CHAPTER FIVE: Threads

THREADS

Lark

… ONE YEAR LATER

I let myself into my great aunt Ethel’s sprawling home, the familiar rhythm of waves following on my heels from the nearby rocky shore until I close the door behind me. The scent of lavender and roses greets me in the foyer from the large bouquets that line either side of the entryway. There’s a framed photo of Ethel and my great uncle Thomas resting between two of the vases, a picture I took at their wedding anniversary party six months ago. I’m staring down at the photo when my older sister, Ava, appears from the direction of the kitchen, the cadence of her footsteps so familiar that I don’t need to look up to know it’s her.

Ava sighs, my biceps gripped in her hands as she appraises me. Something about her expression seems drawn now that I have the chance to really look at her. Maybe it’s just the stress of recent travel from California. She’s not the type to chill, and it’s probably starting to catch up to her along with everything she’s been organizing here. I give her a bright smile and hum a few bars of the “Wedding March,” but it doesn’t crack her stoic mask.

My sister gives me a sardonic grin before she presses a kiss to my cheek and then marches away, disappearing down the corridor past the boxes of paperwork she’s set out in the hallway. A sense of unease settles in my chest like a thick syrup that sticks to my bones.

My watch buzzes with an incoming text from my aunt.

You’re not late, are you?

I roll my eyes but smile as I pull out my phone to tap a reply.

Right on time, Auntie. Just arrived.

Good. Take the rear steps. And bring me the hand lotion from the bathroom down there, would you? Take your time.

My face scrunches. I’m not unfamiliar with my aunt’s strange demands. Hurry up. Then take your time. Bring me a random thing. Even still, it’s a little odd.

I shrug it off and send her a simple “okay” before I head toward the bathroom next to the stairway that leads to the wing where my aunt’s bedroom looks across the sea. I’m nearly there when I hear tense voices floating out into the corridor. It’s the familiar tone and cadence of my stepfather speaking, followed by another man’s voice I recognize to be Stan Tremblay’s. His deep baritone summons goose bumps on my skin.

Normally, I would leave my mom and stepdad to their secrets and plans and the never-ending machinations that keep their respective businesses running and their family happy. I’ve overheard meetings like this for as long as I can remember. They’re part of the murk rippling beneath the pristine surface that gives the appearance of a flawless life.

My steps falter. My mother’s voice evokes memories of the night I crashed Merrick’s vehicle into the reservoir. I mean to grab my aunt’s lotion and keep walking like I can simply ignore this is part of my life. This is none of my concern, this constant scheming, these endless battles. But it’s the next two words that root me to the floor.

I look toward the sitting room at the end of the corridor. One of the double doors is ajar. With just a moment’s hesitation, I follow the flow of voices, slinking into the empty office across the hall.

My mother’s irritated huff escapes the room. I imagine her silvery-blue eyes are likely sharp enough to flay the skin right off my stepfather’s face. She might love him with every beat of her steely heart, but when it comes to work, there are lines they don’t cross, even if their businesses bleed into each other more and more as time goes on. “Damian, we’re not just talking about someone wanting to fuck up a factory and make your life miserable for a few months. We’re talking about someone deliberately targeting both of us. Kelly Ellis was on my board. Cristian was your fucking cousin. Every month there’s another murder. It’s clockwork. Forty days. It’s not some coincidence.”

Pages rustle. A thoughtful hum resonates in my stepfather’s warm tone. “Are we sure he was even fired? For all we know, they kept him on. I scrapped their whole contract—it’s not like I told them to get rid of Kane.”

My mom snorts.

No. No, no, no.

My hand covers my mouth to trap the desperate sound that begs to escape. It feels as though the world has flipped over, like I’m falling off the edge.

My mother sounds just as shocked as I feel when she says, “Rowan Kane …? The same Rowan that Sloane is marrying?”

My blood rushes in deafening waves in my head, dulling the hushed conversation between my parents as pages rustle. But I catch their brief questions. Is Sloane safe? What about Lark? We need proof. But can we take the risk to wait …? Every word feels like a sharp blow.

Standing in the shadows, I watch through the crack between the hinges as Stan Tremblay leaves the sitting room. He doesn’t glance in my direction as he strides away with sure and powerful steps, his head bent, papers tucked beneath his arm. He might be nearing his seventies, but he’s still one of the most formidable people I know. A specter of my childhood.

My parents leave a few moments later, talking about mundane things. Lunch and liquor. Where they might go for dinner. Things that seem so far removed from the conversation they just finished, and yet this is the way it’s always been. Deals in dark corners. Life in the light.

I let them pass by and wait until my heart calms enough that I can hear clearly before I leave my hiding place and grab the bottle of lotion from the bathroom, then take the stairs by twos.

Hands trembling, I make it only a few feet down the hall before I set the lotion down and press my palms to one of the decorative tables lining the corridor and stare at my reflection in the gilded mirror. My cheeks are flushed as waves of adrenaline wash through my veins.

I can’t let them take Rowan from Sloane. I need to find a way to stop them. I must.

But I don’t know how.

I don’t have some family enforcer on my side. No one who can rally for my position. I’ve always been the one to protect, not the one to scrap with the other apex predators for a slice of prey or territory.

My watch vibrates against my wrist and I look down to see Rose’s name flash up on the screen.

Hello Boss Hostler! I’ll be ready to make a dukey run soon!

My nose scrunches and I wipe my eyes as I try to decode Rose’s circus lingo, pulling out my phone to blink down at her message as though it might help to see it on a larger screen. It doesn’t.

Boss Hustler …?

Boss HOSTLER. The dude in charge of the show. That dude is you.

Okay … And I’m supposed to make what now?

A dukey run, you know? To Leytonstone Inn to take all the wedding shit to the venue? How about we meet at 3pm at your place. Got the dress? I can’t wait to see it!

I glance down the hallway toward my aunt’s favorite wing of the house and bite down on the inner edge of my lip until blood washes over my tongue. Though I might not know how to fix this situation that seems as inevitable as an avalanche, I can’t let Sloane down on the most important day of her life either. We’ve still got a handful of days until the surprise elopement that Rowan has been planning for the last few weeks. Maybe I can convince her and Rowan to run. They could get out of Boston. Get out of the country. Live some other paradise life far away from here. But as fast as these ideas come up, so too do the thoughts that whisper about how this will never work. Because families like mine, we don’t get to where we are by letting shit go, or by allowing such simple things as borders and geography to stand in our way. Not when we have every resource at our fingertips to do what we want.

I need to find another way.

I clamp down on my panic. I just need to get the dress and get the fuck out of here so I can find a safe, quiet place to figure it out. Breathe. Plan the next steps and then take them one at a time, just like I’ve practiced.

With a single deep breath that fills every crevice in my lungs, I wipe my eyes a final time.

I’ll be there.

I slide my phone into my pocket and turn my attention back to the mirror. I take another deep breath.

Smile, I tell myself.

Keep smiling.

I smile and smile and smile until it looks just right, until everything beneath it is stored away. Only when I’m sure I look just the way I’m supposed to do I take a step back from the mirror and head down the corridor.

I find Ethel not in bed, where she often is just before lunch, but in her craft room, where paints and threads and yarn and canvases line the white shelves and tables, everything laid out with impeccable precision and kept clean despite frequent use. She’s sitting at her favorite wingback chair, which faces a window overlooking the sea, her hair a cloud of white curls resting on her hunched shoulders, her focus honed on the needlepoint in her hands. With a sudden swear and a hiss, she puts a finger in her mouth and for a second my smile is genuine.

Ethel gives a sharp, startled inhale that spills out with a rumbling cough. “Sweet baby Jesus, girl. You’ll scare me to death before I make it to the nursing home.”

I set the bottle down on her table and press a gentle kiss to my aunt’s cheek, her wrinkled skin dusted with powder and blush, the scent evoking my childhood memories of sitting at her vanity as I played with her makeup. The comfort of those moments isn’t enough to mask the worry that burns in my chest and threatens to ignite into panic.

My aunt glances up and I flash her a bright, fleeting smile. I take a step closer to the closet, but I can feel her scrutiny on me, Ethel’s watchful gaze sharp enough to cut through any armor I try to put between us. I should have known better than to try to fool the woman who built an empire out of flour and sugar—details are kind of Ethel’s forte. It’s better to grab the dress and get out of here so I can figure out what the hell I should do.

The only problem is, I’m just a little bit too late.

My eyes don’t stray from the garment bag, even though I feel my aunt’s gaze drilling into my head. I have the most powerful urge to rescue the dress from its black cocoon, as though Sloane’s happiness will suffocate in there if I don’t let it out.

I shake my head as I walk toward the bag and grab the hanger. “No, Auntie. Absolutely not.”

I’m unzipping the first few inches of the garment bag when Ethel says, “Well, that’s a bit of a shame, dear, because it would make solving the Kane problem a little easier if she were to suddenly dislike those boys.”

When I spin to face her, my aunt is pulling a thread through her canvas, a devious grin on her lips. “How do you know about the Kanes?” My eyes narrow. “You set me up to overhear Mom and Damian.”

My aunt shrugs. “Better for you to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Your sister thinks I’m senile. Who knows what I’m making up?”

Fair point. I know as well as anyone not to trust half the shit Ethel Montague comes out with. It’s part of her power, to always keep you guessing. “How do you even know about all that?”

My throat tightens as I take a few steps closer to my aunt, the partially opened garment bag draped across my raised arms like an offering. I open my mouth to say something, but words die on my tongue when my aunt smiles and turns her attention back to the embroidery hoop clutched in her hand.

