten to the Keanu bit yet.”

Lark laughs and I make a few digs at Keanu, which of course get her fired up. But then we get back to the story. I tell her about Father Hennessy and the holy water and the possession that he can’t exorcise. I introduce Constantine, John Constantine, in my best Keanu impression, which she says reminds her too much of my “whisper growl” from the night we met. “Less whispering, more growling, but make it sound morose like you’re so over this bullshit—so basically be you on a normal day but with demons,” she declares, and soon enough I get her stamp of approval. And eventually, Lark goes quiet, staying that way even after I taper off into silence. When I take the time to wait and listen, I hear it. The muffled, steady cadence of her breath as she sleeps.

With a faint smile, I set my phone on mute and place it off to the side as I continue my work.

Just in case she wakes up.

HYMNS

Lachlan

The end of the day is my favorite time in the shop. It’s serene. The studio feels comforting in the dim light as the sun slips behind the city buildings. Music drifts through my wall-mounted speakers. I resist the urge to change playlists so I can hear Lark’s voice as I start my last project for the day. She’ll be here soon and I don’t want her to catch me with her music playing when she arrives. She’ll think I’m lovesick and pining, though I’ve come to accept that’s probably true. It’s been a week since Lark was at the sleep clinic, and every day since she came home has been better and better, yet, in some ways, each day is more painful than the one before. I think about her every waking moment. I worry about her constantly. I’m particularly anxious about what we’ll find when we check out Club Pacifico tonight, but I’m also counting down the hours until I see Lark. So I try to distract myself, but I still struggle to focus on the rhythm of my tools as I cut and shape and carve through hide.

I’m glancing at my watch when the brass bell rings over the door.

When I look up, an unfamiliar man steps over the threshold. There’s a faint smile on his face as he looks around the shop. I lower the music and slide my glasses off, setting them aside on the worktop.

The man shifts the weight of a heavy Western saddle onto his hip as he extends a hand for me to shake. He’s a few inches shorter than me and a decade older at least, but his forearm is thick with the type of muscle that comes from hard, consistent labor. The bottom of a tattoo peeks from his sleeve, a simple cross with three waves beneath it like pages of an open Bible. “The name’s Abe,” he says in a faint Texan drawl as he tips the brim of his worn Carhartt ball cap in greeting. “Abe Midus. We have an appointment for tomorrow, but I was in the area, so thought I might drop in to see if you’re free.”

I expect Abe to elaborate, but he doesn’t. His eyes pan across the shelves of materials, tools, and works in progress. I wait until he meets my lingering gaze then nod toward a chair but he declines to sit.

When I’m seated on my favorite rolling stool, I set the saddle on a stand and pull the fabric cover off to reveal the old leather. It’s cracked and scuffed in some places, worn down from use in others. The elaborate scrollwork and flower tooling is faded, an echo of what was once a vibrant design. “Quite a piece, Abe. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Abe turns away, but not before I catch the sharp edge of darkness descend across his weathered features. He wanders to my workstation, bending at the waist to look across my tools and pieces of hide ready for various projects.

He flashes me a brief smile, one I return as a faint echo of what I see.

Abe takes a step closer. He taps a finger to his chin, as though my question sparked an idea. “Yes, actually. I do.”

Something about him sets off the alarm in my mind. Maybe it’s his wolfish smile. He seems like a man who has secrets that want to claw their way free. Or maybe it’s the way his grip tenses a fraction around the edger, like he’s ready to make a tool into a weapon. It could be that easy if he’s anything like me. He could lunge forward in a blink of movement, drive it into my chest, maybe spear me in the neck. Is that what he’s thinking?

But a heartbeat later he sets down the tool with a pleasant smile, and I’m right back to wondering if my vigilance is becoming paranoia.

I clear my throat and push my stool away from the saddle. The caster wheels squeak in protest as I roll toward the nearest worktop where a pad of paper rests. “Great,” I say, clearing my throat as though that will cleanse my thoughts. “Let me just grab a pen so I can take down exactly what you want.”

I turn my back on Abe, and two things happen in the same instant.

His boot scuffs against the floor as he takes a step closer to me.

And the brass bell rings over the door.

Before I can reassure her, Abe strides forward, removing his hat as he extends a hand in greeting. “Afternoon, ma’am. It’s no interruption. I was due in tomorrow, but I was close by and thought I might stop in. The name’s Abe.”

Lark beams a smile as she accepts his handshake. “I’m Lark,” she says. I catch myself hoping she’ll expand on how we know each other, but she doesn’t. Instead, she lets Abe’s hand go and nods toward the saddle next to me. “You’re a rider?”

Lark flashes Abe a warm grin, and though he returns it, the smile doesn’t meet his eyes quite right. The light seems off, as though it reflects at the wrong angle.

I tap my pen on the table and clear my throat. “So Abe, you said you wanted an addition to the design …?” I ask as I settle back onto my stool and flip to a fresh page in my notebook.

I’m writing it down as Lark’s singing voice cuts me short:

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

darkness be over me, my rest a stone

My pen stops partway through writing God. I turn and look at Lark, her expression peaceful as the melody tumbles from her lips:

yet in my dreams I’d be

nearer, my God, to thee;

nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee …

Lark’s voice fades away. The instrumental music in the background is the only sound left, but it feels cold and lifeless.

The luster dulls in Lark’s smile when she drops her gaze to the saddle. Her fingers coast across the embossed roses, the faded design lost to time. “My dad was. We all were, I guess. But I’m not anymore.”

I pull my attention away from Lark and finish writing the lyric Abe requested.

I’m turning on the stool, about to interject, with what, I don’t know. But as I pivot, I catch sight of Lark staring unwaveringly at Abe.

Abe is about to say something further when I rise. “I think I’ve got what I need, thank you, Abe. If you think of anything else you’d like added or changed, please let me know. Now you’ll have to excuse us.” I grab my jacket from where it rests on the back of a nearby chair and shrug it on. I offer a hand to Lark, and I’m surprised when she takes it. “We have an appointment to get to, but I’ll be happy to keep our time tomorrow if you want to chat through other ideas.”

Abe nods once. “No need. I think you have the details.”

I turn off the music, and Abe tips the brim of his hat to us both before he turns away. He whistles Lark’s song as he strides through the shop.

A moment later, the bell rings over the door, and Abe is gone.

ASCEND

Lark

I lead the way out the door of Lachlan’s shop just as a FedEx truck rolls to a halt along the curb. The driver waves at us. Lachlan salutes him, then turns to me.

I head to the car and slip into the driver’s seat. I have to stretch my legs to depress the clutch before I key the engine. It roars to life. The faded lights on the old dash glow a ghostly blue. The new stereo comes on.

But it’s not music that fills the car.

I look toward Lachlan as the narration plays on, but he’s busy picking up boxes and setting them down just inside the door.

I whip out my phone and open my last conversation with Sloane.

I get it now.

Get what?

Your thing about books

Okaaaay. I’m still not catching what you’re laying down though …?

I record the narration on a voice note and send it to her, catching enough of the audio to provide Sloane with a colorful segment of ass foreplay.

Oh. My. God.

I told him to crack a romance book. I didn’t think he’d actually DO IT ahahaha

My head tilts. I reread Sloane’s message.

You told him to what …?

I glance at Lachlan as he heaves the last box from the ground. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice the way his clothes strain across his taut muscle, or the way my belly clenches in response.

Crack a romance book

Why? Now I’m not catching what YOU’RE laying down

So he could learn how to talk to you without being such an asshat

He wanted to know about the claustrophobia thing. I told him to go fuck himself and read a book. I think he just wanted to connect with you. Kind of cute, actually. Dumb but cute.

Hold on a second … is it working?!

Sloane’s question rattles around in my head. I lower my phone and notice in my periphery Lachlan locking up the shop.

I’ve gotta go

Several texts buzz in my pocket when I shove my phone in my jacket, but I ignore them. Lachlan strides toward the car. He doesn’t notice that the door is locked until he tries the handle, then meets my eyes with confusion as I hold down the push button lock for dramatic effect. A wicked grin creeps into my lips. With one finger still pressed to the lock, I reach toward the dial and turn it up until it’s nearly deafening.

The look of pure mortification on Lachlan’s face is delectable.

I can’t hear him between the audiobook playing at full volume and my maniacal laugh, but I can certainly see the word repeated across his full lips as he scrambles for his phone. He pats down every pocket until he finally finds it. The recording comes to an abrupt stop, and I pout as he glowers at me through the window.

The moment I pull the lock button up, Lachlan whips the door open.

Desire.

I know I should move, but I don’t.

Lachlan swallows. He doesn’t answer so I lean a little closer. Though I expect him to back away, he doesn’t.

What the hell is wrong with me?

What am I doing? This is insanity. Sure, Lachlan wants me to forgive him for our shitty first meeting, but pushing these kinds of buttons might just invite more suffering than either of us can bear.

My smile fades. He won’t tell me, and I shouldn’t want to know.

Lachlan catches my wrist. His glasses do little to disguise the frustration in his eyes. I still think he’s not going to tell me. But then he says, “Death’s Obsession.”

A faint smile plays on my lips as Lachlan releases my wrist and takes a step back.

It takes a second longer than it should for my feet to start moving, but then I stride toward the rear of the vehicle, my steps a little lighter than I thought they’d be. “I think we should listen to it on the way—”

Lachlan puts music on. We don’t talk much, so I hum along and watch the city lights as they slip past my window. I feel safe in this bubble of steel and black leather. Lachlan’s energy is as gravitational as an imploding star’s. His thoughts churn, but never release. It feels like he has so many things to say but no means to let them loose, so they coil inside. More and more, I want to know what they are. I need to know.

Lachlan lets out an unconvinced hmph. “Hopefully it won’t be that exciting. Let’s just grab the files we need and get out.”

I wink, stoking the flame that always seems to burn deep within Lachlan. He holds my gaze, unerring. “You’ll be careful. That’s what you’ll feckin’ do. The person we’re looking for could be at that party.”

My teasing smile falters and I turn my gaze to the road ahead. “It’s not. Don’t worry.”

A honk sounds from behind us. Lachlan mutters a curse and the car surges forward. For a long moment, I think we’ll be riding the rest of the way in silence, but after just a few blocks I feel Lachlan’s eyes on me. The moment I glance in his direction, he catches my hand from my lap and holds on.

An ache slides into my chest, burning hot and unexpected. When Lachlan lets go of my hand, I catch his before it reaches the steering wheel, and the responding surprise in his expression is unguarded, a reaction that I store away in memory. “I will. I promise.”

I lift my palm away and offer an untroubled smile. But I can tell something is still roiling within Lachlan. It doesn’t pass—definitely not when we park and he pulls a gun from the glove compartment to holster it at his back, nor when we head toward the entrance of the building. He keeps a hand on the small of my back as we walk through the lobby and head for the elevators. One arrives just as a small group enters the building and catches up with us, and they follow us inside with no acknowledgment that the elevator is beyond capacity. A tiny burst of anxiety flares inside me as my back presses to the wall, but at least we’re not in the dark. Rather than face the doors, Lachlan turns toward me. We’re so close I can feel his body heat. His eyes stay trained on mine. My heart knocks a stuttered rhythm when his hand presses to my waist.

I could so easily reach up and wrap my hand around his nape and draw his mouth to mine. I could discover where this current takes us, see if it ignites or destroys. Maybe I could confess that I think about our moment on Rowan’s balcony every day. That when I do, I can’t help but touch my lips and wish that it had been the first time we met. I could tell him how I wonder more and more about the hurt I’m still holding on to and question why I don’t just let it go. I could tell him that I’m starting to see things in him that I tried to ignore—his fierce loyalty, his protectiveness for the few people he cares about, the way he remains true to the hardest of promises. I could admit that I forgave him when he stood next to his car and promised to work for my forgiveness. Maybe even before that. I know that saying these things would erase the heartache and regret in his eyes.

But I don’t say anything.

The elevator arrives at floor seventeen and the group exits first. A heartbeat later, Lachlan’s hand slips away from my waist and he leads the way to the entrance of the club.

Base thumps beneath the thrum of voices and laughter, the club already busy despite the relatively early hour. Jewel-colored lights flicker across the ceiling. At the far end of the club there’s a wall of windows looking out over the shimmering city skyline. Some people dance, some stand with their drinks and mingle. There’s an energy in the air, a sense of darkness and need that I struggle to define. Maybe that’s just me—or us. Lachlan’s fingers intertwine with mine as he leads me though the throng toward the bar. After we grab our drinks, we find a spot to stand near the windows where we can watch the crowd on the dance floor and the patrons who mingle at the high-tops.

I shake my head. “No.”

When I turn my head to the side to meet his eyes, Lachlan’s attention fuses to my lips. They curl in a smile. “Only you.”

His lips twitch. There’s that fire again—the flame inside him that if coaxed just right, becomes a beacon in the night.

My teasing smile might fade, but the flame between us doesn’t. If anything, it brightens.

Maybe I’m torturing him. Or maybe myself. I don’t know anymore. So I drag my focus back to the room before I can start something I don’t know how to finish.

His heat radiates through my back. I fight the urge to lean into him. I nearly lose it when his hand grazes my hip. “Follow me,” Lachlan says, his voice low and rich, and then his warmth is gone.

I trail after Lachlan as we head toward the offices. He had me memorize the layout so I know exactly where to go. Lachlan slides his phone from his pocket, unaware that the crowd parts for him like a school of fish around a shark that swims through night waters. He texts someone, likely Conor. His eyes stay locked to the screen until it lights up with a reply. When it does, he pockets the phone, then reaches his hand back for mine. I take it and follow in his wake, and a moment later we pass through the staff door, music and voices dampening when it shuts behind us.

My heart thunders with excitement and fear. When we reach the office door, Lachlan keeps his hand poised over the gun hidden at his back. He grips the curved door handle with his other hand and presses his ear to the wood. A moment later he pushes it open, and when he seems satisfied, he motions for me to follow.

We don’t turn on the lights, using the flashlights on our phones instead. Lachlan goes for the laptop on the desk and plugs in a flash drive, while I look through papers for anything that might be useful. Notes, open mail, anything with a dollar amount—I take photos of everything I can, barely digesting the information I flip through. My hands shake as I turn the pages and try to hold my phone steady. The moments that pass feel stretched too long.

And then I land on an invoice.

Lachlan’s eyes flash as a smirk claims his lips. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he looks a little bit proud, and my cheeks heat at the thought. “Get a photo and let’s get out of here. Conor can follow up on it.”

I snap the picture. I’m just stepping around the desk to Lachlan’s side when a voice closes in on us from the corridor. There’s someone talking on a phone. My body stiffens with panic but Lachlan is already in motion, his arm wrapped around my waist as he drags me with him to a storage closet.

He shuts the door, closing us in cramped darkness.

His hand slides across my mouth and I try not to whimper as blood rushes in my head. “Shh,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear, his voice so quiet that even I can barely hear him. “I’ve got you, duchess.”

And he does.

Lachlan holds me to his chest. His grip tightens when the office door opens and someone enters the room. He holds me tighter still as my body shakes with shocks of adrenaline. The man in the office talks about liquor orders and a drawer slides open in the desk. He can’t hear Lachlan whisper to me, a steady current of solace, a pillar in the dark. We’re okay. Just close your eyes, if you want to. I won’t let go, I promise.

My panic surges when the man walks around the desk and heads to a filing cabinet.

I nod, Lachlan’s hand still clamped across my mouth.

My blood turns volcanic when his lips press to my temple and linger there.

Fear and desire. They war in my veins.

I wrap my trembling fingers around Lachlan’s wrist and pull his hand down just enough that my lips are free. He leans back, his eyes following the contours of my face behind his glasses. Maybe he expects I’ll put distance between us, that I’ll let his hand go, but I don’t. I drag his fingers to my neck where my pulse hammers a pounding rhythm, down to my collarbones, and finally to the sliver of exposed skin on my chest. I press his palm there. I want you to stay, that simple touch says.

A moment later, we hear the man’s heavy footsteps cross the room. The office door closes, leaving us in silence.

Lachlan cracks the closet door open enough to let me see out. But it’s him I’m watching. His hand still lies on my chest. My fingers are curled around the edge of his palm as I press it to my skin. My heart sings beneath my bones. I know he can feel it. He watches that point of contact as though he can see the secrets those beats write into his skin.

An ache coils low in my belly. A need that stalks me. More and more, it lingers, ready to consume. It’s there when Lachlan stumbles out of his room in the morning in a T-shirt and low-slung sweats as he heads to the coffee machine to make us Americanos. It haunts me when his gaze lingers on my lips as I smile. It possesses me when I’m alone in my room at night, staring into the dark as my hand slips beneath my sleep shorts. It’s Lachlan’s touch I imagine when I circle my clit, when I plunge my fingers into my pussy. I want his touch everywhere. I want it for longer than just a moment that feels stolen in the dark.

