CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Enucleate

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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Goodreads: goodreads.com/author/show/21299126.Brynne_Weaver