I do as she commands and sit across from her as she pushes the needle through the canvas to create stitches of crimson. “I don’t think the Kanes are involved in whatever is going on,” I say. She keeps her eyes down on her work but nods. “Definitely not Fionn. Rowan would never do anything to inadvertently hurt me by harming people I know, no matter how thin those connections might be.”

Would he? Is this retaliation on behalf of his boss like my parents and Tremblay were saying downstairs? Could Lachlan be the type to take revenge on us for dropping the contract? For him being sucked deeper into a life he never asked for? He’s certainly sharp around the edges with a giant and jagged chip on his shoulder. But it just doesn’t sit right. “I don’t think he would take a risk that would jeopardize his brothers’ health or happiness. No.”

A deep sigh fills my lungs. “Maybe there’s some way to prove it, like a solid alibi that would take Lachlan out of consideration.”

I know as much as Ethel does that there’s no such thing as a solid alibi when people like Lachlan are involved. “He is a professional. People like him with access to the right resources can make up any excuse, fabricate any believable story and evidence.”

My aunt’s hand darts out and catches mine, squeezing with surprising strength. “I know where you’re going with this, Lark. But you cannot blame yourself for the things that happened at that school. None of it was your fault, you hear me?”

Though I nod, the tears still blur my vision with a watery film. Although I know that what Mr. Verdon did was not my fault, I can never seem to shake the guilt I still feel. It’s a sense of shame that drapes across me like a veil. I’ve questioned myself thousands of times, blamed myself for being strung up in the fear he injected into my thoughts with his whispered threats and promises. And just as I’ve questioned myself over and over, I’ve reassured myself too. It wasn’t my fault.

But maybe if I’d acted sooner …

My head tilts, but Ethel doesn’t look up, not even when we descend into an extended moment of silence. “Scheme …?”

My gaze drifts out the window toward the sea as I nod. I expect my aunt will say something about how it’s our shared duty in this family to make hard decisions to look out for one another. There’s a lesson in this, she’ll say. Sometimes, we all need to sacrifice a little happiness to protect the ones we love and keep our promises to look after one another. And nothing is more important than that. But the hollow pit in my stomach will only grow deeper. More desolate. More insatiable.

I blink at Ethel, only now realizing my cheeks are damp. “Yes.”

Ethel lets my confusion linger in the air as she pulls her thread through the fabric. Pierce and pull. Pierce and pull. Maybe she’s waiting for me to find a solution myself, or to divine her thoughts from her simple motion, but I don’t. “Do you know what my favorite thing is about your mother and stepdad?”

She’s right, of course. I know that for all the darkness in their lives, my mom and stepfather love us deeply. Just like my mother loved my dad, Sam. And long before she met my dad, she loved Damian. Her childhood sweetheart. A young love that burned bright but couldn’t survive the demands of time. Or so they must have thought, until my dad passed away and those embers slowly came back to life.

Ethel turns to me, and I meet her eyes, the color of fog, a mist over the sharp mind that grinds away beneath the gray film. “Do you remember going to Damian’s father’s funeral when you were little?” I shake my head. “You were about five. It was the first time your mom and stepfather saw each other after so many years apart. I’m sure I’m not the only one who could feel that electric charge between them. But your mother had you girls. She had Sam. Life had moved on. And no matter how much love Damian and Nina still had for each other, they would never break your mother’s vows or wound your dad. Had we not lost Sam, that never would have changed.”

I swallow, trying to conjure a memory of the funeral, but it doesn’t come. Neither does the meaning of what Ethel is trying to tell me, though she watches my reactions closely as though imploring me to catch on. “I really don’t understand. Are you saying you think they won’t make a move against Rowan once he and Sloane are married, because they won’t interfere with her vows …?”

Ethel chuckles and shakes her head. “No. They care about Sloane, of course. But they care because you do. They took Sloane in because of what she did for you at Ashborne. But it’s your happiness that is their priority. Your heart they can’t bear to break.”

Notes that felt discordant suddenly blend together. A chord that rises from chaos.

LEYTONSTONE

Lachlan

The doors of Leytonstone Inn swing open to reveal the ocean and a curving walkway lined with flowers. An angelic melody of piano and guitar rolls toward us along with the scent of the sea.

Sloane’s grip on my arm tightens and I glance down at her from the corner of my eye. Her black hair is pulled away from her face in loose waves that lift on the breeze entering the room. A blush creeps into her cheeks as she smiles, her dimple deepening next to her lips.

She glances up at me with sharp hazel eyes. “Are you staring at my tits?”

I sputter and choke on the sea air.

A groan works its way up my throat. I remember.

Don’t be a dick. Dance with the maid of honor.

I take a breath to ask why it matters or to make another attempt to get out of it, but Sloane cuts me off.

Sloane nods as she keeps her gaze trained away from me.

She pauses, then nods again.

Sloane’s face crinkles as she fights her hardest to hold back tears. With a few deep breaths and a pass of a tissue beneath her lashes, she composes herself. “Thank you.”

An anxious giggle bubbles from Sloane. By the time we reach the open door she’s vibrating, her arm unsteady against mine.

And then we pass the threshold.

I can feel the exact moment when she sees my brother waiting at the end of the long aisle beneath an arch of flowers, the sea a shimmering backdrop lit with the morning sun. Sloane’s talon grip on my arm relaxes. The tremors fade. Her smile grows bright.

And as for Rowan?

He’s a feckin’ blubbering mess.

Rowan presses a handkerchief to his eyes, but it doesn’t stop more tears from replacing the ones he catches. He shifts his weight from one foot to another until Fionn claps a hand on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is earns Fionn a backhanded smack to the side of his head, but Rowan never takes his eyes off Sloane.

We fall into silence as we draw close to the limited seating. There are only a handful of guests, mostly Rowan’s friends and a few of Sloane’s closest work colleagues and Lark’s elderly aunt, all of whom stand to watch our progress with warm and encouraging smiles. They block our view of the musicians seated somewhere to the left near the flower arch, but even without seeing them, I recognize the singer’s voice.

My eyes narrow. My smile feels more like a grimace.

I try to resist the urge to glance in the direction of the guitarist and pianist, nodding to the few guests I recognize as we near the archway. But it’s futile.

My gaze slices to the musicians. To the source of the voice that crawls into my chest and twists like barbed wire beneath my bones.

To Lark Montague.

Her sparkling blue eyes connect with mine for only an instant, just long enough for us to glare at each other and look away. An electric charge surges through my heart. I want a thousand things. To leave. To stay. To pick up where we left off on that balcony. But which moment would I choose? The one where I pressed my lips to Lark’s, her hair gripped tight in my fist? Or the argument that still feels unfinished, one I want to reopen like a festering wound, a cut across my memories that refuses to heal? No matter how many times I try to ignore it, that conversation still bleeds into my thoughts. My stomach twists when I remember that brief moment where my sharp words struck a mark. I can still see the flash of hurt in her eyes.

You have no fucking idea who I am or what I know about consequences, she’d said as she submerged her pain beneath fury.

Her words echo through my mind as Sloane and I slow to a halt and stand before my disintegrating younger brother. The music fades into the final bars of the song.

Rose cackles off to the side and buries her grin in her bouquet. Fionn grumbles something unintelligible about sports as a blush creeps from beneath his collar. Lark joins the bridal party now that the song has finished. She’s beaming. Tears dampen her cheeks as she takes Sloane’s flowers alongside her own. And by Christ it takes me a long moment to realize that Conor just asked who was giving the bride away and it’s up to me to respond. Sloane catches the delay, of course. Her pinch on my arm is what pulls me away from trying to decode Lark, a woman who can ram some poor bloke into a lake with zero remorse, yet cries so hard at her best friend’s wedding that one of her fake lash clusters falls off. Seriously. That fucker slides right down her cheek and she swipes it into her hand, not giving two shits about anything but Sloane and Rowan.

I set Sloane’s hand in Rowan’s and try to keep my attention on my brother as he sniffles his way through his vows. Maybe there’s a sting in my nose when Conor declares them legally wed by the laws of Massachusetts. Maybe it burns a little in my throat when Rowan frames Sloane’s face between his palms and just stares at her, making sure she knows this is the most monumental event in his life.

Rowan does kiss her, of course. He slides an arm across her back and dips her as the small audience cheers. Lark is the loudest of all.

We have a few drinks at Leytonstone Inn, where Lark’s aunt Ethel has arranged for canapés and cases of champagne, far more food and alcohol than could ever be consumed by such a small group of people, even with three rowdy Irish brothers in the mix. When everyone is sufficiently buzzed, we file into chauffeured vans and head to town. We wind up at a tavern down the road, an unfussy place filled with seaside knickknacks and wood paneling and jovial locals. A dinner of barbecue ribs and fries and beer is served with napkins printed with a logo of a melting ice cream cone and the words BUTCHER & BLACKBIRD ANNUAL AUGUST SHOWDOWN. The surprise detail makes Sloane first laugh and then cry as Rowan presses a kiss to her cheek. When the DJ starts the music and declares it’s time for a first dance, we surround my brother and his wife, and though I try not to let it show, I marvel at how far he’s come from the reckless kid who was always on my heels or making trouble for me to fix. Somehow, watching Rowan now, with his life right where it needs to be, mine feels a little empty, even though I couldn’t be happier for him. And though I mull that over as I watch, I can’t settle on a reason why.