My breath comes faster as these images play in my mind. My pulse stutters. My eyes solder to his lips.

Just one kiss. I want more than a phantom. More than my imagination. I want him.

I lean closer. But Lachlan uses the pressure on my chest to keep us apart.

The rejection must be written in every detail of my face. There’s no way I can hide it, not even in shadows. Lips parted. Skin crimson. I take a step back, expecting Lachlan will lift his hand away when I let mine fall to my side. But he doesn’t.

I swallow. Shake my head. I want to say so many things, but only one word comes out. “Lachlan …”

He pulls his hand from my chest and leaves a cold ache behind, but when I think he’ll back away completely he grazes my cheek with his knuckles as he holds my eyes. “Not until I know you forgive me. Otherwise, this won’t work, and I want it to work.”

Before I can say anything, Lachlan gives me a faint, apologetic smile, then opens the closet door and steps out.

I feel like my mind is disconnected from my body as I follow Lachlan out of the room and down the corridor.

Though Lachlan checks on me over his shoulder, we don’t speak. We slip back into the bar unnoticed, and he pulls his phone from his pocket to text Conor. A moment later, I feel the buzz of a text on my watch and wonder if he included me on a chat, but it’s Sloane’s name that flashes on the screen. I pull out my mobile and open the message.

Thought you should know …

My steps lurch to a halt as I read the headline of the news article she sent.

MURDER INVESTIGATION INTO DISAPPEARANCE OF ASHBORNE COLLEGIATE INSTITUTE HEADMASTER

With an unsteady breath, I click on the link. Dr. Louis Campbell’s face stares back at me. Maybe I should feel remorse. A normal person would. Wouldn’t they …? I don’t. All I feel is a sense of accomplishment, of justice.

I’m about to read the article when another text comes in from Sloane.

You know, if he happened to have exploded in a freak fireworks accident, I’d be proud of you.

A chill races through my veins as I raise my eyes to watch Lachlan slice his way through the crowd, weaving a path toward the bar. I take a step back then veer to the left, headed for the doors to the empty rooftop patio.

What do you mean? Did Lachlan say something to you?

No. Not at all.

An icy wind cools the heat that floods my skin as I try to work out what to say. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, of being afraid of falling but still wanting to jump. Before I can work out a reply, my phone buzzes in my hand with another message.

I just figured, maybe you needed to hear it. Maybe I’m wrong. But if you’re like me, I don’t love you any less. Not one bit. And maybe you can tell me about it sometime.

Tears flood my vision. I try to blink them away. Relief and regret twine in my chest. The only regret I’ve ever felt about the things I’ve done is that I haven’t shared them sooner with the one person who has never hidden her darkness from me.

I swipe a tear from my cheek and tap out my reply.

I love you too, Sloaney. And I’d like that.

I pocket my phone and stare at the horizon, trying to force the storm of emotions away. The lingering desire for the kiss that never came. The sting of rejection. The shame and relief of secrets forced to the surface. But there’s not much hope of finding any relief as I stare across the city. It’s barely been five minutes before I hear the door open behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Lachlan.

My smile is weak, ready to shatter. I train my attention on the city lights. “Go ahead.”

Lachlan leans his forearms on the railing, his elbow a gentle pressure against mine. The wind gusts as though rising from the channels and tributaries of streets below us, lifting my hair from my shoulders. It’s a welcome chill to the heat that lingers just beneath my skin.

Lachlan gestures toward the view and I catch the glimmer of his wedding band. “We had a very similar view when we first moved to America,” he says. “Leander put us up in a condo just a few buildings west of here.”

Lachlan shrugs. “I owe him a lot. Covering up what Rowan and I did back in Sligo. Bringing us here. Setting us up.”

I meet Lachlan’s eyes and he seems closer than I thought he’d be, somehow. There’s warmth in his eyes as he gives me a lopsided grin, but the remnants of sadness remain.

Our smiles fade as we stand side by side in the biting cold. I’m the first to break our connection and look out across the city, though it takes effort to look away. I can feel him still watching in the periphery.

Lachlan could say something snarky, something teasing. But he stays quiet, a steady presence next to me. He watches as I sweep wayward strands of hair from my eyes and focus on the farthest points I can see along the horizon, pinpricks of light in the black distance.

And I prayed too that night. I asked Him to save my family. I prayed and prayed and prayed to a God who never answered. Three shots, two screams, and only a few minutes of commotion as thieves stole money and jewelry and car keys and ran. But not a word from God.

Those words float away on the wind. I don’t try to catch them. They’re just gone, not ready to be shared, no matter how much I wish I could give them away.

I shake my head. This isn’t the kind of thing I can talk about with anyone, not even Sloane. It’s like the concrete in our foundation that we know exists, but never acknowledge. Even when I went to therapy, I talked around Ashborne. I was too nervous to tell the truth, too worried about endangering my best friend. It was easier to slip into another disguise, to channel the persona I’d practiced so that other people wouldn’t feel uncomfortable around me. I thought I’d end up lonelier if I wasn’t who they wanted me to be. But it doesn’t really work that way. You still live with your true self on the inside.

Maybe Lachlan is unsure how I feel about this. I guess it’s hard to know when I don’t look his way. But he takes a risk anyway. My eyes drift closed when he runs a knuckle across my cheek. “He did nothing to stop what happened to you. He deserved what he got.”

I turn just enough so that Lachlan can’t see my face and nod. As my gaze is caught on the horizon, his hand folds around mine, gently prying my palms apart so he can grasp my hand.

My lips press into a tight line as the silence stretches on, just the wind and cars far below us, the pulse of music behind glass, the drum of my heart behind bone. And after a long while, Lachlan starts to spin my engagement ring. Back and forth. Back and forth. It’s such a simple motion that he probably doesn’t even think about it, and maybe that’s why my heart creases like thin paper folded one too many times. His steady presence imprints in the lines left behind.

I’m not sure how much time passes. I’m not sure when it is I lean into Lachlan’s side just enough that I feel the warmth of his body through my clothes, or how long it is before he lets go of my hand to rest an arm around my shoulders. But it’s a long time before I say, “We should go home.”

My breath catches. “You’re not coming with me?”

I turn to Lachlan and place a hand on his chest. Rising on my tiptoes, I kiss his cheek. I can feel the way his heart jumps beneath my palm. “Let’s go,” I say, and I lead the way back inside.

Within twenty minutes, he’s dropped me off. He waits at the curb until I turn on the lights in our apartment and give him a wave out the window. Within another twenty minutes, I receive a text with a photo, one of a gold star sticker on Lachlan’s chest. I grin as a second message comes through.

My first gold star! I feel like I’m getting somewhere.

My smile brightens as I pick up my guitar and open my notebook to a fresh page. When I’m settled in the round chair by the windows, I tap out my reply.

Maybe you are, Batman. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

I play a few chords.

And before long, I start a new song.

SPOTLIGHT

Lachlan

She’s sitting crossed-legged next to Bentley on the couch in our apartment, illuminated by the setting sun. She beams at me as she rattles the box. My nerves and excitement war with every thud of my heart. She’ll love it. Thump. She’ll hate it. Thump. Too much. Thump. Not enough. Thump.

I shrug like it’s no big deal, but Lark sees right through it. I can tell by the way her grin spreads as she slowly tugs one end of the ribbon to unravel the bow. “And what if I don’t?”

Lark giggles. The ribbon unravels to fall across her lap, but she doesn’t prop open the lid and just stares at me, eyes glittering. “What if I don’t like it?”

Christ Jesus. What if she doesn’t? What if she pulls it from the box and she loathes it? Feckin’ hell, I’ll want to find a hole to crawl inside to die.

Lark sets the box on the floor and holds up the leather harness between us. I say nothing as I watch her eyes trail over the details of the black leather and the small gold buckles. My mouth goes dry when she presses it against her chest and looks down to judge the size. Her expression is unreadable as she examines the small details on the straps that are meant to crisscross her chest and frame her breasts. It’s a row of tiny, evenly spaced gold stars. There’s just the faint outline of metallic shimmer on the embossed angles and points, each line carefully laid down with gold foil.

Her lips part as she runs a finger over one of the strips of black leather that will rest beneath her breasts. If she puts it on. If she doesn’t think it’s too much. Maybe it’s too far. Too soon.

Lark still doesn’t look up and her question hangs in the air around us, suspended.

I take a step forward around the coffee table. Another. One more. Then I let my hand drift free of my pocket and I point to a star near her thumb. “I was thinking about the time you told me not to Keanumatize you into forgiveness when I made that one.”

Lark puffs a quiet breath of doubt. I can nearly hear her eyes roll. “Liar.”

Lark’s eyes flick to mine before returning to the strap in her hand. She brings it closer to her face and tilts it in the light to examine the details. When she glances at me again with suspicion and doubt, I pick another one. “I was thinking about the time you sang ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.’ Your voice, it …” I shake my head. “I had to take a minute. My mother loved that song. I’d forgotten how she would sing in our house in Sligo. Hadn’t thought of her in so long.”

Lark is quiet. She runs a thumb over the star I just touched, as though she can divine my thoughts from it.

I clear my throat, point to another. “This one, your face at Sloane and Rowan’s wedding. Didn’t know why you seemed so different when you asked me to dance.”

I could leave it at that. Maybe walk away, let her make sense of my words however she wants to without any help from me. And Lark watches me like she expects that’s what I’ll do.

But maybe I see a little bit of wary hope in her eyes that I’ll try. And it terrifies me.

When I first realized I needed to earn her forgiveness, I never thought about how it would change me in the process. I knew I’d have to prove to Lark that I was sorry for judging her. That I’d made mistakes. That I felt horrible for being callous, for making her feel unsafe in my presence or afraid or disrespected. But how do you show someone in a way that’s more than just a handful of empty words? Because I know now that it’s not only about creating a safe place for her, or crushing anyone who threatens her happiness, or looking after her health when I know she can’t. It’s not just a gift I can buy or an action I can take. It’s not relentlessly wearing her down until she just gets in the damn car. I’m starting to realize I need to give something of me. I need to be a little vulnerable. Put myself in a different kind of danger than what I’m used to.

Like now.

It’s the hope in Lark’s eyes that keeps me rooted to the floor, even though every instinct tells me to run.

I let my hand fall back to my side, and that’s the most I’ll let myself pull away. “At the time, I thought it was just because you didn’t like me, but that was only part of it. Now I see it was determination to go through with your plan to help someone you loved, even if it meant giving up your own happiness and tying yourself to me. That’s very brave, Lark. We were in that position in the first place because of me. And knowing you had to muster up that level of courage to save me and my brother even though it was my fault …” I shake my head. Drop my gaze from hers. “I’m ashamed about it all, that I treated you the way I did. But that moment on the dance floor is the worst, just knowing now what must have been going through your head. I think about it every damn day. And every day it just gets worse, because it becomes clearer how wrong I was.”

Lark stares up at me, giving nothing away. It feels like a challenge. A little shove, to see if I’ll retreat. But I’m not going anywhere.

A heavy tension fills the space between us. The air feels thick with the weight of all the thoughts I’ve let loose into the world. Then Lark’s lips form a smile and the knot in my chest uncoils.

I run my hand over the back of my neck and give her the faint echo of a rakish grin. “Nah, you don’t want to know what I was thinking about for the rest of them.”

Lark laughs and I think I see her cheeks blush in the dim light. “It’s beautiful, Lachlan. I’m going to wear it tonight.”

Her legs unfold from beneath her and she rises from the couch. She pads to her bedroom, the door closing behind her with a quiet click. I wait in silence, hands shoved in my pockets, my thumb pressed against my wedding ring as I try to remember all the shit that used to come so naturally for me when I wanted a woman. Give her a lopsided smile. Maybe tease her a little bit, but only enough to make her laugh. Be confident, but not cocky—I’m not sure I ever mastered that one. Definitely don’t be an asshat.

But when Lark walks out of the bedroom a few minutes later, all those thoughts of how I’m supposed to act suddenly evaporate.

Fan-feckin’-tastic. Now I have neither confidence nor cockiness. I’ve somehow regressed into some teenage version of myself, and even that guy had more game than me.

And Lark revels in it. Of course.

My heart roars in my ears.

I swallow and try my best to stack the blocks of my crumbling walls back into place. “You look great. Really great.”

Lark smirks. “‘Great.’”

I snort.

Lark bites down on her grin. “I must admit, I was expecting maybe stunning, or beautiful. Or, God forbid, feckin’ sexy.”

Chrissakes. Lark is all those things and more. She’s everything. She’s fierce and unique and surprising and so goddamn gorgeous it sometimes feels like my heart is trapped in a vise when I just look at her. There isn’t a single word I can think of that captures what Lark has become to me. And when I try to open my mouth to say any of them, they dissolve on my tongue. So the only thing I can do is tell her the truth. At least, maybe a little bit of it.

I step closer to where she stands next to the couch, her hand resting on Bentley’s enormous head as she strokes his ear. When I stop, I’m just within her reach, but I don’t touch her despite how badly I want to feel the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips.

Lark’s smile fades. “What do you think will?”

Lark swallows, her pulse a steady hum in her neck. “And how do you feel?”

Lark rolls her eyes and grins. “The bat signal. Duh.”

I bite down on my tongue and taste blood.

When Lark rattles the box, I finally take it from her hands. There’s a small envelope fixed to the glittery black ribbon that secures the lid. The moment my fingers begin to tug the card free, she lays a hand over mine to stop me, just like I hoped she would. “I said no. Not until the gig.” She might appear annoyed, but I notice it takes her a moment longer than necessary to pull her hand away from mine.

Lark turns away to gather her coat, bag, guitar, and cello, but I pick up the instruments before she can sling the cases over her shoulders.

And then we’re off, leaving Bentley on the couch, where he faces the door to guard this space, one that feels more like ours with every day that passes.

When we pull up to the venue, there’s already a line out the door despite the shitty weather. People in the queue burrow into their coats and bounce on their heels to keep warm. A sense of pride floods my chest when I steal a glance at Lark. She looks out at the crowd with no evidence of worry or stage fright.

My mind immediately empties of rational thoughts and refills with vivid images. “Take me in the back …”

I swallow.

I nod and shift in my seat.

I drag a hand down my face but it does fuck-all to wipe my blush away. Lark opens her door with a creak of old steel. Since I don’t trust any words to reliably roll off my tongue, my only response is to shake my head.

A long, loud, dramatic sigh leaves Lark’s lips. “Lachlan Kane is an ass man. Good to know.”

With a snicker, all Lark’s innocence is swept away. She shuts the door behind her.

Fucksakes.

My forehead thunks down on the cold, unforgiving steering wheel. I’d melt into the footwell if I could, maybe ooze out onto the road or better yet, into some other dimension. But Lark, of course, has other plans, and whips my door open. “Let’s go, Batman. The back door awaits,” she declares as she skips away to wait on the sidewalk.

When I grab the instruments, slinging their straps over my shoulders before I join her, I’m pretty sure my skin is melting from the raging blush that heats my flesh.

Before I even realized what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed Lark’s waist and caged her against the brick wall of the building. A spike of fear hits my veins that I could have hurt her, but it’s washed away by the look she gives me as I loom over her. Even with the blur at this distance, I can still see it. Flushed skin. Blown pupils. A pulse that pounds in her neck.

Desire.

I lean in slowly, every heartbeat driving me closer until I can feel the heat of her unsteady exhalations against my cooling skin. “I am not ashamed, duchess.”

Lark holds my gaze and issues a dare when she whispers, “Are you sure?”

Consuming the little space that remains between us, I press my hips forward and thread one hand into her hair. Lark’s breath hitches when she feels my hard length against her stomach, my need for her painful, my cock begging to sink into her tight heat. “I cannot bear to hear about the way some other guy fucked my wife. Or the way she might have fucked him. Please. Not right now.”

Her lips part. Her brow furrows. Her grip on my arm tightens.

I lean closer still, touch my lips to her ear. With one long, slow thrust of my hips, I grind my erection against her. Lark presses into me in return. A whimper escapes her control. “It is agonizing, Lark. It is fucking torture to imagine. To know it’s not me. Don’t you understand …?”

When I pull away, I let my lips graze her cheek. Not a kiss, but a caress. A promise. That I’ll let her go. I’ll back away.

Except she doesn’t let me.

Lark moves with me, both hands gripped tight to my arms. She doesn’t let the space between us widen. There’s a plea in her eyes. Don’t back away.

I should pry myself free. Maybe I’ve gone too far. I just can’t seem to make myself do it, even though I’m determined to earn Lark’s forgiveness before we start down another path. I gave her my word. But when she inches closer and my hand caresses her face, a touch she leans into, I’m afraid it’s a promise I’m about to break.

Lark rises on her tiptoes. Her scent envelopes me. Every breath she takes mixes with mine, becomes part of me.