Fionn scoffs. Rolls his eyes. “I’m a doctor, you wanker. Observational skills are kind of my thing.”

Something unnamed and unexpected tightens in my chest. “What do you mean?”

Fionn grins and lets my question linger as he pulls a long sip of his beer. It takes more concentration than it should to not look to where I last saw Lark talking to the DJ and flipping through his music options. She was splashing her sunlit smile all over him, and the fucker was basking in it like he was trying to catch a feckin’ tan. Not that I was paying that much attention.

My blood heats and I tap one of my rings on my glass as I take a drink, resisting the urge to swallow the whole lot, ice and all. “I don’t know what you’re feckin’ on about.”

Fionn chuckles, nonplussed. We turn our attention back to the dance floor and though I don’t look over, I can feel the amusement fade from my youngest brother. Honestly, I’d rather it stay, because the jabs I can take and give back tenfold. It’s what comes after that I can’t navigate.

I growl and turn enough to pin Fionn with a menacing frown. He looks straight back at me but his eyebrows knit together with worry. “I’m just standing here, having a drink, trying to survive my overanalyzing little brother, minding my own business. I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

He gives me a gruff laugh and walks away.

Fuck.

Though I try to keep my attention on his back, I can feel it, the weight of Sloane’s murderous stare on the side of my face.

With a heavy sigh, I finally meet her eyes across the dance floor.

Sloane jabs a pointed finger in my direction.

Me? I mouth, my palm pressed to my chest, my expression one of sweet innocence even though my guts twist in my belly.

Sloane points at me again and nods her head in Lark’s direction, though I don’t dare look that way. Dance, she mouths in a silent command.

I pretend to be confused.

She does not pretend to be infuriated.

Sloane mimes the saddest little choreography I’ve ever seen as she makes another voiceless demand. Dance with Lark. Right the fuck now.

I point to my ear and shake my head. Can’t hear you.

Sloane rolls her eyes, then pivots on her heel and marches away, her glare not breaking from mine until she arrives at the bar. When the bartender leans across the polished wood to take her order, a sense of dread sneaks into my veins.

Sloane shakes her head and points to her ear before her expression shifts into a sarcastic pout. Can’t hear you, she mouths.

Tap, tap, tap.

Three gentle taps land on my shoulder and I turn just enough to find Lark’s crystalline eyes latched to mine. They’re still beautiful and bright. But cutting.

Whatever she feels about this demand she’s just made, I have no feckin’ clue. Her voice is nearly monotone, her expression a neutral patina. It’s unnerving. This isn’t the vibrant woman I kissed on Rowan’s balcony, nor is it the fiery one I argued with moments later. It’s not the one I’ve met a handful of times since, who might have been displeased to see me, but who still held warmth within her, as though she can’t stop its radiant heat. This version of Lark is none of those things. This woman before me is cold, her edges jagged.

I glance toward Sloane as though she might be able to shed some light on the situation, but I don’t think she’s even blinked.

I hold out my hand. “Ready, duchess?” I ask. She doesn’t answer, just stares at my palm like she has to work herself up to touch me. Maybe it’s my missing fingertip? Does it freak her out? Maybe she never noticed the first time we met and shook hands. She doesn’t seem like the type of person that would be put off, but the longer she hesitates, the more I grow unsure. “It’s not that bad,” I grumble.

She cocks her head to the side. “What isn’t? Dancing with someone who hates you?”

Lark watches as I swallow and try to smooth my surprise beneath an apathetic mask. “I … I meant the finger.”

Confusion deepens the crease between Lark’s brows until I change the angle of my hand so she can better see the missing end of the digit. Now she just looks … insulted. She scoffs and slides her palm onto mine, not taking her attention from my face when I curl my inked fingers around her hand. “I’m sorry for whatever happened to you,” she says as we face each other, “but you really are a dumbass.”

With a wink that earns me an eye roll, we start dancing, just a slow sway of movement in a gentle arc across the polished parquet floor. Though we don’t talk, I sense there’s something Lark is eager to say. It’s as though she doesn’t know how to start, so she presses her lips together and hums instead. At first, it’s so quiet that I’m not sure if I’ve imagined it, but then it grows louder. Soon she can’t seem to help but sing the occasional word, her gaze trapped somewhere beyond my shoulder as she loses her focus to the melody.

I turn her words over in my mind, reflecting on my interactions with people in my past and the times I’ve felt betrayed and disrespected. “Maybe you’re on to something there, duchess. I’m not sure how many people like me, but most respect me, I think.”

Lark’s hand leaves my shoulder and I glance down to catch her bright smile and her flicker of a wave in Sloane’s direction. In just an instant, she’s transformed, from cold and cutting to bright and blinding. I can actually feel it, her love and adoration for Sloane, like rays of sunlight that slice through a cloud. But it doesn’t feel forced or disingenuous. Her warmth seems just as real as the icy unease that descends as soon as she faces away from Sloane and back to me.

A mirthless chuckle escapes and I scan the patrons around us. Her words a trigger for an automatic response to check my surroundings. “It’s feckin’ fantastic,” I deadpan. “I get all the fun jobs, thanks to a certain former client of mine.”

I glance down to watch the pulse pound in Lark’s neck where the skin blotches with a deep crimson flush. She glances at me but can’t seem to hold my gaze. “What if I told you I could fix that?”

I bark a laugh. Glare at her. Laugh again. “Fix it?”

Lark chews her lip for a long moment, and I remain silent this time, determined to wait her out. “I’ve heard you’re looking to retire from your … freelance … escapades.”

Lark’s ice-blue eyes would slice into me if they could. “I’m the only person who can.”

My snort becomes a barked laugh as silence rolls on between us, Lark’s hard stare unblemished by my dismissive huff. “I highly doubt that, duchess. Besides, why would you want to? You don’t like me, remember?”

She lifts one shoulder. “True. But I need your help as much as you need mine. And if I get it, I can make sure your boss wins the Covaci contract back. Plus, I’ll get him the Montague contract too.”

My brow creases as I consume every micro-expression that flickers across Lark’s face. “Your family had a contract? Never heard of it.”

Lark rolls her eyes. “It’s not drug smuggling.”

Lark takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “Muffins.”

Lark jabs a finger into my chest. “Do you not know the mass market food industry is full of sociopaths and murderers and dodgy-as-fuck behavior?” Lark hisses as I dissolve into laughter. “Have you never heard of the history of literally any food and beverage franchise or producer? Montague Muffins can psycho with the best of them.”

I briefly raise my hand from her waist in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay, I believe you. Anyone who feels the need to argue that point clearly fits the bill.”

I know what that looks like, because I know what it feels like. “What is it you want from me? Because I’m not going to gnaw my leg free from one trap just to find myself caught in another.”

Lark’s snide little glare isn’t just a swipe at me, it’s a warning. And though I try to keep my expression neutral, we both know she’s right. Ever since the night we met, I’ve done my best to avoid anything that has to do with her, mostly out of sheer shame and stubbornness. The consequence? Lark Montague now has the upper hand.

Fine lines crinkle at the corners of her eyes as Lark’s face scrunches in a cringe. “Almost.”

I see what she means but I don’t want to give it to her. “No,” I say.

Lark sighs, exasperated. “Does it even matter if it’s not you? You’re a strong contender as a potential threat, so to them it’s better just to put you down and see if that solves the problem. And me vouching for you won’t fix it. My parents won’t care if they think we’re friends. They won’t care if I tell them I hired you myself. And they won’t care if we’re just dating. But marriage …?” Lark pauses. Her blue eyes glisten but she quickly looks away. “Marriage is different. It’s a vow they both take very seriously, and they won’t fuck with it if they believe it’s what I really want. They wouldn’t risk hurting me that way. Especially my stepdad. He’s kind of old school like that when it comes to the people he cherishes.”

I scoff and roll my eyes, trying to hide the growing sense of dread I feel. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a target on my back. I can ride this out on my own. Sorry about the deaths and all, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” Though I say those words out loud, I immediately want to cram them back in my salty feckin’ mouth. I resolve to look into the situation of the murders in Lark’s inner circle without the additional burden of having her around.

It takes a moment for me to realize that we’ve stopped moving, or that I’ve stopped breathing. That other couples pass us. That the song has changed. We’re suspended in time, and all I see are the variegated blues in Lark’s eyes anchoring me in place.

Lark’s hand slips from mine. My heartbeat thumps in my ears and dampens every other sound but her voice when she says, “Without me, Lachlan Kane, you’re going to die. And I can’t guarantee the reckoning will stop at you.”

And then she backs away, just out of reach.

A round of hoots and applause shocks me out of my stupor as Rowan takes the small stage next to the DJ, microphone in one hand, whiskey in the other. He tilts his bottle in my direction and winks as he clears his throat and belts out the first lines to “The Rocky Road to Dublin.”

Lark plasters on a smile and turns away from me to join the crowd in front of Rowan. He beams as she cheers louder than anyone else and sings along.

One two three four five

Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road

All the way to Dublin.

JUSTICE

Lark

A string of swears and pleas and panicked exhalations accompanies the song that plays in the background.

My captive strains against his leather bonds. His bare toes squeak along the bottom side of his plexiglass casket as a ribbon of epoxy drops onto his legs from the tap in the barrel I’ve rigged on a stand above him. This old factory that I’ve been steadily transforming into my personal music retreat, an unused space gifted to me by my stepdad, came with all kinds of gadgets that have really spoken to my crafting soul. And this project is my most ambitious yet. Poor Dad—he probably gave me this old textile factory hoping that I’d have so much fun transforming it that I’d settle into a more sedentary lifestyle. Little could he know that the space would also prove useful to ensure no one will hear Patrick O’Neill’s final screams.

I glance at Patrick’s sweat-streaked face. The box has nearly filled to his ears. He won’t be able to hear me soon.

With a pot of gold glitter in hand, I lean over the edge of Patrick’s enclosure and tap the shining flecks onto the surface of the rose, the excess falling into the glitter-infused resin next to his head. “You’re married, right? Were you nervous when you got married?”

Patrick’s lips purse and I manage to dodge the lob of spit he fires at me. It falls and lands on his own cheek with a thick plop and slides into the resin that’s creeping higher with every second that passes.

But as tempting as it might be to clue Sloane in on my hobby, one that was in fact inspired by her, it would also be unsafe. So I tell myself the same mantra I always repeat when the urge to confess rises:

The more Sloane knows, the more danger she’ll be in.

I take a deep inhalation of a fresh rose and the petals whisper against my skin, the scent almost strong enough to mask the fumes from the resin. For a little while, I just watch the epoxy ripple from the tap. A sense of calm washes over me, despite Patrick’s endless swears and begging. There’s a rightness to the sweet fragrance of the rose and the shimmer of gold. There’s beauty in terror when it sparks to life in dark souls.

My watch alarm goes off, cutting through my momentary peace. Eleven in the morning. Sloane will be ready to pick me up by one, and the wedding is at two sharp. And I’m truly hoping that this adventure in table-making will help calm me down, not just for my upcoming nuptials, but for facing Sloane. It kind of went down like a lead balloon when I told her two days after her own wedding that I was going to marry Lachlan Kane, and she’s been hounding me for details in the few days since then, details I’ve avoided sharing. But I guess it’s time to face the music, as they say.

Patrick’s never-ending pleas grow louder as I stand and dust off my overalls. “You can’t do this,” he says as he struggles to keep his head lifted above the viscous liquid that fills his box.

I smile as I turn the tap fully open on the barrel of epoxy and change songs on my playlist. The heavy beat pumps through the speakers mounted on the walls. “I can do this, actually,” I reply as I walk back toward Patrick’s head and grasp the metal handle of the cart his casket rests on. “And I will.”

Hands gripped around the cold steel, I push the cart forward. The caster wheels squeak as they spin on the polished concrete.

With a final shove, the cart stops where his mouth lines up with the viscous stream. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. Thrashes his head side to side. Sputters and spits, shooting spatters of resin against the plexiglass. He begs for help, for a God who will not answer.

Patrick fights and shakes and holds his breath until he can’t anymore. Air escapes his lungs in a rush. There’s only liquid waiting to fill his mouth on the next inhale.

I know he can’t hear me beneath the resin as I list the names of every girl I know he harmed. But I say them out loud anyway. I name every child he made into a survivor as his lungs seize in a rhythmic pulse. And when his body goes still, I pull my hands from beautiful swirls of gold and watch until his face and body disappear beneath the shimmering surface.

With a final, satisfied look at the golden block, I turn up the heaters and fans to help cure the epoxy, pick up my flowers, and leave.

My dog rises from his favorite spot on the floor of the craft room and follows in my wake as I walk down the corridor, heading to the main floor of what was once a textile factory. I pass the old steel elevator that still works but freaks me the fuck out and head toward the metal staircase on the far wall instead, taking the steps by twos until I reach my apartment, with exposed brick, tall windows, and eclectic decorations—photos and sculptures and wall hangings and posters—mostly things I’ve collected from the times I’ve spent performing on the road. There might even be a few souvenirs of sparkly justice, and though they’re mostly hidden from view, their presence still makes this space feel like home.

I thought my furniture project downstairs would make me feel better about what’s to come, and though it helped, the effect is more temporary than I expected. The nerves creep back in with every second that passes, like an infectious melody that takes over my thoughts note by note until it’s all I can hear. I turn up the volume on my music in the hope it will drown the anxiety. I dance as I roll my hair in curlers and sing as I do my makeup. I even pick up my guitar and play along with a few songs before I get dressed in an ivory satin pantsuit with a strapless lace corset. When I’m finished and every detail is in place, I take a moment to twist side to side in the floor-length mirror in my bedroom. It probably comes as no surprise to say I always thought I’d have a big white wedding. A princess dress and a flowing veil. Five hundred guests and fireworks and a fairy tale.

But that’s not my reality and I’m not upset about it. Am I still nervous? Sure. But I also feel fierce. Destined to defy expectations.

By the time Sloane texts that she’s arrived, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

And I know the instant I slip into her car that I’m doing the right thing.

I let out an unsteady laugh as I try not to fidget with the bouquet clutched in my iron grip. “Well, he can kind of be a dickhead, sure, but hate might be a bit strong.”

Sloane turns toward me, the car still idling in park. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, Lark. You’re my best friend. You’re the most impetuous person I know, but this? A random-as-fuck wedding to Lachlan Kane when you’ve spoken to each other what, like, five times? And all those times have been some kind of miserable? There has to be a reason for this sudden one-eighty.” She shakes her head as fresh tears well at her lash line. Her voice is barely more than a strained squeak when she says, “The math. It ain’t mathin’.”

I grab Sloane’s hand across the center console and stare into her eyes. It takes more force than it should to remain steadfast, to not cave to the temptation of saying to hell with this insane plan before I run away to fuck-knows-where. “I promise you, sweetie, everything will be okay.”

It takes a long moment, but Sloane finally reins in her tears. “Okay,” she says. “But if he hurts you, I swear to God I will take his fucking eyes.”

After a final, scrutinous look, Sloane shifts into drive and we pull away, headed for downtown Boston.

I connect my playlist to Sloane’s car on our ride to the courthouse for this auspicious day. “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. “Marry You” by Bruno Mars. It’s got a fun vibe that I’m hoping will buoy my mood. “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, because obviously. Though I sing and have a smile ready whenever she glances my way, Sloane is having none of it.

My heart squeezes. “What about them?”

Sloane’s face scrunches. “You think your elopement to a man they’ve never met will help with that?”

Sloane sighs and her grip tightens on the steering wheel, her knuckles white across the bone. “Something such as, I don’t know, the real reason behind what is clearly a sham marriage to a man you loathe?”

Sloane blinks. Tilts her head. Calculates. “No. All options are shit.”

Sloane nods toward the sidewalk. I follow her line of sight and my gaze lands on a familiar elderly woman, her hair curled in a halo of white waves, her floral dress billowing beneath a glossy black fur coat even though it’s a mild October day, an ebony cane clutched in her hand.

Her other arm is looped with that of none other than Lachlan fucking Kane.

We slide into a parking spot right next to where they’re walking, which would probably have gone unnoticed if Sloane didn’t beep-beep them a joyful little honk. My aunt grins at me from the other side of the tinted glass.

Ink climbs Lachlan’s skin from beneath the collar of his black suit. His hair is slicked back, a cocky smirk lifting one edge of his lips when his eyes connect to mine. He pats my aunt’s gloved hand as though proving a point, and my eyes narrow to thin slits.

I whip around to face Sloane. “I do not.”

I give her a weak smile and turn my attention back out the window where my aunt and Lachlan linger on the sidewalk. Rowan waves at them, walking faster to catch up, but his attempt at enthusiasm does little to disguise his worry. He probably thinks this is just as batshit crazy as everyone else does, myself included. Well, everyone except Ethel, who looks like she’s having the time of her life.

I lower the tinted window just enough to be heard clearly through the crack. “Hi, Auntie.”

Ethel’s eyes glimmer despite their cataract haze. “Hello, dear. Lovely day for a wedding.”

I shift my attention to Rowan and give him a wave. Then I look to Lachlan, whose grin has become diabolical. For someone who probably hates this idea as much as I do, he certainly looks like he’s enjoying himself nearly as much as my aunt.

Not to be outdone, I put on my most vibrant smile. “Darling.”

Lachlan’s smirk brightens. “Duchess.”

I hate seeing her feel this way, so worried with no way to fix it because I’ve kept her in the dark. I hate being the one to do this to her. I hate everything about this plan, except that it gives me my best chance to keep her safe and to figure out what the hell is happening to my family.

Never again.

I square my shoulders and grip Sloane’s hand tighter. “Let’s get this done. The sooner we do, the sooner we can go drinking at the Dubliner as official sisters.”

Sloane snorts as we pass through the doors and into the lobby. Our heels clack against the floor and echo off the stark walls and vaulted ceiling. “Either adorably happy or adorably weepy. Fifty-fifty chance of happy Lark or sad Lark. One hundred percent chance of singing and tears.”

I meet Sloane’s eyes with a cringe, and she reflects an equal amount of discomfort back to me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to make that face every time you say ‘wedding,’ or ‘married,’ or ‘husband.’ Just FYI.”

I turn and glare at Sloane. She tries not to smile but her dimple gives her away like it always does when she’s up to no good. “That is the most profane thing you have ever said. I am disgusted, Sloane Sutherland.”

Sloane’s grin breaks free as the elevator dings and the metal door slides open. “You’re only salty because you know I’m right.”

When we step out onto our floor, Lachlan’s at the end of the hallway, standing next to Rowan with his hands in his pockets. My aunt is seated in one of the chairs lining the wall. And though I don’t admit it, Sloane called it perfectly—he is a bit Keanu-Hardy, all hot and dangerous and sad. Though Lachlan smiles at whatever my aunt is saying, there’s something haunted in his eyes, something missing.