I’m about to beg. For what I don’t know. For anything she’ll give me. For her to back away. I’m not sure what will come out of my mouth when I open it. “Lark, I—”

The door next to us swings open and crashes against the brick. Two men engrossed in an animated conversation stride into the alley. A third man remains in the doorway, his eyes shifting between me and Lark. A faint grin spreads across his lips, but there’s confusion in his eyes he can’t quite hide. A bit of jealousy too, I think.

I swallow my spiteful feckin’ glee and manage to trap it in a smirk that might come off as welcoming to someone who doesn’t know me. But Lark knows better. I can feel her warning glare drill into my temple as I extend a hand.

Lark shrugs and tugs me toward the door as Xander turns to lead us into the dark corridor. “Guess I was too busy making promotional posts for KEX to splash it all over social media,” Lark says.

I nearly fail to repress a snort as Xander gives her a questioning look over his shoulder. Lark just smiles innocently in reply, and I can tell he’s flummoxed. He strides a little farther ahead down the hallway and Lark squeezes my arm.

I lean in and whisper, “Irish slang. Means underwear.”

She puffs out a little laugh as Xander pushes open a black door and heads into the shared dressing room. Lark stops at the threshold and I relinquish the instruments for her to set them aside. “Well, that’s ironic, seeing how I usually prefer to not wear any.”

She winks. I feckin’ die.

She wiggles her fingers as she waves and shuts the door in my face.

I’m still standing in the hallway like a feckin’ dumbass when the door opens again. She pokes her head into the hallway. “Oh, and don’t you dare open that present until I give you the bat signal or I swear to God, I will make your balls into snow globes. Okay, bye.”

With a sardonically blown kiss, Lark shuts the door.

And I still haven’t moved an inch.

I mutter a string of hushed swears as I drag a hand through my hair. “Christ Jesus. I need a feckin’ whiskey.”

I weave through the labyrinthine passageways and exit next to the stage where the opening act is setting up. If they give me suspicious looks, I don’t notice. My thoughts are only on the bar ahead and the images of pantyless Lark.

I send a Diet Coke back to the dressing room for Lark and down my first drink as the opening act starts up, managing to somehow pace myself as they play out their set. When they finish an hour later, a couple of guys transition instruments to and from the stage for KEX, and I feel a brief flood of adrenaline in my veins when I spot Lark’s cello. Finishing my drink doesn’t dull the sensation. Nor does it help make the wait more bearable, a wait that feels decades long.

I’m nursing another whiskey at the bar when cheers finally erupt. Then shouts and whistles. Arms raise, hands clapping in the air. I pocket my glasses so I can see her clearer in the distance and watch as Lark leads the way on stage. The band files in behind her. She places a water bottle on a chair toward the left but stands before a microphone positioned near the front of the stage. Her guitar strap is slung over her shoulder and she grins and waves at the audience as the other musicians take their places. Her eyes roam the audience.

Until she finds me.

She beams. Her smile is so bright and warm that when she turns away to tune her instruments with the band, I feel a chill in the air. When they’re done, she finds me again, and I give her a salute with my raised glass and grin right back at her.

The cheers and whistles and claps are deafening. If there was any doubt who the audience is truly here for, it’s erased by the outpouring of love for Lark.

The band starts and Lark fits their vibe effortlessly. She’s supportive but not overshadowing, her voice a perfect balance to her counterparts’. They play out the first set, and Lark spends time during the short break to speak with the opening act and fans who approach. Though part of me wants to push through the throng of people and bask in the warmth she radiates, I stay at my table instead, convincing myself I’m content to watch Lark in her element.

I take a sip of my whiskey and watch as she lights up that stage. But I fail to pull myself back from the woman in the spotlight. I’m caught in the current of Lark and her music. I take it all in: the way she pours herself into every note with her eyes closed. The way her fingers slide across the fretboard. The way her lips press so close to the mic it looks like a kiss. Her voice is buoyant above the band, cheers, and audience, who sings along.

I’m still spellbound when Xander speaks to the crowd between songs.

Lark’s shoulders seem to relax. She’s fluid, shifting her weight from one foot to the next in a slow wave of motion as she says, “I wrote this song over the past few weeks. It took me a lot longer than usual. Of all the songs I’ve ever written, it was the hardest, but it’s also my favorite.”

A round of cheers and whistles rises from the audience, drinks held aloft in salute.

I’ve never wanted more with a woman than to satisfy cravings. Nothing deeper than superficial need. But when I look at Lark, a woman who is so brave, so fierce, so beautifully complex, the only thing I crave is her. I feel just like the man in the story she told me that day in her craft room, like I’m falling from a cliff with nothing but a rope around my waist, hoping to capture something elusive. It’s an insatiable need for the one thing I never wanted, an inescapable obsession for the one woman I thought I’d never have.

And then Lark starts singing.

I’ve been cold for a long, long time

Dreaming of flames in the night

I’ve been living a dark and delicate lie

Oh what a sweet, strange, dangerous surprise to find

All the lingering glances that feel like heat beneath my skin, the teasing jokes, the way she smiles when I give in and play along—I’d convinced myself they were just ephemeral moments. Products of familiarity.

It’s the first time I’ve really let myself believe that I might be wrong.

Your touch, hot coals

Your scent, like smoke

Your eyes burn holes, looking back

Sparks crack so loud

Light falls on your mouth

Your hands reach out, holding a match

As if to ask

Cause I’d burn it down for you.”

Ruinous love’s all I know how to do

I’m not scared of damnation, I’m just new to this desire

I do believe the best things come out of the fire

I do, I do, I do

I set the glass down. Everything in the room disappears. Lark’s song invades my senses, like it’s seeping through blood and bone.

Ashes out the window

Moonbeams catching dust

Lay me down, baby, don’t let me rest too much

The end of life as we know it is a beautiful view

Here I am, looking at you, you, you

It aches. Feckin’ burns in my veins. That’s my wife. And she’s singing to me. Holding my eyes the whole song. Reaching right into my chest and tearing back the layers until I’m sure she can see my soul.

I do believe the best things come out of the fire

I do, I do, I do

You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning

You’ve been forgiven, got my permission to carry on sinning …

I never wanted to be in love, afraid of the decimating power of its loss. So I buried it. Starved it. Tried my best to keep it out. But Lark has blasted through every defense, a supernova in my life. And now as she sings about pain and longing and the fire that I now know burns us both, I can’t fathom my world without her. The only thing more powerful than my fear of losing Lark is my consuming need to be with her.

The song ends. The crowd cheers. Lark is luminous. Her gaze traverses the audience as she nods in thanks, even blows the occasional kiss to people she recognizes. But she always returns to me. Always smiles most brightly at me.

Xander starts talking into the mic as Lark pulls the guitar strap over her head and sets the instrument aside. She settles on the chair and lifts her cello from its stand to center it between her legs, taking a moment to quietly tune the instrument while Xander introduces the next song. My eyes are fixed on every motion she makes. There’s no way I’d miss it when she looks at me. Her brows quirk. Leaning the bow against her legs, she hooks her thumbs together and crosses her hands to make a flapping motion with her fingers, a little bat in flight. I snort a laugh.

Open it, she mouths.

I pull the box from my pocket and open the small card. “Turn me on,” it says in Lark’s handwriting. When I meet her eyes briefly, she grins, and then I refocus on the box to tug the ribbon free and set it next to my drink. When I lift the lid, there’s a small, oval-shaped remote control inside, the center constructed of soft black silicone. There are only three buttons—a plus sign at the top, a minus sign at the bottom, and a power symbol in the center.

I tilt my head, my question met with a smirk as the song starts and Lark slides the bow across the strings.

Power on, she mouths.

Guided by her reassuring nod, I press the power button and Lark closes her eyes, just the same as she often does when she loses herself in a melody. Nothing is happening. It’s not like glitter confetti is raining from the ceiling, or pyrotechnics start shooting from the edge of the stage. I’m about to dismantle the battery casing when Lark catches my eye and shakes her head.

Turn it up.

I press the plus sign, over and over until Lark’s eyes go wide and she shakes her head. Her cheeks blush as she bites down on a grin.

Down down down.

Oh. My. Fucking. Christ.

I press the minus sign a few times until Lark’s head drops in relief, and then she keeps her gaze shuttered, swaying gently to the melody as she balances notes with sensations.

My blood froths in my veins. My heart is a riot in my ears. I look from the remote in my hand, to my wife on the stage, and back again.

I press the plus sign once. Twice. On the third try, Lark’s brow furrows and she shifts in her seat. My cock hardens as I watch her squirm, desire spiraling through my thoughts, pulling me down into near madness.

She’s given me control to a toy she must be wearing. And she wants me to watch her come on that feckin’ stage.

I turn it up by two. The crease deepens between her brows. She doesn’t miss a note, but maybe I want her to. A bounce of the bow across the strings. A stuttering melody.

My thumb stays pressed down on the minus button until she meets my eyes with a petulant sulk.

Lips curled, I give her a dark smirk in reply before I turn the vibration she’s feeling down one more notch. The glare I receive is incendiary, burning so brightly that I grip the edge of the table to keep myself from storming to the stage.

I press the plus sign four times and relief washes through Lark’s expression.

I leave her there, watching as she draws the bow across the strings, her weight shifting from one hip to the other. For a long moment, she seems to feel the balance between music and pleasure, as though she’s lost in a void beyond the reach of the world that surrounds her.

But she’s not so far from my control.

I press the plus sign two times. Lark’s eyes snap open and she finds me without delay. There’s a dare in the way she watches me. She wants to see if I’ll take her further, with all these people watching. Maybe they won’t notice the blush that creeps up her neck, or the way she bites her lips as her lashes flutter closed.

Or maybe they will.

I turn the remote up three more times.

Lark’s lips part. Even from this distance I feel attuned to every minor change in her body. The rise and fall of her chest. The tension in her forearm, the way she strains to stay with the music. I’m right there with her, like a note in her melody.

I press the plus sign three more times.

Lark’s eyes fly open and fuse to mine. The look she gives me is pleading.

Two more pushes of the plus sign and she can barely sit still.

One more and her head drops. The orgasm must be within reach, but I want her eyes on me. I need them.

When I deliver five hits to the minus button, the look Lark gives me is desperate. She’s about to toss that cello on the floor. I would give my right arm to see her stride off that stage and drop to her knees at my feet. I want her begging for my cock, to feel the fluttering desperation of her fingers as she fumbles with my belt to free my erection. It strains against my zipper in a painful demand as I picture her stripping me down. I’m desperate to sink into her, to feel how tightly her cunt can grip my cock as she takes me deep into her pussy. I need to see my cum dripping down her thighs so everyone here will know. She is my wife. Mine.

But for now, Lark’s unwavering attention will have to do.

One. Two. Three presses to the plus button. Lust floods Lark’s expression, but I know it’s not enough as she shifts her weight, searching for friction.

She doesn’t need to say a word to beg for release. It’s written all over her face.

I press the plus symbol more times than I bother to count.

Lark’s brow furrows and her mouth drops open on a moan no one can hear. But I can feel her break apart. The swell of music. The notes of longing. The way she watches me, pleading, desperate, taking everything and wanting more. She needs me. To touch her. To want her. To fuck her. This is not enough.

When I’m sure she’s come, I lower the strength of the vibration before I press the power button. The song ends, the audience clapping and cheering as Lark smiles for me, sweat misting her brow in the bright lights.

She sets the cello and bow on the stand.

And by the time she’s looked up, I’ve disappeared from view.

EXPOSED

Lark

I scan the audience.

But Lachlan is gone.

I don’t catch sight of his dark hair or his tattooed skin or that fucking smirk. I don’t know why, or how, or when it happened, but I need his teasing, cocky smile. Just like I need that soulful look in his eyes when he desperately wants to share but can’t bear to. Just like I need his growls and grumbles and the zombie grumpiness he can’t shake until he’s had his first coffee. But what I don’t need, what I can’t bear, is him disappearing. Was the vibrator thing too much? Did I cross a line? I thought he would find it sexy. But maybe …

I smile through the encore, because I’m good at that. I push every atom of hurt to the bottom of my guts where it burns. Then I wave and pack up my shit. I ask Kevin to look after my instruments until tomorrow, though I don’t say what’s on my mind. I don’t tell him that Lachlan—the man I finally called my husband out loud and meant it—has left me here.

He left me here.

I leave the stage before anyone can pull me aside, then jog down the hallway toward the backstage bathroom to cry my fucking eyes out.

The tears are streaking down my skin before I even make it to the door.

As soon as it’s closed behind me, I rest my forehead in my palms, lean my elbows on the counter, and fucking sob.

I want him. I want him so badly it’s a crushing ache. It’s as though my bones are folding in on themselves, breaking into splinters and shards. The more I see who Lachlan really is—all the things he does for the people he holds close—the more I want to be near him. I want to be part of his tight embrace. I thought I was.

I thought wrong.

I’m trying to muster the strength to face my reflection when the door bursts open and crashes against the wall. I spin around and meet the incandescent eyes of my husband.

Lachlan fills the doorframe, sucking the energy from the room as though he’s made of dark matter. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I let out a watery laugh and flap a hand toward my face. “Crying, clearly. What the fuck are you doing?”

Every step Lachlan takes toward me is menacing. Predatory. And though my makeup is probably smeared down my cheeks and I think I lost another fake eyelash because why the fuck won’t they stay on around this man, I don’t back away.

Lachlan doesn’t stop until he’s looming over me, his eyes dark and filled with a vicious heat, but he doesn’t touch me when he says, “I was pacing in the dressing room, duchess. I was waiting for you so I could give you the keys to drive us home and then fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

Everything in my body grinds to a halt. Everything except my heart. It hammers my bones with a staccato rhythm until I’m sure the bruised organ will wedge its way between my ribs and tear free of my chest.

His eyes fixate on mine, lethally dark in the dim light. It’s like every cell in his body is trained on me. My stomach flips as he steps farther into my space, just enough that he grazes my body with his.

Dear God.

There’s a brief, suspended moment where neither of us moves, and then Lachlan laughs—really laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle with delight. “All right, you feckin’ catastrophe. Next time I’ll just use this instead of the phone, since you didn’t think to check your texts,” he says as he holds up the remote control.

Dressing room. Now.

Lachlan raises a single brow.

I nod and try to resurrect my confidence. “But if you’re going to use the remote instead of the phone moving forward, you should probably test it. See if it still works.”

My wife. The possessive edge in it cuts through my thoughts. Echoes in my head. Ricochets in my chest. I try to shrug it off and give him a haughty look, but those two words rattle around in my mind. “You’re the only one who noticed.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

Lachlan eases back just a little and I try not to move with him even though my body is burning for his closeness, begging for his touch. His eyes break away from mine to drop down the length of me, from the sweat that dots my hairline to the tips of my boots and back again. When he meets my eyes, there’s fire and need and longing staring back at me.

I bite my lip and Lachlan watches the motion as though it’s the only thing he can see, like nothing else exists in the world except for that small display of need. “What are you going to do about it?” I whisper.

A slow, feral, ravenous smirk tugs at one corner of his lips as his eyes turn lightless, the color consumed by desire. He raises the remote clutched in his hand and turns it on. Even at its low setting, the vibration shocks my swollen clit.

With a flash of motion, Lachlan lifts me by the waist and sets my ass on the bathroom counter.

We stare at each other. Lips parted. Breaths ragged. We’re separated by mere inches of air and thin layers of fabric and the determination to not be the first to bend so far they snap.

It’s Lachlan who makes the first move, Lachlan who slowly leans forward. Lachlan who bridges that gap to graze my cheek with his lips and summon shivers through my flesh, his plea a caress against my ear.

Lachlan pulls back just enough to solder his eyes to mine. He never breaks eye contact as he folds his hand around mine and guides it to the tulle that covers my legs. He curls my fingers into the fabric before he lets his hand drift away.

I take two shallow breaths and then bunch the fabric in my fist to drag it up my leg. The more fiercely the need burns in his eyes, the slower I move, drawing out both his torture and my own. The hem inches up my skin. Only once the edge skims Lachlan’s hand where it rests against my thigh does he look down. His thumb follows in the wake of the fabric. Tension radiates from his coiled muscles. I slow to a crawl of motion as the fabric climbs higher until it finally reaches the lace edge of my panties.

And then I stop.

Lachlan’s eyes snap to mine, dark with a dare. His thumb traces the hem. “Thought you didn’t like to wear these,” he says, his voice low and husky.

His face creases with pain. He takes a breath to reply, but I press my fingertips to his lips.

I slip my thumb into his mouth. Lachlan groans as he wraps his lips around my flesh and sucks. When I move to pull my thumb free he bites down, his teeth bared, his eyes hooded as he drinks in my reaction. I’m caught in the balance of pain and pleasure. The push and pull of power. Lachlan lets me go and turns up the vibration on the toy and I suck in a tremulous breath.