And when he turns to me, that chasm fills with fire.

I don’t know what he’s thinking, whether it’s hatred or determination or suspicion. I can’t interpret his hard, dark stare or his furrowed brow. All I know for sure is that no one has ever looked at me the way he does now.

I shove my shoulders back. Chin up. If it’s butterflies in my stomach, they’ve come armed, because it feels like I’m being hollowed out. Scraped clean.

The crease deepens between Lachlan’s brows as I draw to a halt in front of him. He takes in the details of my face, from my eyes to my lips, where his focus lingers, then the flush that heats my cheeks, then the scar at my hairline. A faint smile lifts one corner of his lips as his gaze reconnects with mine. “Thought we weren’t supposed to see each other before the ceremony, duchess.”

I swallow the phantom taste of whiskey on my tongue as I pat Lachlan on the chest. “Better not say that too loud. Someone might hear you. Wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression and think you’re actually pleasant.”

I take the box from her with a tentative hand, casting a glance toward Sloane, who lifts a shoulder, her expression as puzzled as mine must be. I open it …

… then snap the lid shut.

My aunt’s wrinkled hand folds over mine and pushes the box back in my direction. “Yes, you can.”

The first tear slides down my face. “Ava should have it.”

I try to push the box away again, but for a dying octogenarian, Ethel is pretty damn strong. She digs her fingernails into the back of my hand just enough to cause discomfort. My voice is a breathy plea when I say, “Because she’s my older sister. And this would make her happy.”

I glance at Lachlan, who watches us with a crease between his brows. He seems more pensive than usual. Maybe it’s the suit paired with his glasses that’s giving a calculating edge to his already intimidating presence. I feel like I’m being studied. Measured. Probably deemed to be falling short, because it is Lachlan Kane after all. When he catches my eye, he seems to suddenly realize his attention is too intense. He looks down to my hand and relaxes his stance, but the notch between his brows remains.

Ethel opens the box and takes out the ring. It’s a huge dark yellow diamond flanked with baguette-cut white diamonds on each shoulder. “When Thomas proposed to me with this ring, it was the happiest day of my life. But I was naive, of course. I knew nothing about how to build a successful marriage. It took a while to learn that being in love is not enough. Choosing love is what it takes,” she says as she slides the ring onto my finger. Ethel’s hand folds over mine and she flicks a glance not to Lachlan, but to where Rowan and Sloane stand behind me before she leans a little closer. “You are choosing love, Lark. And I am so proud of you.”

My aunt lifts her hand away and I stare down at that diamond. There are so many beautiful memories of my aunt and uncle reflected in the familiar facets that glint in the light. I press my lips tight and try to smile at Ethel through the haze of tears. It earns me a rogue lash cluster that drops onto my cheek, and after a brief but fierce embrace with my aunt, Sloane pulls me away to fix my makeup in the washroom, and we rejoin the others just as we’re called into the office for the ceremony.

It was. It was my insane idea that I’m one hundred percent not regretting now. Oh my God, what am I doing? I’ve literally lost my mind. I’m marrying Lachlan Kane, Boston’s biggest asshole. This is probably crazier than blowing someone up with fireworks.

I allow myself just one deep breath. One moment to live on the razor edge between two futures. “I’ve made my choice.”

With a single nod, Lachlan extends his arm and I take it, and we follow our loved ones into the room.

Rowan FaceTimes Rose and Fionn so they can watch the ceremony. We stand in front of a glass bookcase. Lachlan holds my hands. He watches me as though he expects me to ditch and run. But I don’t. Maybe he thinks I’m going to cry. I don’t do that either. I repeat the vows after the officiant and my voice is clear, never wavering. We slide our wedding bands onto each other’s fingers, and in only a few minutes, it’s over. The officiant declares us married. A union under the laws of Massachusetts. You may kiss the bride.

I don’t know what I expected from this moment. Maybe for Lachlan to quickly press his lips to mine and stalk away. Maybe even a kiss to the cheek. Hell, I’m not even sure I expected us to get this far. But I know I didn’t expect Lachlan to look so intently at me as though he’s savoring the details of my face and this bittersweet moment. I didn’t think I’d see longing hidden away in their dark blue depths. I never imagined he would sweep the end of my high ponytail away from my shoulder and let his fingertips graze my neck, or that he’d lean in slowly.

And I kiss him back as though I’m saying goodbye to something that was never mine in the first place. Because I’m choosing love.

Just not my own.

FRICTION

Lachlan

There’s a steady tension in the air, the shearing whine of friction and an electric motor wrapped in the melody of music that echoes down the concrete corridor. Lark’s voice mixes with the mayhem, a pure and precious sound, the one thread of calm within a cacophony. When I stop at the doorway, her back faces me, head bobbing in time to the song as she guides a sander across the surface of a long golden block of a coffee table on a raised cart. A huge dog rests a few paces away from her slippered feet. Its thick coat is a mix of white and dark, patches of brindle and splashes of dots, as though the universe said fuck it and just mixed all the options together. The beast senses me above the racket and stands, raising its bearlike head to let out a single, authoritative woof.

The room is plunged into sudden silence as Lark switches off the sander and music, then turns to face me.

I cross my arms and resolve to keep my eyes on Lark’s face and not on the thin sliver of exposed skin I can see between the sides of her overalls and the cropped shirt that skims her ribs. “Hi.”

Lark doesn’t smile. If anything, she looks a bit disappointed when she lowers her mask and raises the safety glasses onto her forehead to eye me as though I’ve ruined her hopes by showing up at her door. “Hi.” The dog rises to stand between us, its posture stiff as though the stocky legs have been cast in steel beneath the fur. If she gives the right command, I’m pretty sure Lark could ask the beast to rip my throat out and it would happily oblige. “Go lie down.”

The dog gives me a dirty look and takes a step closer before it drops to the floor with a huff, its legs askew.

Lark glares at me then turns away, smoothing her hand across the table. “Bentley Beetham.” The dog lets out a long sigh as though he’s heard this explanation a thousand times before. He’s clearly just as done with me as she already is. “Ornithologist. Mountaineer. He climbed Everest in 1924. But my dad was more interested in how he’d rappel down cliffs with a rope around his waist so he could photograph gannets with a camera that probably weighed half as much as he did.”

Lark shakes her head, her eyes trained on her hand as she sweeps the dust from the table’s surface. She doesn’t answer at all, so I take a few steps into the room with a wide berth around the dog, absorbing the details of what seems to be her hobby space. There are unopened cans of quick-curing epoxy resin stacked beside a steel counter where tools lay next to folded fabric and boxes of hardware. Nails. Screws. Crafting wire in gold and silver and copper and pink. Paintbrushes in mason jars stained with a rainbow of dried splashes. And glitter. Pots and pots and pots of glitter, in every color glitter can possibly be made. Gold most of all.

Lark eyes me over her shoulder and I feel the burn of her gaze as it slides across my face, down to the ink that covers my arms, to the new wedding band on my finger and back again. “I guess you had a point about meeting my family. We’d better get that done first before they slit your throat and cremate you in an industrial batch oven.”

Lark shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time they tried that, according to my auntie Ethel, anyway.”

With a dismissive flick of her hand, Lark lowers the safety glasses onto her nose. “Yeah but like, who knows with her. I don’t think the rotary batch ovens get hot enough to cremate someone. But they’d do a pretty good job at the killing part.” Lark shoots me a bright, untroubled grin before she pulls the mask over her nose and turns on the sander to scour the surface close to one end of the table. “We should go over to my parents’ place on Sunday though,” she says over the whine of the sander. “Family brunch, rain or shine.”

I snort, though the image of my tattooed hands on her soft thighs unexpectedly bursts through my mind. “I mean, maybe we should try pretending we can stand each other in a public setting. I like not dying.”

One corner of my mouth turns up in a cocky grin. “Are you?”

Lark rolls her eyes. My smile spreads. Something about getting under her skin is addictive. Every time I do, it feels like I’ve sneaked beneath her defenses to run amok in a place most people never even see.

But as I’ve quickly learned, she’s never one to be outdone. “Bitch, please. I’ve had years of practice,” she says.

My laugh seems to startle her. The sander growls against the table to accompany the lethal look she gives me.

Lark gives me a saccharine smile beneath her mask, one I can see in her eyes, the way they narrow and crinkle at the corners. I reply with a dark smirk of my own. If she thinks I can’t play this game with her folks, she’s wrong. I’ll make this the best goddamn parental first meeting she’s ever had, so good that even she’ll think she’s fallen in love with me.

… Probably.

Fuck.

Lark pulls me out of my spiraling doubts when she says, “What about your boss? I’m assuming we’ll need to meet him too.”

All that amusement I felt while teasing her only moments ago snuffs out as though she just flipped a feckin’ switch. The thought of taking Lark to meet Leander has slithered around in my mind since Sloane and Rowan’s wedding. It’s swum in the murk of all the other worries that came along with this insane plan, but this is the first time it’s landed a bite.

Lark gives me a single sharp nod. Her gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “Give me the paperwork. I’ll get it done.”

Though I hate to admit it, I admire her determination. Lark doesn’t falter, even when I expect her to. But I don’t know why I keep thinking she’ll break apart when she never has, not once since the first time I met her. She could have cowered from me that night, but instead she got all up in my face with her Budget Batman shite. I trapped her in my trunk and she feckin’ escaped. The moment I realized she was gone, I double-backed and zigzagged the country roads, searching for her until dawn. Every time I’ve argued with her since then, she’s either hit back just as hard or let my barbs slide over her shoulders like they were nothing more than silk.

Lark nods before she pulls her attention away from me. The moment she looks down at the table, she jolts as though shocked, her gasp audible despite the sound of the machine.

I’ve taken two hurried steps toward her before I even realize what I’m doing, my blade forgotten on the floor and the belt tapping against my thigh. I’m nearly at her side when that giant dog jumps to his feet, again putting his body between us.

She doesn’t sound fine at all. “You sure about that, duchess?”

A sudden blush ignites in Lark’s cheeks. “Bentley. He farted.”

I shift my attention to the dog, who looks toward Lark at the sound of his name. He lets out a disgruntled huff and glares at me as though I’m the one who passed wind. “Are you sure he’s not sick or something? It smells like he ate something rancid. You should change his food.”

I fasten my belt as I head toward the stairs and up to the apartment, where my two suitcases lie unopened next to the door. The cake tin is exactly where she said it would be, which for some reason I find surprising. Lark seems chaotic, yet when I peek in a few cupboards, everything is highly organized. Mugs lined up by size and design. Tea organized by color. Every tin of soup or sauce in neat rows, labels facing forward.

Storing that observation away, I take the cake tin downstairs and enter the room where Lark hovers over the table as she free-pours a thin stream of black epoxy on the surface. When I pass the star to her and wait to see what she’ll do next, she mutters a thank-you but doesn’t take her eyes from the table surface. She sets the star down to surround the small dollop she’s already poured and then speeds up the process until she’s filled all the angles and points with glittering black resin.

I lean against the table edge and cross my arms. “Everything good?”

One of my shoulders lifts in a shrug before I bend to retrieve my wayward knife. “I like that song. Not all their stuff.”

Lark watches me for a moment as though expecting me to elaborate. I could tell her how it was the largest piece I’ve ever made, or how I hand-tooled every feather individually before laying them all together. Or maybe she hopes I’ll ask her if I’ve heard her sing before today, whether I know any of her music. And I have, but I don’t say that either. I sure as hell don’t need more connections to Lark than the legal ones that already bind us. I want them easy to snap when the time comes. So I remain silent.

I see something in her eyes. Disappointment. Maybe a little bit of hurt.

Lark goes back to her project, and before long she resumes humming as she cleans the table surface and examines the edges. She says nothing more as she works, not until she casts a glance to the clock above the workshop sink and then her watch, her lips moving in a silent calculation. She turns the UV lamp off and sets it on her workbench before turning to face me.

She nods.

Though Lark rolls her eyes, she looks nervous, the most nervous I think I’ve seen her about anything. “Okay,” is her only reply before I take position to push the cart, and she begins to steer the leading edge, Bentley following behind us down the corridor.

When we reach the century-old Otis freight elevator, the doors are already open, the floor covered with a thin film of dust. It’s the first untouched area I’ve seen so far in this massive building. Granted, I haven’t been to every hidden room or storage area, but it’s hard not to notice how clean this place is despite its size and former purpose. Even the windows are perfectly streak-free, no spiderwebs wavering in the drafts from their corners, no desiccated insects gathered on their sills.

Lark moves out of the way as I push the table into the elevator. She hovers by the door when it’s in position, watching from the threshold while I head to the manual controls to figure out the simple mechanism.

Lark makes no motion to enter. “You getting in or what?” I ask. Her body seems to tighten as though she’s ready to take off running, but she steps inside instead, the dog sticking close to her heels. Though I give her a quizzical look, she just ignores me. I wait until her gaze shifts away from me before I flick on the overhead fluorescent light and she startles. “Up or down. Seems straightforward enough. You wanna get the door there, duchess …?”

Lark blinks as though coming out of a haze and looks from me to the cord that will pull the two halves of the door shut. But she doesn’t move.

Lark still doesn’t move. “I’m not afraid.”

I don’t try to hide my grin and I can tell it irritates her. “Right. But for argument’s sake, if you are, you can just take the stairs.”

I blink at her. “A table … one you just made … has sentimental value to you …?”

Lark’s eyes narrow to thin slits. “If you don’t like it, you can go hang out by yourself in your room.” She pulls the rope to shut the door, then folds her arms across her chest and raises one brow in a challenge. Feckin’ stubborn. She has the iron will of someone used to getting their way. It stokes my urge to find something to push her with, harder and harder until she’s forced to relent. In fact, I’m not sure there’s much right now that would give me greater satisfaction than seeing Lark Montague concede defeat at something. Anything.

Shaking my head, I let out a low chuckle as I turn my attention toward the mechanism. “All right, you feckin’ catastrophe. Fingers crossed, yeah?”

I shift the lever to the up position and the elevator lurches as the motor comes to life and the cables begin to pass through the sheave. It’s a shaky start, but the car lifts toward the upper floor. I turn enough that I can see Lark, who looks a little more relieved now that we’re moving. “See?” I say. “I told you it would be fine.”

But then there’s a lurch. The motor goes silent and the elevator grinds to a halt.

Lark and I stare at each other, unmoving. I can actually watch the panic creep into her body, her pulse surging in the tiny veins that swell next to her temple.

The fluorescent bulb flickers.

My hand hovers over the switch. “For fucksakes.”

The utter terror in Lark’s eyes claws at my heart. I take a step toward her …

And then we’re plunged into darkness.

Lark lets out some kind of sound I’ve never heard a person make despite having thought I’d heard them all, something between panic and powerlessness and despair. The dog whines. There’s a crash against the steel wall.

She doesn’t reply, but I hear her increasingly rapid breathing from the corner of the pitch-black box. And then I hear her whispering, though I can’t make out what she says.

I shift my attention to Lark. She’s shaking. Her brow is misted with sweat. She whispers a string of numbers. Two twenty-four three eighteen five thirty-nine six twelve six fifty-two. The sequence repeats twice before I manage to creep close enough without upsetting the dog that I can put a hand on her ankle.

She still doesn’t respond. A chill washes over me. I’ve seen this look before. It was when I dumped her in the trunk of my car the first night we met. There was a plea in her eyes despite her defiance. I’d thought it was petulance.

I was wrong. Very fucking wrong.

I try to ignore the feeling in my chest like I’m sinking, caught by an anchor that’s pulling me to the darkest depths of the ocean. “Hey, duchess.” I squeeze her ankle, just a little, my wedding band an unfamiliar point of reflection in the dark. When Lark’s whispering slowly fades and her eyes focus on the patch of light on the floor, it feels like the first breath I’ve taken since the lights went out. “It’s okay.”

Lark doesn’t reply, just blinks at me for a moment until something seems to settle in her thoughts and she breaks her gaze away. Her cheeks flush a deeper crimson. She draws her legs in even closer to her chest and I let her go, though I don’t want to. It feels wrong, somehow. But she seems embarrassed to let me see her in distress. I shouldn’t want to touch her at all, even if I think she needs it.

I clear my throat and lean back to put some space between us without really moving away. “I’m good at fixing things,” I say for the second time tonight. “I can lift you out the roof hatch and then have a look at the mechanism.”

Lark turns her head toward me only slightly. Her inhalations are still uneven, her tears a continuous stream that she can’t seem to stop. “What about Bentley?”

Lark shakes her head and wraps a shaking arm around the dog, who sinks into her side. “No. I’ll stay.”

That sinking feeling returns to fill my chest as I watch Lark bring up her favorite contacts, where my name doesn’t appear in the short list. She presses Sloane’s name but it goes straight to voicemail. Without glancing up at me, she tries Rose next, who picks up on the second ring.

Fresh tears still glisten on Lark’s skin and her shoulders tremble, but her voice is summer sunshine when she says, “Oh you know, lots going on. How are you, what’s new? Teach the good doctor any new circus tricks yet?”

Rose cackles on the other end as Lark gives me a glance that clearly says fuck off immediately. And I should want to leave. I should not want to linger here. Lark would rather be in this metal box alone with her fears in the dark than sharing the shadows with me. And it’s best that way. For both of us.

But when I back away from her pool of light, it feels like the wrong thing to do.

In the time it takes me to hop onto the table and open the roof hatch, I never hear a complaint from Lark, only her questions to Rose, anything to keep her friend talking or make her laugh. Their voices follow me as I force open the door to the second floor, which is not much of a reach from the roof of the elevator. I hop out to Lark’s open-plan living and dining area and head back down to the first floor, and with a little scavenging of tools from her craft room, I manage to fix the faulty electrical connection within the hour.

Lark looks as though she hasn’t slept for days when the elevator finally opens where it was supposed to. I roll the coffee table into place in the living room and we work together to get it just where she wants it. Lark stands back to look at her work for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Lark doesn’t rise to my teasing, nor does she hit back. She only gives me a faint nod.

I face her and suck in a breath. “Lark, I—”

I want to say more. I want her to talk to me. I want to listen. But there’s no give in her expression.

It’s for the best …

I give her a nod and let her show me to the guest room. She takes Bentley out for his final walk of the night as I unpack my bags. I don’t see her when she comes back into the apartment, I only hear her enter the primary bedroom with the dog in her wake. Though I cook enough for two and text her when it’s ready, she doesn’t appear for dinner. If it wasn’t for the quiet music that slips from the crack beneath her door, I’d be convinced that I’m alone. Even the gentle melodies fade away before midnight, and I go to sleep wishing I’d said more than I did.