My chest grazes his as I take a shallow breath. With my eyes fused to Lachlan’s, I lift the dress to my waist and lean back until my shoulders rest on the mirror where I feel the ridges of the leather harness against my spine.

Lachlan’s hands are gentle on my skin even though every other muscle seems coiled to strike. Tension radiates from his body. He takes one step away and holds my eyes for a moment that feels eternal before he finally drops his gaze to the apex of my thighs.

With one long, slow stroke of his thumb, he runs his touch across the damp fabric and the vibrating toy beneath it.

His eyes are dark. Deadly. Merciless. “Tell you what? That you’re my fucking whore?”

The vibration increases and I gasp as he presses the toy to my clit. “I didn’t lock the door, Lark. Someone could walk in here at any moment. Does that scare you?”

I shake my head and bite my lip and moan.

In a flash of motion, something metallic slides across my hip and my panties go slack. Lachlan tugs them away and with another slice of his knife they’re off completely. The toy is gone, and my feet hit the floor. He grips my waist and spins me to face the mirror. The blade he used falls into the sink as Lachlan wraps the panties around my throat but doesn’t tighten them, his eyes fused to my reflection.

With the vibrating toy clutched in his grip, Lachlan drags a knuckle down my cheek as the other hand holds the fabric around my neck. “Red means …?”

Lachlan chuckles against my ear before he gives it a nip, letting his teeth rake across the flesh. “Only if you beg,” he whispers.

Please barely leaves my lips and he tightens the panties with a twist of his fist, then presses the toy to my clit with his other hand. The vibration skates across my nerves in slow circles and I roll my hips, seeking friction. The veins in my neck strain against the pressure of the fabric. My makeup is smeared in streaks beneath my eyes. But when I let out a low and husky moan and see Lachlan’s jaw clench with restrained desperation, I feel powerful. Beautiful. Like I can be the woman I want to be.

Lachlan’s smile borders on menacing. He takes a long moment to answer me, pressing kisses and nips along my jaw. “Try again, duchess. And make it pretty.”

An ache to be filled clenches deep in my core as Lachlan kicks my feet out a little wider and rolls the toy across my sensitive nerves in long strokes. He doesn’t turn it up or make any moves to give me what I crave. But denial is its own reward.

Lachlan leans close to my ear. He holds my eyes with an unwavering stare as every exhalation tickles my skin. “The first time I fuck my wife is not going to be in the bathroom of some bar. So if you want to be filled, you’d better use your imagination and come with what I give you.”

I whimper at the sudden need to leave with him, to go anywhere but here.

I’m disheveled. Desperate. Imperfect. But Lachlan looks at me in the mirror as though he sees through every tarnished layer, every broken mask. It’s the thought of going home with this man who always searches for the real woman beneath it all that propels me into action.

I press Lachlan’s hand over my clit. I grind my hips. I beg for him to tighten his grip over my throat. And then I come in blinding stars as Lachlan’s name tumbles from my lips, over and over, a chant that doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every moment of pleasure from my body. It washes through me but leaves a hum of need behind. It’s not enough. It won’t be until I feel his skin against mine and the weight of his body and the planes of muscle beneath my palms.

My head drops to my chest and Lachlan lets the fabric fall from my throat. The vibration of the toy lowers and then he turns it off. He wraps his arm across my waist and holds me close. I relish his heat, the languorous kisses he layers across my neck, the pressure of his muscle and bone against my trembling flesh.

The door creaks behind us and my eyes snap open to Xander’s wide-eyed reflection in the mirror.

Lachlan’s deep sigh cools the beads of sweat on my neck.

Lachlan looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes warm. “You look beautiful, Lark.” When I still hesitate, he turns to face me fully and steps closer. He pulls the glasses from my face. Puts them on. Sees me clearly. He smiles and drags a thumb across one cheek, and then the other. “There. Less like tears. More intentional. See?”

He takes my shoulders and turns them until I meet my reflection. Maybe I still look a little crazy with my trash panda mask and flushed, freshly-fucked blush and my sweaty, wild hair. But he’s right. I look beautiful too.

With a swift kiss to my cheek, Lachlan takes my hand and resumes his campaign to pull me from the bathroom, his steps purposeful. “Now let’s get out of here. I meant what I said earlier about you driving us home so I can fuck you until you can’t walk.”

Lachlan groans but pivots to follow behind me as I lead the way to the stage. Xander looks up from where he packs up our equipment next to the far wall. He gives us a sheepish smile, and I motion to my cello and guitar to let him know I’ll be taking them.

I turn. It’s the man I met in Lachlan’s shop. “Mine too,” I reply. “Abe, right?”

I nod before bending down to lower the cello into the case. “Since I was seven.”

My smile is polite, yet brittle. Abe scrutinizes me, but I’m not sure that he interprets my discomfort—or maybe he just ignores it. There’s a flatness in his eyes. A disconnect with his gentle smile.

Abe passes me the bow. He holds on when I grip the frog, waiting for me to meet his eyes. That smile returns, void of light. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Montague. Thank you for the inspiration.”

He lets go of the bow.

By the time I set it in the case and Lachlan joins by my side, Abe is already gone.

CRAWL

Lachlan

The drive home is the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

I want to touch Lark, but I won’t do anything more than look at her, not until we’ve made it home. And she makes it bloody agonizing, the way she bites her bottom lip when she concentrates, the way she shifts in her seat, her torn panties burning a hole in my pocket. I’m dying to run my fingers across her skin. To taste her. To sink inside her. To feel the weight of her body over mine as she rides my cock and grips me tight. But I’m determined to savor her. Even if it’s torture the whole way home.

And Lark loves torture.

My molars clamp shut so tightly they might break.

I press my head against the headrest.

I turn slowly to level her with a menacing glare.

Lark grins at me.

She takes the turn.

I say nothing until she rolls into a parking spot and shuts off the engine. She pulls the keys from the ignition and spins them around her finger. My menacing glare does nothing but brighten her smile. “You are going to regret this, duchess.”

She hops out of the car. When she’s at the entrance, she turns and winks at me over her shoulder before she disappears inside.

My cock aches and I drag a hand down my face. I put all my effort into tearing my thoughts away from Lark, but it doesn’t work.

She takes her time in the shop. And just like she promised, she comes out with two bags of ice and a magnetic, shit-eating grin, one that stays pinned on me as she saunters past the passenger door to put them both in the trunk. Lark slips back into the car looking quite pleased with herself, and it only makes my erection that much harder. Just like she probably planned.

Lark laughs and turns toward me to look out the back window as she reverses. The harness tightens across her breasts with the twist of her body. “Oh I know I didn’t, but it still brings me joy.”

A giggle escapes her lips as she throws the car into first gear but keeps her foot on the brake. She pins me with her crystalline gaze, and though she might be teasing me, I know what my words have done to her. It’s in the slow pass of her tongue over her lips. The dark expanse of her pupils. The way her nipples harden to firm peaks beneath the delicate fabric of her dress.

I lean closer and her breath hitches. My eyes fuse to her mouth as a smile sneaks across my lips.

I lean a little closer, just enough for my lips to graze Lark’s as I whisper, “Drive.”

I sit back in my seat with a satisfied grin. My cock is so painfully hard that I’m convinced my entire body is as furious about the near kiss as she is. Finally, she takes her foot off the brake. The tires squeal against the asphalt as we pull out of the parking lot.

The moment she parks, I’m out of the car. Lark’s barely gotten a foot on the garage floor before I haul her out of the vehicle and throw her over my shoulder to the sound of her shocked laugh. I grab the ice from the trunk, and a moment later I’m striding up the stairs with her body still hanging off my back. Her half-hearted protests echo across the factory floor. It’s not until we’re in the apartment and I’ve put the ice in the chest freezer that I set her down, but it’s only long enough to capture her lips in a brutal kiss.

Lark melts into me. Her moan vibrates in my mouth as her tongue sweeps across mine. She fists my shirt and tugs me along with her, not breaking the kiss as she stumbles into a side table and the dog and the couch as she leads me toward the bedrooms.

The moment we’re in her room, I pick her up and toss her on the bed. Lark is panting, kneeling on the crumpled covers, her eyes hooded. Her expression is ravenous as I reach over my head and pull my shirt off.

I take a step back toward the armchair in the corner of the room. “I meant what I said.”

With a final step backward, I sink into the chair. I lean back and regard her for a long moment, reveling in the desperation painted across her face. “Then you’d better show me how much you want it, duchess.”

A shiver wracks through Lark’s body before she starts to climb off the bed.

Lark stops immediately. She waits for instruction, but there’s frustration in her eyes. My blood turns to fire, possibilities and fantasies racing through my mind. Just like the time I spoke to Lark on the balcony, she ignites a spark in the dark. But I don’t know if I’ve ever been the hunter with Lark, or if I’m the one who’s been ensnared.

Either way, there’s no stopping it now. I wouldn’t want to if I could. Not when Lark is right there, nearly within reach, so desperate for friction that she’s nearly squirming on the bed.

Lark pauses as though the words take a moment to cut through the haze of lust that’s descended between us. Then she guides one of the thin straps off her shoulder, slipping it beneath the leather that loops toward her back. She does the same on the other side. With balletic flexibility, she pulls each arm free, careful not to tear the delicate fabric. Then she holds my eyes to drink in my reaction as she slowly pulls the layers down beneath the harness, exposing her breasts and pebbled nipples, the smooth expanse of skin around her navel, the narrow strip of hair leading to her pussy. She drags the dress down her legs and holds it up before she lets it drift to the floor.

Every breath she takes is unsteady as I take my time to just look. The black leather lines and tiny stars. The way they trace the contours of her breasts, the ridges of her ribs. My art embracing her flesh.

It takes everything in me to stay in the chair.

We exchange a silent conversation with no more than a glance, and I know Lark understands that she can say whatever she wants. Whatever she feels. She can be whoever she wants to be. I will take her in any version of herself she’s willing to give.

My voice is as dispassionate as I can manage when I ask, “What are you?”

Lark slides off the bed, gets down on her hands and knees, and waits. And waits. And waits.

I take the blade from my pocket and unhook my stropping belt. As I slide the sharp edge across the leather, I watch her tremble with the chill of anticipation. When she can’t take it any longer, when I think I’m about to give in to my desires, she finally whispers a single word. Please.

I close the blade and flip it over in my hand. “You’re not my wife,” I say, and there’s a flash of panic and hurt in her eyes. “You’re just mine. Now crawl.”

Relief flickers in Lark’s face.

One hand and one knee after the other, Lark crawls toward me. Her eyes never stray from my face. When she stops at my feet, she doesn’t touch me. Instead, she waits for my next command. There’s not a single thing in this world that’s more intoxicating than seeing her kneel before me but knowing that she’s still the one in control. It’s so clear in her willing gaze, the way she folds her hands in her lap and pushes her breasts together against the leather straps, encouraging our little game. She wants to be ordered. To be used. To be filled and denied and degraded. To be rewarded when she’s ready. She’s in control. And I will give her anything she wants and more.

I lift my hips so Lark can lower my pants and briefs, freeing my erection. It’s painfully hard, ready to plunge into the heat of her mouth, a bead of pre-cum gathered at the head. Lark stares at it with ravenous desire. She bites her lip and wraps her hand around the base.

Lark does as I ask without hesitation, spitting on the head before she starts languid passes of her hand from the base to the tip. The pace is slow, her grip strong. A moan rumbles in my chest as I sink farther back and resist the urge to close my eyes so I can watch her lavish my cock with her attention. I’ve dreamed of her touching me like this so many times, and it’s a thousand times better than I imagined.

And it will never be enough.

I trace my knuckles across her cheek and thread my hand into her hair to gather it into my fist. “You remember the traffic lights?” I ask, and Lark nods. “Good. Tap my leg twice for orange. Three times for stop. Otherwise, you’ll swallow every fucking inch I give you, understand?”

Lark gives me a single nod and a flash of a dark smile before I push her mouth down onto my cock and fall into heaven.

I push to the back of her throat and Lark gags as tears shine in her eyes. I do it again and she moans. A third time and she moans again, the tears streaking down her skin, the sight of her ruined makeup and her swollen lips and that fucking harness making me feral with need.

Lark whimpers.

Lark drags her hand down her body as I continue the cadence of thrusts, each one hitting the back of her throat as she moans and whimpers. Her eyes flutter closed as she touches herself and then she brings her hand between us, the proof of her desire glistening across her fingers.

With my free hand, I capture her wrist and bring her fingers to my waiting mouth and suck.

Sweet and salty, her flavor coats my tongue and I nearly lose my goddamn mind.

I pull Lark’s mouth off my cock and with a swift motion, I band an arm around her middle and hoist her into the air to deposit her on the bed. She barely has a moment to orient herself before I’ve pushed her onto her knees, pitched her forward onto her hands, and kneeled behind her to bury my face against her pussy.

Lark lets out a desperate cry as I swirl my tongue over her swollen clit and lavish her pussy with licks and kisses. Every sound she makes leaves an indelible mark on my mind, as immutable as the ink in my skin. Her taste burns itself into my memory like a brand. This woman is mine.

And I devour her like I’m going to consume her soul.

Lark writhes and moans and fists the sheets, but I don’t let her out of my grip. One hand tightens around her thigh, the other grips the harness strap across her back. I take her to the edge of an orgasm and leave her there, stalling whenever she gets close to her climax and resuming my efforts when it starts to subside. And once she starts begging, that’s when I let her go. I kneel back and allow the cool air to chill the saliva and arousal gathered at her entrance.

The panic subsides when she sees me pull my pants and briefs the rest of the way off and kick them to the side.

Lark gets back into position on her hands and knees, but it looks like it takes great effort to tear her gaze from my body, a detail that makes my heart surge beneath my bones. “I’ve been tested,” I say as I shift one knee onto the bed and then the other, the motion eliciting a shiver of anticipation through Lark’s nearly naked body. “I’m clear. Are you on contraception?”

I roll the head of my cock across her clit in slow circles, then notch it at her entrance as she trembles, only to bring it back to her clit again in a maddening tease. “You can beg for me better than that.”

My motion slows as her words sink in and settle in my chest. And then I position my cock at her entrance and push in, just the tip, and relish the relief in Lark’s responding moan.

I slam to the base of my erection and we both cry out as pleasure and need consume us. I pull back to the tip and do it again. And again. And again until I pick up a rhythm of long, deep strokes that glide through Lark’s heat.

Lark whimpers and moans and begs for more. She chants my name. I push her upper body against the mattress and grip the harness. I piston into her, every stroke deep and merciless, just like she asks for when she begs for me to go harder, deeper. And when I sense the orgasm building at the base of my spine, an electric tension that hums through my nerves, I reach around and circle her clit until Lark screams, her back bowed, her body trembling as she unravels. Her pussy tightens around my erection. I can’t hold back, spilling ropes of cum as deep as I can inside her until I’m shaking and barely able to kneel, my heart a deafening hum in my ears that blankets all other sound.

I pull out and collapse next to Lark and gather her to me. Her body trembles in the aftermath of her orgasm, my breath unsteady against her back. Euphoria and relief settle in the silence that lies over us and cools our sweat. We don’t talk for a long while as my heart settles into a steady rhythm and her breathing slows. Lark traces patterns on my arm, melodies in my skin, and before long she’s humming. Her voice is soft and content. It’s the first time I really realize how much we say to each other without words. How we’ve started to grow together. This was never meant to be permanent, but suddenly when I picture my future, I can’t see it without the presence of her notes in the dark.

I turn her over beneath me and stare down into her face. She smiles, her skin glowing in the dim light.

And it is.

I lose track of the hours. Lose count of how many times she breathes my name, or screams it, or begs with it. I don’t know how many times she comes. The sky beyond the curtainless windows is turning from black to indigo when we finally stop. Lark’s body is a boneless, exhausted, beautiful ruin of sweaty skin and tangled hair and trembling flesh. But she smiles at me when I back off the bed and stare down at her. It’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen her.

I hesitate for a moment before I pull on my shirt. There’s conflict in Lark’s eyes as she watches me, as though she’s not sure she should have asked. “Do you want me to?”

Lark nods. “Yeah. I think I do.”

I grin like it’s a joke, but my blood instantly heats and my cock hardens.

Lark settles in beneath the covers and I place a kiss to her temple before turning to leave. Her eyes are still on me when I pause at the threshold of her door and look at her over my shoulder.

I take my time around the block. Though part of me is eager to get back, I want to give Lark space to process and allow my own thoughts to settle. And predawn quiet is the perfect time to do that. The streets are dark between the lamplight, and the cold air refreshes my sweaty skin. There’s hardly anyone on the street, just the occasional car and a lone man dressed in hospital scrubs, his hood pulled up against the morning chill. He leaves the building across the street and walks in the opposite direction. So I let Bentley take his time to sniff every post and piss on every fire hydrant as we walk around the block.