I wake from a nightmare shortly after three in the morning and head to the kitchen for a fresh glass for water. The last thing I expect to see is Lark sitting curled in a round chair by the windows, a guitar nestled in her lap and headphones on her ears, papers spread before her and a pen discarded on the pages.

She doesn’t see me. But I see her clearly. Puffy eyes. Blotchy skin. Swollen lips. The sheen of tears on her cheeks, as though they haven’t stopped. She’s stripped down to her raw edges, to the bloody knuckles from battling with life. I’ve lost skin in this fight to survive too, and though I’ve tried to cover the physical marks with ink, the ones in my memory never seem to heal. Sometimes old scars still ache, an echo of sharp moments.

Have I wounded her? I know I have. But maybe not with a fresh, shallow strike that would soon be forgotten. No, I think I sliced through thin tissue that first night we met. And there is something still bleeding deep beneath the wound.

I turn and leave before she can see me, feeling like I’ve finally settled at the bottom of the sea.

BANJAXED

Lachlan

I need to ask you a question.

SLOANE: Go for it.

Lark, her thing about dark enclosed spaces, what’s up with that?

SLOANE: Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s your wife in this weird ass marriage that neither of you will tell me about, so if you want to play the part of husband, how about this novel idea: TALK TO HER.

I don’t think she’ll tell me. Was hoping you could give me some insight …?

Sloane’s reply takes a moment to come through, which I soon realize is because she spends that brief time yelling at Rowan about why I’m such a dickhead.

SLOANE: You think I’m just going to cough up my best friend’s history on a platter for you? Lachlan Kane, be so fucking for real right now.

ROWAN: Hey dickhead. My wife wants to know why you’re such a dickhead.

ROWAN: Should I give her the long version or the short version?

SLOANE: Do you honestly think I would tell you that? Seriously? GO FUCK YOURSELF.

ROWAN: Secure your eyeballs. Repeat. Secure your eyeballs.

SLOANE: If you’re having trouble with your “marriage” and talking to your “wife,” why don’t you crack a fucking book. A ROMANCE book, not more of your “history of leather” bullshit. It’s literally an instruction manual for dumbasses like you.

SLOANE: And get fucked.

SLOANE: METAPHORICALLY

ROWAN: If you can find insurance for eyeball enucleation, now would be a good time …

After that first night we met, I tried to push away every thought of Lark. I never looked into her. Never hunted her down. Though I spent until dawn searching for her once I realized she’d escaped from my car, shame had stopped me from trying to find her beyond that day. I didn’t even realize she was related to Damian Covaci until Leander ripped a strip off me for ruining the contract. I didn’t want to care about Lark Montague. But every moment that passes seems to upend my ideas of the woman I thought I married. And lately, it feels like I haven’t looked into Lark because I’m afraid of what I’ll find.

But I think she needs help. It feels like I’m the only one who can see it. And I’m at a total feckin’ loss at how to do it.

Since I moved in two nights ago, Lark has barely slept. The first night when I woke in the morning, she was still in that chair that faces the windows, headphones on, guitar in her grip. She was asleep, but it seemed restless. When I tried to move the guitar off her lap, she woke with a vicious glare, then padded off to her room without a single word. Last night, she didn’t appear in the living room, but the light stayed on under her door. Sometimes her voice followed it as she sang or hummed. She’s spent the last two days running around, only settling long enough to play a few minutes of a movie, something with Keanu Reeves, but she turned it off with a muttered “Constantine” when I asked the name of it. Otherwise, she’s either heading to Shoreview, where her aunt has just been moved and where she’ll start a new job as a music therapist next week, or taking her dog out, or cleaning with a precision that borders on obsession, or rehearsing with a band she’s supporting. I can already tell she’s exhausted.

I might not know her well, but she doesn’t seem the same since that experience in the elevator. And I need to know why.

Also, I am now unequivocally sure that I am an even bigger dickhead than I ever imagined.

The image of Lark sitting in the trunk of my car replays on a vivid loop in my mind. There was fear in her eyes. Determination too. Though they welled with tears, she blinked them away. She begged.

And I pushed her down and closed the lid.

If Lark and I are going to figure out what the hell is going on and get what we both want out of this marriage, we’re going to have to work together. And we can’t do that if she’s falling apart at the seams. If I want to figure Lark out, I’m going to have to do it through her, not around her. And I’m way out of my feckin’ depth.

I’ve done a lot of dodgy shit in my life. Life has worn down most of my emotions to little more than smooth and polished stone. But every once in a while, I find a long-neglected feeling that cuts like broken glass. Such as, for example, the intense discomfort of the realization that I need to ask my sister-in-law for help.

I pick up my phone and start a new text to Sloane.

Eyeball spider lady, I humbly request a truce.

Didn’t I just tell you to pick up a fucking book?

Christ Jesus. You are so acerbic.

Thank you. What the fuck do you want now?

Are you and Rowan free for lunch today at B&B? I want to invite Lark, but maybe she’ll be more comfortable if you’re there.

There’s a long pause before the three dots start dancing on my screen.

OMFG I KNEW THERE WAS A GOOEY CENTER IN THERE SOMEWHERE

YES WE WILL BE THERE. Rowan is off at 2pm, let me know if that works.

You’re still an asshat though. Just so we’re clear.

I try not to smile, but it happens anyway.

I need a few deep breaths before I manage to type out my next message. It takes me a surprisingly long time to come up with:

Hey.

At first I think she’s not going to respond, and I’m almost about to tap out a second message when Lark’s reply comes through.

What’s wrong?

My brows feel too tight as I stare down at the phone in my hands.

Nothing … I just wanted to see if you’d like to come for lunch at B&B at 2pm? Rowan and Sloane will be there.

I can give you a lift. Or we could meet there if you want. You have a break then, yeah?

The dots of Lark’s reply flicker at the bottom of my screen. They stop. They start again. They stop another time and finally, her message comes through.

Okay. I’ll meet you there.

My heart claws its way up my chest, resurrected from where it seems to have fallen into my guts.

Okay.

I stare at my screen even after it goes black. Though my pulse starts to slow to a normal rhythm, the empty space between each beat still aches with a feeling I can’t quite name. A disquiet that surges in my blood as I count down the hours between now and when I’ll see her next.

My morning at the shop passes slowly. I leave early for the restaurant, and when I walk through the door, she’s already sitting at the booth with my brother and sister-in-law. The wary smile she casts my way sparks an unexpected hope in my chest, one I didn’t ask for. Yet somehow, it’s not enough.

Lark is effervescent with Rowan and Sloane, and if I didn’t know otherwise, I’d think she was as well-rested and happy as my brother and his wife. She laughs and teases and smacks a gold star sticker on Sloane’s dimple when she makes a joke I don’t get about cookies-and-cream ice cream that drains the color from Rowan’s face. And maybe they’re too busy trying to figure out the status of our “weird ass marriage,” with their occasional prying question or scrutinous look. But I can see what they don’t notice. The way Lark’s smile falters when she thinks no one is watching. The way she presses two fingers to her temple before she digs an ibuprofen out of her giant bag. The yawn she hides in a fist. Lark is exhausted, operating on caffeine and sheer determination to keep her mask from slipping.

The longer it goes on, the more I regret asking her to this feckin’ lunch. She could have tried to catch a kip. Maybe she could have curled up with Bentley on the couch in the sun. I just want to get her home. She won’t care about trying so hard if it’s just the two of us. Out in the world, it’s like she needs to be everything to everyone, with nothing left for herself at the end of the day.

But it seems inescapable, even from the people who love her.

As if sensing my unease, Sloane zeroes in on me with the precision of a falcon diving for its unsuspecting prey. “You’re going, right, Lachlan? I need photos. I never miss a show when we’re in the same town.”

Beyond the mundane scheduling conversations and minimal details, Lark and I haven’t talked about the show. She hasn’t invited me. I don’t know if she’s as uncomfortable as I am about Sloane’s question, but I don’t dare glance her way to find out.

My hand finds the back of my neck and I look to my brother, but he’s no feckin’ help, grinning at me like the bloody saboteur he is. When I put on a gruff, don’t-fuck-with-me expression, his smile only grows. “I dunno. I—”

I’m cut off by the sound of a familiar voice. “Lachlan Kane.”

Right when I think it can’t get any worse, it feckin’ does.

My eyes press closed for a heartbeat. When I open them and turn, I catch Lark’s watchful and wary gaze before my attention lands on the source of the familiar voice.

Claire Peller looks just the same as I remember her. Hair scraped away from her face in a high ponytail. A bleached, predatory smile. The minimalist lines of a black suit. It’s all a pristine veneer over a deeply hidden desire to make everything messy.

Claire grins and turns her attention to Rowan. “Hi, Rowan.”

He gives her a single nod, but there’s no warmth in his simple response. Claire doesn’t give a shit. In fact, she feckin’ loves it. She turns her gaze to Sloane and Rowan preempts whatever she’s about to say when she sucks in a breath. “This is my wife, Sloane. Sloane, Claire.”

An incredulous laugh bursts from Claire and my blood turns to fire. She looks between us as though waiting for the punch line, one that doesn’t come.

Before I can protest, Claire accepts the call and her heels clack across the slate floor as she leaves Butcher & Blackbird. I shake my head, focused on my food until I sense tension in the air and look up.

Lark and Sloane exchange some kind of silent conversation.

Sloane raises a single brow.

Lark’s eyes narrow.

Sloane sighs and shrugs.

And then Lark is sliding off the booth. She stands and hikes her ridiculously huge bag up her shoulder.