When we get back inside, Lark is fast asleep.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should just go to the other room to let her rest. Maybe it’s selfish, but I strip down to my briefs and slip beneath the covers next to her. She wakes as soon as I do and my regret is immediate, but she reaches for my wrist to drag my arm across her body then settles against me.

With a final kiss, I fall asleep with my wife in my arms.

When I wake a few hours later with the sun streaming through the leaded glass, Lark is gone.

Within a few slow-moving moments, I’ve gotten myself together enough to be semipresentable. I follow the scent of coffee and toast in the kitchen. Lark is there, humming to music that plays quietly from her speakers as she flips eggs in a pan. Bentley sits at her feet, waiting for scraps to drop in his direction.

Lark laughs more than I thought the joke deserved. “I forgot about that.”

Bentley glares at me from his seat.

I blink at Lark. Then at the coffee table. Then at Lark again. “What?”

Lark takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I sanded the tip of his nose a little when we were talking. That was the smell. Nose bits and resin, I guess.” She shrugs and starts cutting into her bacon and eggs.

We exchange smiles and slip into a routine that feels so easy and familiar that it’s hard to reconcile our marriage with the circumstances of its beginning. We talk and laugh as we finish our breakfast and then bake together. We enjoy comfortable silences and long, weighted glances, slow smiles and crimson blushes. We take a shower together and I fuck my wife against the tiles, her legs wrapped around my back and her mouth pressed to mine.

And then we head to Leander Mayes’s estate.

Visiting Leander sets me on edge as it always does, especially with Lark at my side. But he’s welcoming this time, though maybe suspicious of the muffins until Lark and I each have one. He’s taken with Lark in a way that a gem collector might obsess over a rare diamond. He hangs on to her words like they’re precious facets of light. Polishes her with compliments. I’m halfway convinced that he only called me over here so he could learn more about the woman who waltzed into his home and left him on the floor of his man cave with a splitting headache and a bruised ego. He only asks me a few mundane questions about an old job and then his focus is back on Lark. I finally manage to pry us away and lead Lark into Leander’s office.

Lark shrugs and leans forward, resting her chin on the heel of her palm. “Maybe. Most people in that circle have been with our family for years, though, and nothing like this has ever happened.”

Lark types a name as a little shudder rolls through her arms. “Probably not worth digging too deeply on him, but Stan Tremblay is my aunt’s enforcer, for lack of a better term. He’s the one who always handled our dirty work, for the Montagues, anyway. My stepfather keeps him at arm’s length but respects him, particularly after the way he handled things with the school.”

Lark’s sentence tapers off, and she gives a little shake of her head as she swallows.

Tremblay’s contact card appears, but it’s surrounded by a red border, with the word WARNING next to his name.

Lark’s head tilts with a question, but I’m already pulling the keyboard and mouse toward me. I click through several options before a transcript appears.

Code 2. Code 4100. Tremblay’s address. A physical description that Lark confirms matches the man she knows.

A new entry appears on the screen, knocking the others down the list. Code 100.

ENUCLEATE

Lark

Thoughts of Stan Tremblay consume me as Lachlan and I walk up the metal staircase to our apartment in silence that lingers even when we open the door to Bentley’s excited footsteps, his nails clacking against the hardwood. With a pat to his head, Lachlan passes me before he heads toward the kitchen, and I haven’t moved an inch.

I watch as Lachlan focuses on his phone, his thumbs rapidly tapping the screen. I know he’s most likely texting Conor to solidify details of the plan we started with him on the drive home. When he seems satisfied, he pockets the device and then busies himself in the kitchen, grabbing a glass of ice water before he turns to watch me, until the silence must linger too long even for him. There’s a fleeting look of worry in his eyes when he saunters closer.

I nod. His eyes skim over me as he offers me the water. I take a long sip and pass the glass back.

Lachlan’s shoulders fall, not in disappointment, but in worry. I can see it in the way his brow creases. He takes my wrist and leads me toward the couch, setting the glass down on the gold coffee table as he gently pulls me down next to him.

When I look up, he watches me as though he knows this is about more than just Stan or the changes in my family that no one can stop. It’s about us, too. And I wonder if it scares him as much as it frightens me. It seems like he’s spent so long trying to ensure he had no one else to care about but his brothers and his business. So how do I fit into that? It’s not like we had much of a choice to be together—we were a product of circumstances. So what happens if those circumstances are taken away?

A deep inhalation fills Lachlan’s chest and he leans a little closer. “You know what I like most about you?”

I shake my head.

I swallow a breath that catches in my throat.

He loves that about me? Does he love other things about me too? Maybe there are things I love about him. Like the way he puts the needs of others first. Or the way he looks at me when I laugh. I love his teasing smirk. His touch. His kiss. The way his body fits mine like it was made to. Maybe I love a lot of things about Lachlan Kane.

I look away, but he tightens his grip on my hand and I’m sure he can see the sudden shine in my eyes. “You’re wrong,” I whisper. Lachlan’s lips part on a sharp inhalation as though he’s about to protest when I say, “I don’t think I hated you. I think I might kinda like you, actually. Just a little bit.”

Surprise is a momentary burst of light in his eyes and then Lachlan’s teasing smile takes over. “Yeah, I kinda gathered as much this last little while. Not sure what gave me that impression. Might have been the remote control situation.” Lachlan draws me into his embrace. His heart drums beneath my ear and I sink into his warmth. “Bravery has nothing to do with not feeling fear, and everything to do with facing it. You know that better than anyone. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

I nod against his chest and Lachlan runs his hand up and down my back, a motion he probably doesn’t think much about. But I do. Soon it’s the only thing I think about. His fingers running down the ridges of my spine. The way they slow at the waistband of my leggings and then return up my back. An ache builds with every pass of his hand, a need that slowly coils deep in my core, a need for more than just a reassuring touch.

I pull away and meet Lachlan’s eyes. His hand stalls on my back. He looks right into me, the real me. There’s need and fear and desire and longing staring back at me. Maybe he does love more than just my bravery. I think that’s what I see when I drift closer, when our breath mingles, when he frames my face in his hands.

One last breath. One look. And then he presses his lips to mine.

It starts sweet. A gentle sweep of our lips. A sigh. A stroke of my fingers across the short stubble on his jaw. And then the kiss deepens. The need for more seeps into every caress of his tongue across mine. I press my lips harder to his. I break away just long enough to pull his shirt off and then I take more from every moment that passes. A suck on his lip becomes a nip. The graze of my fingertips becomes a long scratch of my nails down his chest. A sigh becomes a moan.

In a flash of movement, I’m on my back on the couch with Lachlan’s weight bearing down on me.

Lachlan pulls his touch away and reaches for the water glass, fishing a cylindrical ice cube from the liquid. With it gripped in his hand, he tugs my leggings down as I pull my shirt off. His smile is wicked as he centers himself between my legs and lets the cold drops hit my breasts. My breath hitches as the water slides across my skin. He brings the ice down to my nipple and circles it until it’s a firm peak, and then he soothes it with the heat of his mouth as he teases the other. It’s a wave of sensation. Cold then warm. Warm then cold. And all the while I’m increasingly desperate for more of him.

He pulls away just enough to stare down at me, his eyes dark and serious. “Tell me who I am.”

A crease flickers between my brows as I try to work out what he means. “Lachlan Kane,” I say, smoothing my hand up the tense muscles in his arm. My reply doesn’t seem to satisfy him. “My husband.” The relief in his eyes is instantaneous. He nods once. I lay my hand to the side of his face. “You’re my husband.”

And then with a motion so sudden I barely have time to process it, he flips me over. He enters me with one swift stroke that has me gasping. I’d been so consumed by pleasure I didn’t even realize he’d undone his belt or lowered his jeans and briefs, and now his cock is buried as deep as he can go, his hips pressed against my ass, his body shuddering behind me. He thrusts into me again to the sound of my shameless moan. And then he picks up a rhythm, one that starts with long, slow strokes. He runs the ice up my spine as he grips my hip with his other hand.

I nod. “Yes.”

There’s a droplet of warmth as he spits on my ass. Lachlan runs the ice through it and around the rim of the hole, never breaking the cadence of his thrusts. When it’s coated in a mix of water and saliva, he gently pushes his finger inside.

I guide what remains of the ice to my clit and shudder with the burst of sensation. And then Lachlan picks up his rhythm, the thrusts harder, the pace faster, his fingers pumping in their own tempo. I chant his name. I lose my mind. My thoughts unspool until I’m only sensation. All I can feel is the way he stretches me. The way his cock passes over the flesh that clenches around him. The cold caress on my clit. The strain of my throat as I call out his name. And then it starts, the burst of pleasure that erupts in my core. My muscles tense. My back bows. My heart roars in my ears and dampens the sound of Lachlan’s moan as he releases inside me. I press my eyes closed and stars flood my vision and I unravel, trembling, covered in a thin film of sweat. And when I think it might never end, the orgasm starts to subside and leaves me little more than a boneless, breathless mess.

Lachlan takes a long moment to let us both come down, time that he takes to run his free hand across my back in a gentle caress. But when I shiver, he starts to pull out of me, first his fingers, then his cock. It’s a slow motion, as though he’s still savoring every sensation. And when his cock is free, he separates my ass cheeks to admire the mess of his cum with a low growl.

More cum is pushed into the tight hole and I try to suppress the growing desire already building in my core. “I couldn’t care less what Conor thinks.” With one more stroke of his finger, Lachlan’s touch then disappears. “But you’re probably right. And I need everyone on their game tonight, especially if you insist on being there.”

Lachlan shifts off the couch and gives me a dark look before he heads to the kitchen to wash his hands.

Lachlan laughs and turns to face me as he dries his hands. “I had no illusions about that, duchess.” He walks toward me where I sit on the couch, my legs gathered beneath me, my body still shimmering with a glow of sweat. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of me, and then he leans down to press a kiss to my forehead. “You’re stubborn,” he says as he pulls away. “It’s one of the things I love about you. Now let’s get moving. We only have a couple of hours.”

With a worried smile, Lachlan leaves me for the kitchen to start dinner while I gather my things and have a shower. When I come out, dinner is ready, and we talk about Stan, and his vault, and everything we have to do next. And within another hour, we’re heading to Conor’s garage, where we leave the Charger and exchange it for his van, the three of us silent as we drive into the night.

We roll to a stop within sight of the medical examiner’s office, an austere redbrick building. There are only four cars in the parking lot, a benefit of the late hour. Lachlan throws the van into park and we both turn around in our seats to watch as Conor types commands on his laptop in the back of the vehicle.

Lachlan and I exchange a determined glance. As much as I try to appear confident, my stomach still twists uncomfortably. Lachlan can see right through me. His expression is grim as he positions his earpiece, a deep crease notched between his brows. “You sure about this, duchess? It’s not going to be pretty. I can do it myself.”

A long sigh empties Lachlan’s chest as his focus drops to the device that rests on his palm. “I respect that, Lark. I really do. But things like this can go sideways. You need to be careful.”

I can see it in Lachlan, all the things he refuses to say but is desperate to. So I lean forward and rest my palm against the warmth of his stubbled cheek and press a lingering kiss to his lips. He captures my quiet sigh of comfort at his familiar taste. Before I pull away, I press my forehead to his and whisper, “I promise I’ll follow your lead. Just once though. Don’t get used to it.”

Lachlan plants another kiss on my forehead. “All right, duchess. Let’s go.”

With a determined nod to Conor, Lachlan exits the vehicle after me, and we stride through the dark toward the far side of the medical examiner’s office. When we get to the corner of the building, Lachlan pulls me behind him and peers around the wall. He turns around and gives me a final, assessing look, a last opportunity to ditch the plan and run back to the van. A lift of my brows is all I need to give in reply.

My heart surges as Conor counts us down.

Three.

Two.

One.

The fire alarm startles me, even though I expected it. But Lachlan remains focused and confident in front of me, seemingly at ease with the warning that blares from the building. His gloved hand hovers next to a gun holstered at his side. I can picture the ease with which he’d wield his weapon, the grace and precision of his muscular body, the unerring focus in his eyes.

Lachlan gives me a brief, suspicious glance over his shoulder before he refocuses on the emergency door. “No. Why would I kill someone with a pencil?”

I let out a disappointed sigh.

I shrug.

My grin ignites as Conor’s laugh travels through the earpiece. “Time to go, kids. You’ll have to duke it out later because the last person has just exited the building. The north door should be open.”

The levity I just felt evaporates as we stride toward the door. The ten-minute countdown begins.

Lachlan leads us through the wide, arterial corridors. We pass offices and laboratory rooms. Flashing red lights pulse above us and the noise is almost deafening. We take two turns to the left and reach a hallway of silver doors. I can tell by the chill that cuts through every layer of my clothing that we’ve made it to the coolers. Lachlan stops before the door of cooler two and watches my reaction as his thumb stalls over a blue button.

He presses the button and the door slides open. We’re hit by a rush of icy air.

We enter the room where a series of fans hum above us and swirl our fogged breath in currents and eddies. The scent of industrial cleaning solutions can’t mask the human decay that lingers like a malevolent memory. Mobile stainless steel autopsy carts line two of the walls, and though there are at least twenty tables, only five contain body bags. The fire alarm still blares around us with an urgency that propels Lachlan forward toward the carts where he starts checking the name tags on the bags.

Lachlan has already pulled a cart forward. Before he opens the body bag, he turns to me, concern written across his expression as he scans my face. “Ready?”

He unzips the bag to reveal the corpse of Stan Tremblay.

I’ve seen bodies before, of course, but always so soon after death that they look like they could be sleeping. I’ve never seen someone I’ve known well who’s been dead for a few hours. Stan’s skin is chilled and bloodless, his face slack, as if he’s a wax figure that’s an imperfect replica of the person I once knew. There’s a long gash across his throat, the edges of the wound congealed and dry like a slice of uncooked meat left too long on the counter. I know I should be moving faster and getting to work, but I can’t help but stall for a moment as I try to reconcile what I see now with the formidable man I once knew.

But even with the seconds ticking along and the alarm blaring, Lachlan doesn’t rush me. He carefully sets a small case on Stan’s chest and passes me a pair of bone-cutting forceps.

I take Stan’s left hand and get to work with the forceps. I fit their sharp edges at the second knuckle of his index finger where it should be easier to separate along the joint. Even with the brand-new forceps, it takes a lot of pressure and a bit of repositioning to make headway, but before too long it snaps free and I deposit the severed digit into the bag with the finger Lachlan has just removed from Stan’s right hand.

Lachlan’s brow furrows as he snaps the right thumb free, his eyes not leaving mine.

An adorable blush creeps into Lachlan’s cheeks before he clears his throat and gruffly asks Conor for a time check.

Bile churns in my stomach. “Probably not.”

We move closer to Stan’s face and Lachlan passes me the tongs. “Conor, are you one hundred percent sure his security system has the iris scanner?”

I do as he asks and slide the instrument into place to hold the eyelid back from the prize beneath. Lachlan saturates the surface of Stan’s eye with the liquid in the syringe before he takes up the scalpel with a deep, unsteady breath.

Lachlan taps me on the wrist. “Switch lids.”

As soon as I grab the bottom eyelid a surge of blood pools across the gelatinous white surface and I wretch. With a shaking hand, I manage to pinch the skin with my tongs before my stomach flips and I gag.

I gag again as Lachlan releases a string of expletives, some of which might be in Irish, though I can barely make out his words over the blaring alarm and the heartbeats roaring in my ears. “Don’t bring up food, ya feckin’ gobshite. Bloody hell.”

I heave. Lachlan gags. Conor cackles.

I manage to pull myself together long enough to grab the mini scoop and shove it into Lachlan’s hand. “Get that thing out, for the love of God.”

I pass him the scissors and a moment later, there’s a victorious sound of triumph. I find the jar of formalin and hold my breath as Lachlan drops the severed eye into the liquid. I don’t even have the lid screwed tightly shut before Lachlan has the bloodied tools packed away, hushed expletives still spilling from his lips.

The earpiece crackles with Conor’s laugh. “I was kidding, by the way. We don’t need the eye.”

We take off running, retracing our path through the building and into the cold November night. As we sprint toward the van, we hear the wail of sirens in the distance. I can barely catch my breath, but the adrenaline exploding through my veins gives me a sense of power. I feel invincible. I don’t know if Lachlan feels this way after every job he does, this addictive rush, but I feel fucking amazing.

So amazing that I almost forget why we’re really here.

Lachlan smiles as though he can divine my conflicting thoughts from my wide-eyed, manic gaze as he passes the bag of fingers to Conor. I do the same with the jar, and Conor places both items in a small cooler.

I nod and Lachlan reaches across the center console to give my hand a squeeze. There’s muted hope in the way he watches me. I can tell he wants to believe these pieces of Stan will unlock the mystery of the hunter that haunts us, but it’s as though he’s unwilling to put much stock in what feels like little more than witchcraft.

WANDERER

The Phantom

It’s been two weeks since I delivered Mr. Tremblay to God, and now He has rewarded my diligence. My servitude. He has moved the pieces across the board and cleared my way to righteous victory.

For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.

And my plans are ready to come together.

I stand for a long moment at the door and watch the woman as she sleeps. The light casts lines of shadows across her body as it passes through the slatted window blinds. It illuminates every miniscule movement, every breath. I can almost smell the failure of her organs. The sterile environment and the industrial cleaners can’t mask the smell of impending death.

Almighty God, the shadow of death is upon her.

The tempo of her breathing changes. Perhaps a nightmare. Fluid collects in her chest and rumbles. She coughs, and when she opens her eyes, they pan across the room until they land on me.

I grin at the old woman as I pull a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of my scrubs and slip them on. “You are not what I expected, Ethel.”

The old woman gives me a sharp and dismissive glare. Then she presses the button to adjust the incline of her bed. I stride forward, determined to stop her if she attempts to call for the nurse, but she only sneers at me. I know with that glance that she has either accepted her fate, or that she intends to attempt to fight me off herself.

My head tilts.

I withdraw a black case from my pocket. Though I don’t open it, the woman follows the motion of my hands. “I’m afraid I don’t know Mr. Foster.”

A rumbling cough builds in the old woman’s chest until bloody phlegm spills out of her lips. I offer her a handkerchief and she takes it, holding it to her mouth. Her attention remains on me.

I nod, understanding everything she doesn’t say. “It is good to accept death. Do not fight the will of God.” I step to the side of the bed and open the case to pull the first of three prefilled syringes from within. “Do you repent before the judgment of the Lord?”

The old woman sighs deeply. “I regret …” She trails off as her gaze shifts back to me. It is fierce with resolve. “I regret not having stolen the recipe for Bob Foster’s banoffee muffins when I had the chance. Fucker took twenty percent of my market share when he launched Bob’s Banoffees.”

My eyes narrow.

I give her a heavy sigh. A cluck of my tongue.

And then I turn to the IV pump and pause the medication drip. I pinch the tube to keep the solution trapped.

I stare at the old woman. “Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled—”

My hand trembles with the urge to hit her. She grins, a devil satisfied. Satan has stoked my sin to consume it. But he shall have no more.

I twist the protective cap from the port in the IV tube and push the saline from the first syringe into the port. I expect Ethel might try to fight. Perhaps she will pull the cannula from her hand. Though it would be futile, she could try to save herself. But she doesn’t try.

She only smiles.

Her eyes don’t leave mine. I feel them on my skin, even when I focus on the work of my hands as I remove the first syringe and exchange it for the second. This one contains lorazepam. Three times the dose for what I estimate her weight to be.

A thrill spikes in my veins. This is my calling, my mission from God Himself. He has granted me the means to avenge my brother, Harvey, and then He found for me a greater purpose—to kill the corrupt who protect His murderers and to destroy those who stand between me and the justice I seek. My God led me to stay in the same hotel as the Butcher and the Spider when I arrived with the hope of searching the wreckage of the house I grew up in. The police were so busy exhuming the bodies of Harvey’s victims that they didn’t put much effort into searching for who had killed him.

It didn’t take long. Not with a fake badge and a tight smile and God’s will.

A stolen blanket. An extra credit card charge. With a handful of questions, I had a fake name. And before long, I found a real one. Rowan Kane.

And now, as I remove the second syringe from the port and replace it with a final flush of saline, I feel Him within me, flooding my soul with peace.

I smile, then recite the words to the hymn I always sing to my offerings in their final breaths. My parting gift, one to usher their souls to judgment. “Abide with me—”

I slowly pull the bloodied handkerchief from Ethel’s clenched fist. It’s like a magic trick. It will be the only material evidence of our encounter that I will take from this room. A reminder that magic is an illusion. Death, an illusion. Life, a fleeting moment of time in God’s will.

My eyes lock with the old woman’s. Her rasping exhalations are desperate, but she shows no fear. Only defiance.

I smile as I fold my handkerchief and slip it into my pocket.

And then I watch until the last breath leaves her lips like a final, unanswered prayer.

LAST DEFENSE

Lark

I cough around a sip of coffee. “Um … yeah. Thanks.”

My cheeks heat as a memory from last night flashes through my mind: Lachlan’s face buried between my legs, my fist gripped tight in his hair as I pushed his sinful mouth against my pussy. It’s been just two weeks since our lives and desires finally aligned, and now each day we’re stitched closer together. Every night he fucks me until I’m ready to collapse, exhausted but sated. Every morning I wake up less able to imagine the days before Lachlan’s presence in my life and my bed. Sometimes his touch is all I can think about. His hands on my flesh. His kiss on my neck. His cock buried deep—

Though I give her my thanks, there’s an edge of sadness to my gratitude. I know I can’t say the same to Rose. And with the way we both look down at the table, she knows it too.

Rose glances down at her watch and gnaws at her lip. “About an hour.”

I don’t tell her it will be okay. I don’t know if that’s true, and I don’t want to pretend that comments like that are anything more than platitudes. Not anymore. Not for myself nor for anyone else. So instead, I hold Rose’s hand across the table and tell her what I really feel. “I’m going to miss you.”

Rose nods. “I’m going to miss you too,” she whispers. Her smile is brittle and my chest aches in reply. “You know what they say about the circus.”

I’m caught in Rose’s words and her shimmering dark eyes when her phone vibrates with a text to break the spell between us. With a glance at the screen, she slides the device off the table and pockets it.

We both stand and crush each other in a hug. The tremble in Rose’s shoulders cracks my heart and fills it with both pain and anger on her behalf. I know whatever is happening with Fionn is none of my business and she doesn’t seem willing to get into it in detail, but I can’t help but make a dig at him. “Maybe Lachlan wasn’t the asshat of the Kanes after all,” I whisper, and Rose laughs in my arms.

With a final, weak smile, Rose turns away and leaves the coffee shop. I watch as she opens the door to a car waiting at the curb and disappears inside.

It’s a short walk home and I use most of it to text back and forth with Sloane. She and Rowan are spending a weekend in Martha’s Vineyard to bask in their newlywed bliss, something I guess I’m starting to feel too, even though it’s all been a little backward for Lachlan and me. But does that really matter? There’s a worn path in life that most people take when they wind up married. Fall in love first. Make your vows. But maybe I was never meant to be on it. It surprises me more than anyone when I realize that I’m happy where I am.

I’m thinking about that epiphany as I enter the apartment and send Lachlan a text to let him know I’ve arrived home. I set my mobile down to spend a little time playing with Bentley, who grabs the stuffed squeaky skull that Lachlan bought him last week. We’re playing tug-of-war when my phone vibrates on the coffee table with an incoming call.

The rush I just felt expecting to see Lachlan’s contact on my screen is washed away when it’s my mother’s details that appear instead.

I already know what she’s going to say next.

There’s a vortex in time right before the words come that feels even worse than the moment you hear them spoken aloud. It’s like waiting for the anticipation of a needle—you know the hurt will come, but imagining it is sometimes worse than the moment it slides into your skin.

That pain still hits me like an ax to the chest. Tears fall freely down my face. We all knew this was coming. I thought about it every day. And yet it still feels like a hole has erupted inside me, a void that seems gravitational. Unfillable. Like it was made to only consume.

The tears don’t stop as my mom gives me the details. That Ethel passed in her sleep. It was peaceful. She says all the things that are supposed to be a minor comfort in the aftermath of loss. And then she talks about the practicalities that don’t stop for grief, not even for a moment. Mom sounds tentative when she asks if I want to meet them at Shoreview before the funeral home comes to take Ethel’s body away. She barely gets the question out before I tell her yes, to wait until I get there. And though my mom doesn’t ask outright about Lachlan, he’s the first person whose presence I crave. His quiet countenance. His steady shadow to my faltering light. There’s comfort knowing he’s seen more of me than I’ve been willing to share, and yet he doesn’t back away.

As soon as my mom hangs up, I select Lachlan’s number from my list of favorites. I try to compose myself, but the room seems to pulse with every beat of my heart, a watery film obscuring my vision.

Lachlan answers on the first ring. “Hey, duchess. I was just thinking about you.”

That’s it. That’s all I need to say. Just one short word. A breath of sorrow.

For a man who doesn’t say more than he has to, the barrage of questions almost makes me smile despite the pain that fills every crevice of my chest.

A breathy, mirthless laugh leaves my lips before my throat closes once more. “Probably. But right now I just need a hug.”

A breath stalls in my lungs. That quiet confession echoes in my mind until it brands itself there. I love you, an indelible ink written in memory.

Every big and bold moment with Lachlan seems to roll through my mind. The first time we met. The second. That kiss in the city clerk’s office when we said our vows. The way he whispered to me just before our lips met. Geallaim duit a bheith i mo fhear céile dílis duit, fad a mhairimid le chéile. I didn’t know what it meant—I still don’t. But I felt it. That this man would be there with me in my darkest times. And if I let him, he’ll be there in the light too.

The show can’t start until you jump.

I press my hand across my eyes, but it doesn’t stop a fresh wave of tears from flooding my eyes and sliding down my skin. Bentley whines at my feet and I drop to his level, gripping an arm around his thick neck to cry into his fur as I hold the phone to my ear with an unsteady hand. “I love you too, Lachlan.”

With a deep sigh, I say goodbye and try to reconcile a world that feels like it’s turned upside down. Ethel is gone. Everything in my family will change. I’m in love with my husband.

An incredulous laugh bursts from my lips despite the tears that still cling to my lashes. I press my forehead to the soft fur between Bentley’s ears. “I’m in love with my husband, Bentley. I guess that means we have to keep him.” My eyes lift to the ceiling with a bittersweet smile. It doesn’t take much to imagine Ethel’s reveling in a final plan coming together just the way she wanted. “Hear that, you scheming hell-raiser? I’m in love with Lachlan Kane. I’m pretty sure that’s what you were after, right?”

I rise to my feet. Before I order an Uber, I head to the bathroom to splash water on my face. My flesh feels too hot with all this emotion coursing beneath my skin. But when I look at my reflection, I see the beauty of being stripped down to my core. It has nothing to do with the makeup that still clings to my eyes or the foundation that’s been washed away. It’s got everything to do with the person I see in the mirror matching the woman I feel like inside. One who doesn’t hide behind what the world wants to see. There’s no practiced smile, no facade to keep others from being inconvenienced by my emotions. I’m in pain and I look like I’m hurting. I’m in love and I look like I’m living.

I like the woman looking back at me. I think my aunt would be proud of her too.

I’m just wiping the final drops of water from my face as Bentley gives a warning bark from the living room. Maybe the Uber was closer than I realized and I missed the bell, I think. But when I pick up my phone and check the app as I start toward the living room, the Uber is still ten minutes away.

Bentley barks again as I enter the living space. And then he growls.

Abe Midus is standing in my living room.

Predatory eyes. A hungry smile.

All at once we are hunter and prey.

I take off running for the kitchen. Something hits my legs and I smack into a lamp on my way to the floor. A lightning strike of pain blinds me when I land. My palm finds the side of my head and comes away sticky with blood. Bentley growls behind me. There’s a thud and he yelps. Something pierces my neck, sharp and inescapable before it’s pulled away.

I reach for my phone. My fingers slip across the glass when it’s kicked from my grasp. My groan is muffled by the roar of my heart as I try to pull myself across the floor. Power leeches from my muscles with every second that passes. I have just enough strength to turn on my back and breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Stay awake.

The edges of my vision darken and blur.

Abe Midus stands at my feet and slides a cap onto a syringe before slipping it into his pocket. A slow smile stretches across his face. Light reflects off something clutched in his grip. A black- handled tool with a brutal silver edge. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I try to beg but my mouth won’t form the words.

Bentley squares himself over my legs, head lowered, hackles raised. His vicious growl burns through my last moments of conscious thought. Abe bends, his eyes pinned to my snarling dog.

APPARITION

Lachlan

I stride through the doors of Shoreview Assisted Living and check in with the reception desk, the staff regarding me with somber smiles. When I get to Ethel’s room, Lark’s parents are already there. Damian’s hand gently caresses Nina’s back as she smooths Ethel’s silver-white waves. I scan the room but find nothing of Lark’s on the chair in the corner where she usually leaves her bag and jacket.

With a glance toward the door, I pull out my phone and type a text.

Everything okay?

Damian says something reassuring but I lose track of what it is as I pace toward the door and back again, the phone clutched in my hand. The message was delivered, but there’s no response from Lark. Something grips my guts and twists.

I leave the room and head down the corridor toward the reception desk. I look out the sliding glass doors hoping to catch a glimpse of an Uber dropping Lark off, or her mass of blond waves catching on the breeze, or that giant feckin’ bag that weighs nearly as much as she does bouncing against her hip. But there’s nothing, just an empty sidewalk and cars that pass by on the road.

I select Lark’s number and ring it as I head back toward the room. It goes unanswered. I hang up when it gets to Lark’s voicemail.

Let me know you’re okay, duchess

My plea is as much to the universe as it is to Lark. But still there’s no response.

I can feel the tension erupt in the room like a malevolent phantom. Damian takes a step closer. “What’s wrong? Is Lark all right?”

I’m about to call her a second time when my phone rings in my hand, but my momentary relief is cut short when I see Conor’s name on the screen and not Lark’s.

I pull the phone from my ear and place the call on speaker as I wait for Conor’s text to come through. When it does, I see an image of a man standing over Stan’s body. His features are obscured by the angle of the camera and the ball cap he wears, the brim pulled low. He clutches a weapon in his hand, not a normal knife but something small and irregularly shaped. Something familiar.

A second text comes in from Conor, this time a zoomed-in image of the tool. The man’s palm covers most of the black handle, but not the ring of gold that attaches the sharp head of the edge beveller. I can see the brand name—WUTA—stamped on the stainless steel.

Images click together like pieces of a puzzle as Nina and Damian ask questions that I don’t answer. “Get me a better picture of the hat.”

A handful of heartbeats later, a new image of the man comes through, his face still mostly in shadow, but the Carhartt logo clearly visible on the front of the cap.

Nina clamps her hand over her mouth, muffling a strangled cry.

Damian surges forward. “I’ll come with you.”

Damian and I turn to each other. His face crumples. I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

Damian gives me a single nod and I take off at a jog, calling Fionn as I run to my car on the off-chance Lark might still be with Rose. I’m speeding through a red light when he says he hasn’t seen her, but he tells me they’re in their rental and not far from our building, ready to help. By the time I reach our street, they’re already parking next to the entrance.

My heart races. My hands shake. I try her phone again as Fionn and Rose meet me at my car, but Lark still doesn’t answer.

I stride toward the stairs, taking them by twos, Fionn and Rose close on my heels. The worst fears I never could have imagined suddenly pile up around me with every step I take.

By the time we reach the apartment I feel like I might vomit. The desperation and panic are so foreign they’re overwhelming. I keep hoping my phone will suddenly ring, that Lark’s smiling face will pop up on my screen. But it stays silent. And I’m not sure I can survive what I might find on the other side of the door.

I hesitate for just a moment, letting Rose and Fionn know with a nod that they need to stay behind me. And then I twist the handle and push it open.

Blood coats the floor and my knees buckle. It’s my brother who holds me up long enough to stumble into the room and regain my balance.

I stalk toward the corridor where the bedrooms are, calling to Lark as I go. My efforts are unrewarded. I check the bedrooms and bathrooms, but there’s no sign of Lark, nothing out of place except her absence. I return to the living room with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and clippers clutched in one hand and my gun in the other. Rose has bloodied towels pressed to Bentley’s side as Fionn threads a needle.

Lark needed me. And I wasn’t there.

An anguished scream fills the room. It comes from me.

Tears fill my eyes as I toss the phone on the couch. I want to pace. To run. But there’s nowhere to go to escape the way I feel.

A hand wraps around my forearm and squeezes, and I look down to meet Rose’s fierce determination.

I press my eyes closed and search the darkness. At first, all I see is Lark’s face. How beautiful she is when she’s trying to get under my skin. How she looked on that stage, singing to me. Her body beneath the sheets the first night we spent together, the way she smiled when I turned for one last glance from the doorway.

And then it strikes me, an image that burns brighter than lightning.

I stride toward the door, Rose right on my heels. “I’m coming with you,” she says.

We stop just long enough for Rose to turn and face him. He’s kneeling on the floor, a hand still placed on Bentley’s side. “Lark is my girl. I’m going to get her back.”

Shocked silence fills the room. I expect Fionn to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. It’s as though her words are so unexpected that he can’t process them.

Rose takes a step backward toward the door. Fionn stares at her like he’s frozen. Rose takes another step away. “Save the dog or this asshat will kill you.”

Then Rose strides past me, pulling a huge hunting blade from a sheathe hidden beneath her shirt. When I turn toward my brother, there’s anguish in his eyes.

He swallows, but his voice still comes out uneven when he says, “Keep her safe.”

I jog to catch up with Rose. When we reach the bottom of the stairs we burst into the cold air, heading for the building across the street.

We run up the stairs to the second floor and head to the apartments that face our building, of which there are only three. We stop at the door at the end of the hall, the one most likely to align with our windows, and listen for sounds within. Nothing comes. I keep my gun pointed to the wood as Rose fits her tools into the keyhole. When the bolt gives, I motion at her to stand aside. Then I turn the handle and push the door in.

There’s no one here. But the evidence of his obsession is everywhere.

Charcoal drawings line the walls, images of crosses with quotes scribbled in margins, sketches of houses and unfamiliar places and people. There are several drawings of an older woman with a Bible spread open on her lap. Handwritten notes are piled on every surface. Times and dates and locations. A colorful strip of paper sticks out among the white ruled sheets, and I pick it up. KEX, with Lark Montague, the ticket says.

Fire fills my chest with a burning ache.

My phone rings and I scramble to pull it from my pocket. It’s Conor.

Rose watches from where she stands next to a scope mounted on a tripod, the lens pointed to our apartment.

I let out a string of swears as Rose shoots me a worried look. She starts searching through a pile of syringes and vials arranged on a tray on a side table. Conor is rattling off different iterations of Abe’s name and everything that he’s searched as Rose opens a Bible that lies near the table’s edge. Her eyes go wide as she whips it off the surface and thrusts it toward me, pointing frantically at the name.

Conor’s fingers tap furiously over the keyboard. There’s a brief pause that feels like an eternity. “It’s his brother,” Conor finally says. “I’m coming up with an address for Oregon. I’ll need to get to Leander’s and search from the office for anything more than the basics.”

We step closer.

Portsmouth, the title says.

I rip the map from the wood and throw the door open. Then I run down the hallway, feeling like I’m being burned alive, one cell at a time.

SCORCHED

Lark

I wake to darkness.

No sliver of light. No sound. Nothing to orient my brain as to where I am or how I got here.

Only a familiar smell, a vague recognition my brain can’t pull from the haze of whatever drug still swirls in my veins.

I slide my arm across a cold metal floor and tap my wrist to check the time. But my watch is gone.

Every heartbeat pushes me to a cliff edge of panic.

My breath quickens. Bile roils in my stomach. I pat my pockets down for my phone. Nothing.

Memories surface through the haze of drugs. A man in my apartment. My dog snarling. Blood on my throbbing head. I touch my hair and there’s a crust of it clumped in the strands. I remember a pinprick of pain in the side of my neck. My trembling fingers drift down to the mark.

I press my eyes closed. I will myself not to cry. The drug still lingering in my veins is both a blessing and a curse, dulling the memories of another darkness. Even still, I see the red numbers of the clock through the slats in the door as I huddled with my sister in the closet. Those glowing lines are so clear in my mind despite the many years that have passed.

Five thirty-nine. “How much longer?” I’d whispered to my sister. It had been hours since we’d heard any sounds from the house, but we refused to disobey our mother. We saw the desperate fear in her eyes when she closed us in and demanded we keep our promise to stay hidden.

Ava held me close. Kept me warm. “Figure it out, Lark,” she said.

Figure it out, Lark.

My fingers land on a small circle of metal embedded into the floor. I push myself up to sit and trace it, looking for a latch. But there isn’t one. There’s just a smaller, raised metal circle with eight screws near its perimeter beneath me. The surface of the circle feels slicker than the surrounding floor. I try every inch of the circle, hoping for a solution, some kind of button or clue. Nothing. Just the roar of my heart and the tremor in my hands as I fight to keep my fear at bay.

I crawl forward with one hand reaching into the darkness and hit a wall. The metal is the same as that beneath me, but there are small slats in rows, precise openings in the wall just wide enough to stick my finger in. I can’t feel anything inside. After trying a few of the holes, I trace the length of the wall and reach the next one, then the next. Halfway through my progress to map the metal in the dark, my fingers land on glass.

A window.

I press my face close to it and try to look out, but there’s nothing on the other side. Just darkness.

My fist is weak when I ball my hand tight to pound on the narrow strip of glass. “Let me out.” My voice is gravelly, barely more than a rasp. I try again, putting as much strength as I can into my fist as I bang on the window. “Somebody let me out—”

Something is pulled away from the window and I take a startled step back. Suddenly, bright light flicks on behind the glass. In the window, there’s a man looking back at me with a lethal smile.

Abe Midus.

I fall back on my ass. The light goes off.

On. Off. On. Off. His silhouette is illuminated only to disappear in darkness with the metronomic pulse of light. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s crawling up my throat. But I put my hands on the floor and force myself to rise.

When I’m standing straight and facing him, Abe leaves the light on, a remote control clutched in his raised hand.

My eyes dart to my surroundings now washed in light.

I know exactly what this is. A rotary batch oven.

Abe rotates his arm to display bloody marks that weep through white gauze taped across his forearm. “Your dog made an admirable effort to defend you. So loyal.” Abe’s head tilts as his eyes scour my face. I curl my short nails into my palms. “Do you think your husband will be as loyal to you? Or do his loyalties lie elsewhere, I wonder?”

I say nothing. Fear is a spiral that coils tightly around my thoughts and traps them. I might not know what Abe’s plans are, but I can already tell they’re designed to test every boundary and burn through them. And if he’s asking this question, there’s a good chance my heart will be the first thing to break by his design.

My brows knit together. I try to draw a connection between this man and anything I’ve done but I can’t find one. For him to go to this effort to sow chaos in my family and orchestrate an elaborate plan, there must be only one reason.

Abe’s expression clears and then fills with wonder. Excitement, almost. He lets out an incredulous laugh before he raises a hand to the heavens in praise. “But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.” His smile transforms as his arm falls to his side, and I realize that what I confessed is not at all what he expected. “You know, I almost gave up on my plans for whole-scale retribution in favor of simply killing you and Kane, and then God put you together in marriage. A second time, I nearly strayed from my path when I went to Kane’s studio, intent on indulging my weakness and bringing my vengeance to him, and God stayed my hand when you walked through the door. You delivered His wishes for the final notes of my masterpiece. The Lord knew what I did not, that your wickedness deserved to be punished. Divine inspiration indeed.”

Abe shakes his head. “It’s not.” He turns with a sudden motion as though he’s heard something in the distance. When his gaze returns to me, it’s bright with the kind of exhilaration that comes from watching your intricate plans come together. It’s a look I know, because I’ve felt it too. “It’s up to Kane.”

Abe presses a button on the remote and the room beyond the narrow window is plunged into darkness. His silhouette disappears.

As soon as he’s gone, I try the door handle again, desperately tugging at it. I resort to a few kicks that accomplish nothing. I head to the back of the oven where there’s a second door, but that handle doesn’t budge either, and the window on this one is covered so I can’t see out. I’m still jostling the door handle when the lights flick on in the window behind me.

My eyes narrow as I try to work out what he means. His words tear at my chest, claws that rake across its depths and leave venom in the wounds. Someone else is at risk here, and I don’t even know who.

A new wave of desperation floods the chambers of my heart. I search the perimeter of the door for a hidden release.

I feel a choked sob bubbling in my chest. But before I fall apart, I hear a derisive laugh coming from somewhere beyond Abe. The tone is instantly familiar. Lachlan. I press my face to the glass and look to the left, but I can’t see him.

There’s a pause, silence beyond the door.

I hear the clank of metal as it falls on the floor.

Abe crosses in front of my window, a gun in one hand, a phone in the other. He backs away slowly until he disappears from view, and the next thing I see is my husband.

Lachlan tries the handle but it doesn’t release for him either. “Lark—”

Lachlan makes a move toward where the control panel must be, but Abe warns him off with a threat and he refocuses on me. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, though his eyes fixate on the blood in my hair. He looks at me with the kind of terror that I never imagined he could possess.

But Lachlan, I know he’s not ready. He’s caught in a riptide, trying to swim his way free. He still tries the door, still glances at Abe as though there’s some other solution to get me out. And there’s so much pain in his eyes, so much distress in this man who I once believed could never be anything but callous, even cruel. I thought for so long that he was jagged and sharp. But in time, I saw the soft edges of old wounds. And now I see the broken shards of dwindling hope. Of impending loss.

I can barely see through my tears. The only thing I want is to embrace this man who stands right outside this door, and I can’t. This trap is designed so that I never will.

Lachlan shakes his head. “No,” is all he says, a whisper I can see but can’t hear.

Lachlan doesn’t break his gaze from me. Tears shine in his eyes.

This is meant to make us suffer. And the only thing I can do is try to lessen Lachlan’s pain.

Lachlan cries out as I take a step back from the window. He hits the glass over and over until his knuckles bleed. He calls my name. “Stop the oven. Stop it now—”

Abe’s voice is clinical and detached in the periphery. “She made the choice for you. It’s done.”

I take another step back. Tears gather at my lashes as Lachlan desperately tries to break in. My shoulders square up even though they shake. I raise my chin and give him a smile so full of sorrow and apology and love and pain that my heart shatters when Lachlan’s eyes meet mine through the glass.

An alarm goes off.

It all happens so fast—just not fast enough.

There’s a sound of metal falling on concrete. A determined cry. A yell of frustration, then one of pain. A gunshot that echoes beyond my steel walls.

And then the oven fans start.

Air blows through the slats in the walls. The circle in the floor turns clockwise, the rotary function spinning me in a slow dance as the current of air grows warm. There’s commotion outside the door. When I turn in that direction, I see Rose with Lachlan at the window.

The air is already hot, getting hotter with every heartbeat that knocks against my ribs. My skin is slick with sweat. I drop to the spinning floor in search of a cooler breath that never comes. When I look up to the window, I see Lachlan with a gun pointed to the door handle.

Rose pushes his hand away. “No, you could make it worse. Shoot the window.”

I try to keep hold of Lachlan’s eyes as I spin. The heat becomes nearly unbearable as the fans pick up speed.

I fold my slick arms over my head.

With a deafening bang, glass shatters into my enclosure and rains down around me. Some of the heat is released and I’m able to fight back the wave of darkness that threatens to knock me unconscious.

A moment later, I hear Rose’s sound of triumph and feel a rush of cool air. Two hands wrap around my ankles to drag me from the steel and onto the concrete.

The cold floor. I’ve never felt such relief as when I press my hot skin against it. I blink. Breathe. I try to control the nausea roiling in my belly as shock and adrenaline and the remaining sedative swirl in my body. With my pulse raging in my ears, I lift my head just enough so that I can meet Abe’s lifeless eyes. A hole sits between them, a rivulet of thick crimson trailing toward a growing pool of blood on the floor. A discarded tool lies at his side. It’s the same one Abe had in my apartment; the silver end now painted crimson.

I pull my attention away to reach out a hand and Rose takes it with a squeeze. “What about Sloane—”

I let out a long sigh and close my eyes. When I open them Rose’s tired smile is waiting. “I might call in a contract for that one. Anyone here know if Leviathan does bombs? I bet I’ve got a guy.”

With Rose’s help, I push up enough to look at Lachlan where he sits near my feet. His forearms rest against his knees. His dark hair, slick with sweat, hangs over his brow. He tilts his head up to look at me. In his eyes, I can see all the pain and fury and fear rising to the surface.

Lachlan shakes his head. “No. Forcing me to not choose you.” Though he grasps for control of his emotions, he’s as powerless as I am to stop them. “You’re brave as hell. But you’re my person, Lark. I can’t do this without you.”

And this is one of my favorite things about Lachlan. I can look at him and that one glance tells me everything that words can’t. It shows truths that are locked away, about how hard it is to love. How much it hurts to let go of the armor we wear, to peel it back and show the most damaged layers of ourselves, to bear all our wounds.

Lachlan opens one arm toward me and I launch into him like a crashing tide.

His arms wrap across my back, powerful even though they tremble. He lifts me from the floor. This is the feeling I thought we would never have again. The feeling of being entwined with each other. To stitch together and know it’s not the last time. It’s just the beginning.

Lachlan’s arms tighten around me. And he keeps his promise.

He doesn’t let me go.

RENEW

Lachlan

Lark shrugs, not looking up as she flips to the last page and picks up the waiting pen. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me. Have I ever given you a reason not to?”

Leander laughs but still shifts his attention to me as though I might give him a hint of reassurance. When I don’t, he looks even more delighted. Blimmin’ nutjob. He loves chaos almost as much as he loves money, two concepts that don’t seem compatible, and yet he makes it work.

Lark signs the final page of the Covaci contract and slides it across the coffee table. Leander leans back in his chair and feckin’ beams at the both of us. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s actually happy for me. I’m not sure he has that capacity to feel genuinely happy for anyone but himself, but he at least looks the part. Or maybe it’s not so much the end of my tenure with Leviathan that has him looking so pleased. It could just be Lark, who has been the source of his admiration ever since the muffin incident.

Plus she’s also just given him a six-pack of beer.

Leander smiles as he motions to the other bottles in a bid for us to take one. “Don’t apologize. I like to be surprised.” He reads the label with an appreciative nod and pops the cap. “Speaking of surprises, I never thought I’d see the day, but Lachlan Kane is officially retired. That deserves a toast.”

Lark passes me a beer and grabs one for herself. When they’re open, we raise our bottles in the air.

I roll my eyes and Leander laughs before he gives me a slap to the shoulder. But the teasing light in his grin fades to something that seems real, at least as much as a man like Leander Mayes can manage. “And to you, Lachlan. You raised those boys and started your business and managed to somehow find the perfect wife despite being an asshat. You’ve done good. I’m going to miss you around here, kid.”

I nod, an unexpected pang of gratitude and nostalgia hitting my chest as I raise my bottle. “Sláinte.”

We clink the necks of our bottles and take a long sip of the honey-brown liquid.

I grin and drape an arm across the couch behind Lark as I settle into my seat. “We’re going away for the weekend.”

Leander waves me off and sways a little on his seat as he turns his attention to Lark. “Speaking of jobs, got anything new lined up for me yet?”

A smile sneaks across Lark’s lips as Leander sets his beer down on the coffee table and gives the bottle a long, befuddled look. “Maybe let’s talk about it after you have a little nap.”

Leander’s body swings in an unsteady circle before he passes out in a heap on the floor. We stare down at him where he lies crumpled between the sofa and the coffee table, a gentle snore already rumbling from his throat.

I shake my head. But any attempt I have at stoicism falters as Lark approaches.

She folds her hands around my wrists. I drop my arms at her command and let her close in on me, her eyes fused to my lips. “Take me home,” Lark says as she rises on her tiptoes. One of her hands wraps around the back of my neck to draw my lips close to hers. “Since you’re officially retired, I think we should celebrate.”

My hand threads into Lark’s hair. I breathe in her scent of sweet citrus and let my lips graze hers when I whisper, “What exactly do you have in mind?”

Lark presses her lips to mine. My tongue sweeps across hers and I pull her closer, deepening the kiss. I’m carried away by my insatiable need for her that only grows more intense with each day that passes. I forget where I am and the world that spins around us as I lift her in my arms.

At least until Leander snorts a rumbling snore on the floor.

I set Lark on her feet with a disappointed sigh. “Christ Jesus. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

We leave Leander untouched as we head upstairs and out the door. A message dings on my phone as we slide into the Charger, a text from Rowan. I start up the car and let it warm up as I tap out a reply. I feel Lark’s eyes on me as I pocket my phone and shift the car into drive.

Even though I knew that was what she was going to ask, it still feels as though she’s reached around my heart and squeezed. “I don’t know,” I reply as I keep my focus on the winding driveway. When I don’t glance her way, Lark lays her hand over mine where it rests on the gear shift. “I hope so.”

We don’t talk much for the rest of the drive home. Though it would normally be a comforting quiet with Lark, my heart beats too quickly for me to feel relaxed. It only gets worse when we park. I try to take a deep breath as I walk over to the passenger side to open her door. With every step we take, I think she’s going to notice the way I hold her hand just a little too tightly, or the way I can’t seem to stop biting my bottom lip. But if she does catch on to those details, she never says so. She’s seemingly content to walk up the stairs side by side in silence. By the time we get to the landing, I’m nearly vibrating with nerves and anticipation.

Lark’s gaze pans across the room before it lands on me. “Where?”

I tap my finger against my lips to draw out her suffering before I finally say, “What kind of conduit is universal?”

A crease appears between Lark’s brows. She pivots on her heel, her focus roaming toward the kitchen until her expression suddenly clears. With the most feckin’ adorable grin, she grasps my arms and bounces on her toes. “Water. Constantine.”

And then she’s gone.

I trail in her wake as Lark heads to the Constantine poster and lifts it from the wall to reveal a safe. The smile she beams my way lights up every dark crevice in my heart.

I watch as Lark thinks on this for a minute then tries a few options. Her frustration mounts when nothing seems to work. It’s a valiant effort, and she seems determined to keep going until she finally lets out a dejected sigh and looks to where I stand with my hands shoved deep in my pockets. “Give up yet?”

I saunter up behind her, only stopping when my body is flush with her back. With a lingering kiss to Lark’s neck, I reach over her shoulder to spin the lock. “Well, well. Look who’s more up on their Constantine trivia now. Three, three, nine, three. The number on the back of Chas Kramer’s taxi.”

With the final number in place, I unlock the safe and stand back.

Lark trails off as she opens the door, revealing her trophies. The snow globe. The coaster. The maracas were trickier to salvage, so I made her a new pouch from cowhide for the teeth of the broken one. There are a few other things I found hidden in the apartment, like a bookmark made of charred fabric and a beaded bracelet made of bone. And behind all those trophies, there’s something she’s never seen before.

Lark stiffens. She stares at that heart. She doesn’t take her eyes from it, not even when they well with tears that she struggles to blink into submission. Her pain stokes the rage that lingers like venom in my veins. But there’s satisfaction too, in the hope that this trophy will give her some measure of closure to questions that have haunted her sleepless nights.

I nod.

Lark’s lip wobbles, and for a moment I wonder if this was the wrong thing to do. But when she looks at me, a smile breaks through the pain that creases her brow and floods her eyes with tears.

When we finally separate, I pull the box from her arms and set it on the coffee table so I can take her shoulders and turn her away. “There’s one more thing,” I whisper as I nudge her toward the safe.

With a wary glance over her shoulder, Lark focuses on the items left inside, where I know there’s a manila envelope with her name on it. She keeps her back to me as she opens it. There’s a gasp as she withdraws the documents and reads the itinerary for a prebooked honeymoon trip to Indonesia I printed earlier today.

And then she flips to the divorce papers.

When I say nothing, she turns to face me, and finds me down on one knee.

A fresh wave of tears cascades down Lark’s cheeks in shining rivulets. She can’t seem to land on furious, or elated, or purely overwhelmed, but they all seem to combine when she says, “What the hell are you doing?”

Lark looks around us as though the explanation can be found on the sofa, or out the window, or on the floor. Her gaze lingers on Bentley, who looks as confounded as she does. Then her eyes land on the papers that waver in her unsteady hands. I’m pretty sure a feckin’ eternity passes before her attention returns to me. “Why?”

Lark shakes her head. Her lips press into a tight line and her brow furrows. And I’m feckin’ terrified. I’m terrified to let her go. But I made a promise to protect her. From anyone, even herself. Even me. And the only way I can do that is to be sure she can live the life she wants. Otherwise, I’m not a protector. I’m a cage.

Lark’s expression is so hard and so pained that I can’t tell what she’s really feeling, but I know I need to keep going.

Lark holds my eyes.

And she doesn’t look away. Not as she tosses the itinerary over her shoulder, a move that incinerates my heart in a beat of panic. Not as she holds the divorce papers up and rips them apart, one after the next until each one is torn. Then she points at me with a trembling hand.

Lark’s anger dissolves. Her smile ignites. It’s the most beautiful she’s ever been, her happiness an unstoppable dawn.

I slip the ring above the set on her finger.

And I choose her, like I have every day since I found the bottom of the chasm between us and decided to do whatever it took to claw my way into her light. I choose her like I will every day to come.

I kiss my wife. And I choose love.

EPILOGUE

MAGIC TRICK

Rose

My grandma used to say that the best magic tricks are performed by the ones who believe.

It’s true. I see it all the time at Silveria Circus. The best magicians are always the ones who understand that the true magic at the heart of a trick is possibility.

Maybe that’s why no one looks my way now. Because I believed in magic too.

Abe Mead lies dead on the factory floor. That fucker. Wouldn’t mind having another shot at killing him if I could. Maybe I’d have done a few things a little differently.

I pull my attention away from his cooling body. I don’t want him to take another second of my time.

So I put all my focus on something beautiful instead. Lachlan and Lark. They hold each other in a crushing embrace. They sway like two trees that have twisted together and weathered storms side by side. Maybe this will be the last big one. A thunderstorm that leaves clean air and vibrant colors behind. I’d like to think the weather will always be fair for them now, the skies always clear. I think that’s what I’ll choose to believe.

I glance down at my shirt. There’s almost nothing to show for everything that’s happened. Just a small hole in the flannel fabric on my side, right beneath my ribs. There’s no more than a few drops of crimson to stain my shirt. A little trick. Nothing to see.

But I can feel it.

It burns right there, while the rest of me feels cold. No one notices when I lie down on the floor.

Lachlan and Lark are still wrapped together when a door flies open somewhere nearby. Running footsteps echo against machines and concrete walls.

It feels like the first time I flew through the metal cage on my motorcycle. The terrifying roar of the engine. The flip of my stomach when I realized I didn’t know which way was up. I just pulled back on that throttle and sped through the sphere until everything else faded away except the headlight in front of me.

The world doesn’t go dark. It goes bright white. In the final moment before the light washes the shadows away, I see Fionn in the distance. And I know he’s my home. My person.

My love.

Maybe magic is real after all.

BONUS CHAPTER

STRAPPED

LARK

Funny thing about marriage.

Sometimes I look at my husband and think, I can’t imagine having loved anyone as much as Lachlan Kane.

And other times, I just want to make him suffer.

In a loving way, of course. Most of the time.

Like now.

I watch from the hammock as Lachlan checks his gear and lays his wet suit out to dry in the sun on the porch of our beach hut. I give him a saccharine smile as he bends to place a kiss on my forehead and then heads inside, leaving the door open. He can’t see the way my eyes narrow behind my sunglasses, or the way my smile turns menacing as I roll out of the hammock and follow behind him.

Lachlan’s eyes sweep down my body, lingering on my bikini top, dropping to my navel and the waistband of my jean shorts, trailing an electric current down my bare legs. A slow, ravenous smirk spreads on his lips.

My smile becomes lethal when he turns his back. As soon as I hear the water turn on, I get to work.

By the time I enter the bathroom, the steam has started to gather at the ceiling and across the surface of the mirror. Lachlan stands beneath the spray of water with his head bent, his eyes closed. Water sluices down his thick bands of corded muscle and inked skin. An ache fills my core as I take a moment to just watch.

I roll my eyes and unbutton my shorts to slide them over my hips. “You’re way hotter than Keanu.”

Lachlan’s self-satisfied smile turns heated when I pull the string at my back and let the bikini top fall to the floor. He pushes the glass door open and offers me a hand to step inside, and as soon as I take it he wraps me in a wet embrace.

Lachlan kisses a line that follows my collarbone and then down to my right breast. He sucks my nipple and my hand twines into his hair to grip the short strands. I press him to my chest and he groans. “Maybe we should stay a little longer. I’m not ready to go home.”

Lachlan moans his agreement into my flesh before he kisses his way to my other breast, teasing my nipple into a firm peak. Before he can kiss his way lower, I pull away and let my hands trail down his chest and the rippling muscle of his abs to anchor to his tapered waist. I keep my eyes on his as I slowly drop to my knees. He blows out a long breath as I take his erection in a firm grip and spit on the tip.

I work his erection. My motion is slow, my grip firm. I cup his balls and take him deep. I swallow his length. My tears mix with the water that pelts my face every time he hits the back of my throat. I moan around his flesh, let the vibration push him closer to the edge, closer and closer until he’s shuddering and cursing and chanting my name like a prayer. I feel every muscle in his body tensing. I hear his impending release in the desperation that colors every whispered word.

And in the moment before he’s ready to fill my throat, I let go of my husband and back out of his reach.

Lachlan’s confusion meets my waiting smirk. He’s trembling with the release I just denied him. His eyes scour my face, his brow creased with worry. “Did I do something wrong?”

I drag the back of my hand across my lips and open the shower door. “Dry yourself off and come out,” I say as I step out and tug my robe off the hanger to drape it over my arm. I don’t bother with a towel. I nod to his watch where it sits on the counter. “Give me five minutes exactly. Not a single one more or less.”

I shut the shower door and leave the bathroom with the sound of Lachlan’s confusion following on my heels.

When Lachlan exits the bathroom a few moments later with a towel wrapped around his waist and a wary look on his face, I’m waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I pat the surface of the bed, stirring the torn strips of paper that litter the surface. “Come and have a look.”

The crease between Lachlan’s brows deepens and then he approaches, stopping next to me. He picks up a piece of paper but sets it back down when he can’t glean anything from the few words typed on it. When he takes a second strip, a deep blush flames in his tanned cheeks. He meets my eyes and I slide the shoulder of my robe down to reveal a black leather bra strap.

Lachlan’s throat bobs with a swallow. “I was trying to give you a choice.”

I shrug.

I stand, letting the robe fall to my feet to reveal the rest of my work. Lace panties. Leather straps. And a glittery black dildo attached to the harness I’m wearing.

Lachlan’s eyes turn black with desire.

Lachlan holds my eyes for a long moment before his hand moves to the bunched fabric where the towel folds at his waist. He tugs it free and lets the towel drop to the floor. His erection twitches as his eyes drop to the dildo, feral need consuming his gaze.

Lachlan moves toward the bed with predatory grace, his steps slow and purposeful. He passes close enough to me that I can feel his body heat, his eyes not leaving mine, not even as he places his fists on the mattress.

I watch as the mattress dips beneath the weight of Lachlan’s muscular body. He positions himself on all fours in the center of the bed, his back tense, a shudder rolling through his powerful frame. I smile as I pick up a small bottle of lube and crack open the lid. “Green means?”

I run my palm across Lachlan’s ass before I give it a sharp slap. “Such a good boy,” I coo as I tilt the bottle of lube to let the first thick drops land on his ass crack. With my hands on his smooth skin, I separate his ass cheeks and maneuver my hips to drag the tip of the dildo through the viscous liquid. “Are you sure you’re a good boy, though?” With one hand, I grip the toy and press it to the puckered hole, massaging the tight ring of muscle, circling it until the lube spreads and I feel him start to relax.

I press the tip of the dildo to the pleated hole, keeping the pressure on until it slips past the resistance. Lachlan cries out with the sensation, dropping his head to his arm as I move with him, keeping the end of the dildo lodged in his ass. He takes a few deep breaths and I caress the thick planes of muscle that bracket his spine.

I flip my wet hair from my eyes and keep my gaze on the sight before me as I push the toy deeper into Lachlan’s ass. My back arches as I keep the pressure on, steadily moving forward until I’m stretching and filling him, my powerful, lethal husband reduced to shuddering, unraveling, animalistic need.

And then I pick up a rhythm of thrusts.

Slow and steady at first. Long strokes. I pull out all the way to the tip of the dildo, then push back in until I fill him completely. Lachlan growls with pleasure. Moans as I pick up a faster cadence. Shudders when I scrape my nails down his back and slap his ass. And just watching what I do to him stokes an ache deep in my belly. I seize the power of every rocking motion and I know that I’m the one pushing him to the brink of madness. That there are billions of people in the world but I am the only person he trusts to throw him off that cliff and still give him a safe place to land. I know it in every thrust of my hips. Every tremble in his arms. Every curse and unsteady exhalation. I revel in every moment of pulling Lachlan Kane apart.

Sweat coats Lachlan’s skin in a glistening film. He grips the sheets with bleached knuckles. Torn papers rustle on the bed as I thrust with a quickening pace.

I drape my body over Lachlan’s back and reach around his hip to grip his cock. He hisses with pleasure as I coat my palm with the pre-cum gathered at the tip and stroke his length.

A gravelly moan escapes Lachlan’s lips as I ramp up the pace of my thrusts and pump his erection. “Christ, Lark. Lark,” he grits out. And he says it again. And again. And again. My pace is unrelenting. I’m merciless. I want him mindless with pleasure. I want him to be ruined. To know my name is the only word he can remember.

And my name is the only thing Lachlan says as he comes.

His spine locks. His cock pulses in my hand. Ropes of cum spray across the bedding. Across ripped paper. Across words like divorce, and irreconcilable, and final decree. They’re all stained with the proof that we are unbroken. My husband and I chose a different path. We choose it every day.

I wrap my arm around Lachlan’s waist and press my cheek to his back where I can hear his heartbeat riot through muscle and bone. And he lays a hand on mine, holding me close. It’s a long moment before I start to slide my touch away and pull out. I take my time, reveling in every shudder and shiver he makes as I slip free.

The second the dildo leaves his ass, Lachlan flips me over and I laugh as he pins me beneath his knees. He fumbles with the buckle for the harness as though he’s desperate for a taste of my pussy. When it’s finally undone, he tosses it to the floor and then pulls the lace panties aside as he settles between my legs.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, to YOU, dear reader, for spending some of your time with Lachlan and Lark, and their friends and family, and curmudgeonly Bentley (I promise he’s living his BEST fictional dog life!). I hope you enjoyed the crazy journey. The experience of writing Leather & Lark was unlike any book I’ve written so far. Much like Lark and Lachlan’s story, life is full of joy and heartbreak and love and perseverance. This book was both incredibly challenging and rewarding in equal measure, and I hope you love it.

Huge, enormous, endless thanks to Kim Whalen from the Whalen Agency. You’ve changed my life in ways that are still difficult for me to fathom. I absolutely love working with you and I’m so grateful for everything you have done and continue to do for me. Thank you also to Mary Pender and Orly Greenberg at UTA; I’m so excited to see what comes next for these stories! Thank you for helping to open these characters to a whole new world.

To Molly Stern, Sierra Stovall, Hayley Wagreich, Andrew Rein, and the entire team at Zando, thank you for taking a chance on my work and not only asking me to jump on the pirate ship, but then making the pirate ship into a superyacht, and now we’re zooming around the seven seas! Next stop: SPACE.

In the UK, huge thanks to the team at Little, Brown UK, particularly Ellie Russell and Becky West, who have been so wonderful to work with and who were some of the very first folks in the publishing industry to rally behind the Ruinous Love series. Thank you also to Glenn Tavennec from Éditions du Seuil for being such a huge supporter of me and these characters. And I will always be so grateful to András Kepets in Hungary, who set in place the first domino that brought these partnerships to life.

Big thanks to Najla and the team at Qamber Designs, who created the stunning covers for all three books in this series. It has been an absolute pleasure to work with everyone on that team—they did an amazing job bringing the essence of these stories to life! To my lifesaver PA and graphics wizard, Val Downs. Thank you for keeping me afloat whenever I fall off the pirate ship, HAHA. You keep the sails up and I’m so thankful to work with you.

I am enormously grateful to the amazing ARC readers and social media supporters of Butcher & Blackbird for taking time out of their day to read, promote, and talk about these stories, and their willingness to come on these crazy journeys with me. It means the world to me that you love the characters as much as I do, and that you take the time to let me know. I absolutely love your drawings, edits, videos, messages, and comments. Being on this adventure with you makes the carpal tunnel worthwhile, AHAHA.

Super special thanks to Arley and Jess, who so kindly vibe-check things for me when I’m in the “I want to BURN THIS” phase of writing. You save my sanity and for that I’m enormously grateful. I love you ladies. And to Kristie, huge thanks for the gift of “multiple deleter,” but most of all, thank you for your love and support.

To T. Thomason, who when I said, “I have a crazy idea,” was like, “Sign me the fuck up!” As I write this, our wild little plan is still under construction. Please know that I am so thankful for your friendship and your willingness to entertain such a weird and fun idea out of the blue!

I have been so lucky to become friends with some incredibly talented authors on this writing journey, and their help and guidance has been so critical for me, particularly during this series. To Avina St. Graves, thank you for letting me include a little snippet of Death’s Obsession. Lachlan loved it, haha! And thank you for being my deadline buddy. I could not have survived without you (for reals). “I’m going to wax my legs to feel something other than stress” should be on a shirt. To Abby Jimenez, thank you for your sage advice (and the bottle of moonshine in the sketchy alley, it went down a treat). And Lauren Biel, who is always up for a batshit-crazy brainstorming session, I’ll get that boxcar romance out of you yet!

Last but certainly not least, to my amazing boys: my husband, Daniel, and son, Hayden. Daniel, thank you for always taking the time to help me make sense of the glittery brain soup, and for your patience, love, and support. Definitely also the wine and the olive and cheese plates—those really saved my soul. I love you, my boys. (Hayden, when you asked how old you’d need to be before you could read this, the answer is 245.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times and USA TODAY best-selling author and TikTok sensation with works sold worldwide in over fifteen languages to date, Brynne Weaver has traveled the world, taken in more stray animals than her husband would probably prefer, and nurtured her love for dark comedies, horror, and romance in both literature and film. During all her adventures, the constant thread in Brynne’s life has been writing. With eight published works and counting, Brynne has made her mark in the literary world by blending irreverent dark comedy, swoon-worthy romance, and riveting suspense to create genre-breaking, addictive stories for readers to escape into.

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