And then she’s striding out of Butcher & Blackbird, her energy trailing after her like a comet.

Rowan laughs and shakes his head before he takes a sip of his drink. “Unless you want to be bailing her out of jail, you’d better go get your wife.”

I lean back in my seat and tap the ring on my index finger against my glass as I try not to look toward the door. My focus lands on Sloane instead, who masks her smile with a bite of food.

A sinking feeling coats my chest. “What are you on about?”

I still can’t reconcile her words with the woman I think I know. “That Lark …? Let’s cover everything in sparkles and sing a song Lark …? You’re telling me she has a legit spiteful streak? Like … she’s not just a walking catastrophe but on purpose malicious …?”

They both laugh. Fucking laugh.

Rowan points his fork toward her. “She rigged a glitter bomb in my car for the time I made Sloane cry and told her to go home. I spent a grand getting the car detailed and I still find glitter on a daily basis.”

Sloane’s brows hike as she pushes a bit of food around her plate. “A few years ago, Lark was living with her boyfriend at the time, a guy named Andrew. One weekend while Lark was out of town, he and their mutual friend Savannah hooked up at Lark and Andrew’s apartment,” she says as an irrational tidal wave of anger sweeps through me. “A couple weeks later, Lark broke into Savannah’s house while she was sleeping and spelled cheating bitch on her face with Gorilla Glue and sequins. She stole Savannah’s bottle of nail polish remover and her phone and computer so she had no choice but to go out and buy more to get the glue off. Even once the sequins were gone, you could still see the marks. It was pretty awesome.”

I can’t deny I kind of love the ballsiness of that plan. I almost smile, but then I catch the exchange of a dark look between Sloane and Rowan. “What is it?”

Sloane shrugs.

The sound of Rowan and Sloane’s laughter follows me out to the street.

I lurch to a stop on the sidewalk, craning my neck to look past pedestrians. I listen for Lark’s voice, which always carries like chimes on the wind.

Nothing.

I pivot a single spin before I follow my gut and head east.

Phone clutched so tight in my hand it might snap, I bring up Lark’s number where it’s saved to favorites and tap it.

Straight to voicemail.

But this time, the problem isn’t the barriers between us. It’s not what will happen if we let each other in.

It’s what she’s letting out.

I take off running. She can’t be far.

I don’t know if it’s instinct, or fate, or dumb feckin’ luck, but I glance down an alley and catch a glimpse of her just before I speed right past it. Lark is storming down the narrow passage, her bag whacking against her round arse.

My heart rate spikes with the thrill of chasing her down. Fortunately, it’s not hard to sneak up on her with the slew of expletives she mutters to herself as she stalks down the alley.

I grip Lark by the throat and break the cadence of her marching steps. Air whooshes from her lungs when I push her back against the brick wall, her eyes locked with mine, shocked and fierce.

My head tilts as I take in the details of Lark’s expression, from the outrage in her narrowed eyes to the blush of her full lips to the scar at her hairline, a memento of our first meeting that carves a slice of regret into my memories whenever I look at it too closely. “I find it interesting that your first objection is about the randomness and not the face-slicing.”

The glare Lark drills into my eyes is nothing short of lethal. “Do. Not. Say her name. In the same sentence. As Keanu Reeves. Ever.”

I manage to repress a frustrated growl, but only barely, and Lark can tell. I’m convinced there’s little more that gives Lark Montague true delight than slithering her way beneath my self-control and snapping my restraints free. “What the hell was your plan, Lark?”

Lark glares at me.

Lark blinks, her throat working beneath my hand as she swallows. I’m not sure if she was purely running on instinct and is now struggling to connect the dots, or if she doesn’t want to tell me why she was about to hunt down a woman she’s met only once.

I loosen my grip, but I’m unwilling to let go when I catch the way her eyes dart toward the end of the alley, as though she’s ready to resume her hunt. “Give it a try. Somehow, I think you can manage—”

My grip on her throat relaxes as I remember that night with perfect clarity. Fionn was a feckin’ mess, as much as he pretended not to be. I’d nearly convinced him to move home the month before and Claire was ruining everything. And then that call came in from Leander. I ignored his first attempt. The second too. But I picked up on his third try and he sent me to the Scituate Reservoir with my scuba gear to clean up some woman’s careless accident.

Or so I thought.

Lark’s mouth opens on a sharp breath that’s intended for words that never come. I wait in silence as she weighs her options before she lands on a single one. “What …?”

It takes cobbling together every scrap of self-control to not smile at her confusion, but it fades when I lean a little closer and the heat of her body shreds other layers of my restraint. “Claire broke Fionn’s heart. He was a mess at that party, it was the first time he’d seen her since they split.”

I nod, and Lark’s cheeks flush pink. “They’d been together for a few years. They met when he was in medical school and she was doing her law degree. He’d nearly finished his residency and was ready to propose. He carried that feckin’ ring around for weeks, just waiting for the right moment. When he finally got down on one knee, Claire cut him loose. It shattered my brother. It’s why he moved to Nebraska, to get as far away from her as he could. I’d almost convinced him to come back, until that party ruined it all.”

It takes more effort than it should not to let my thoughts run away with the meaning behind her words. I don’t know why she would care about Claire. And I don’t know why it suddenly matters so much to know the history there.

Lark’s gaze drops to my lips and narrows as she seems to work through her thoughts. “You hate me because you think I busted your chance to bring Fionn home. You had to come for me, and you couldn’t look after him.”

Something uncomfortable twists in my chest, a little snake that grips my heart and squeezes. “I don’t hate you. But I sure would like to talk about your plan to cut off Claire’s face.”

Lark rolls her eyes and smacks my arm, my grip on her throat releasing. “Right. I have to go.”

In a flash of motion, she slides free between me and the wall. The space left behind is cold and lifeless. Her scent lingers, a temptation that beckons me, sweet and dark. I blink to try to clear Lark from my senses, but it’s futile.

I stand in the narrow passage for a long moment, watching her absence as though she’ll return and fill it with revelations as I replay everything Rowan and Sloane said in the restaurant.

And then I turn in the opposite direction and head to my car to drive straight home and get my shit together. To do what I should have done months ago.

To hunt Lark Montague.

TROPHIES

Lachlan

When I enter the living space of our apartment, I stand for a long moment in the center of the room, trying to see it through a different set of eyes. Bentley watches from the couch in stark judgment of what I’m about to do.

I don’t even take off my jacket before I start looking. For what, I’m not sure. I just feel as though if I’ve been missing pieces of this woman for so long, maybe there are treasures she doesn’t want anyone to find.

I open cupboards. I pull out drawers and run my fingers over their underbellies. I hunt in places I’ve purposely avoided the last two days out of respect for Lark’s privacy. Her en suite. Her bedroom. If she believes I despise her, maybe she thinks I’d never want to see her lingerie drawer? I could easily prove her otherwise as I shift through lace and silk and thin dangling straps. My cock feckin’ aches with every piece of material I touch as I picture Lark in each one. I get a little derailed by a certain deep blue corset that ignites all the fantasies of Duchess Lark that I’ve been trying and failing to suppress. I stare at that fabric in my hands for longer than I probably should, imagining how it might skim Lark’s curves, how her skin might look covered with lace.

Though I have the urge to steal it to fuel my fantasies in the privacy of my room across the hall, I set the corset back down and press my eyes closed as I shut the drawer.

With a deep breath, I turn and head back to the living room.

She sees the city from her round chair as she counts the hours between dusk and dawn. She sees photos of friends and family and places she’s traveled. She sees the gold table she made and a macrame wall hanging of tiny stars. She sees huge movie posters printed on canvas. The Life Aquatic. Beetlejuice. Sharknado. Constantine.

Constantine.

I inhale a sharp breath and march over to the poster, lifting it gently from the wall. Behind it, I finally find what I was looking for. A thin sheet over a ragged hole in the drywall.

By the time Lark returns to the apartment an hour later, I’ve cleared out the hole and replaced the poster on the wall. But now I’m left with a small cardboard box containing far more questions than I started with. I want answers. And the only woman who can give them to me walks in with a cutting glare, suspicion a heavy note in the tense beat of quiet between us.

Balancing a covered tray with one hand, Lark glances up and places her bag down with the other. She says nothing, just casts me a brief, exhausted look as though she knows something is coming but is too weak to avoid the collision.

She sighs and rubs her forehead with her free hand. “Lachlan, honestly, I don’t want to talk about Claire right now or any of that shit. I just want to exist in a place of caffeine and butter and sugar.” Lark sets a tray of muffins onto the counter and lifts the plastic lid. The scent of apple and cinnamon drifts toward me. “I volunteered to teach music lessons this afternoon and this kid Hugo literally tries to gnaw on the cello every single time. He is so fucking weird.”

Lark glances at me, wariness filtering into her eyes. “Since that is your least favorite topic and I’ve made it a personal life goal to cause you the most misery humanly possible,” she says as she takes a little bow and gracefully sweeps her hand before her, “please, do continue.”

Normally, I would reply with a diabolical grin. Maybe a jab or two to rile her up. But this time, my stomach flips uncomfortably as I reach into the cardboard box tucked beneath my arm to pull out the first item in question.

The flash of shock in her expression snuffs out as quickly as it appears. She clears her throat. “It appears to be a coaster.”

Lark huffs a dismissive laugh, but there’s a spark of trepidation in her gaze when it flicks from the string in my hand to my face. “An aftermarket boot lace? Did it come with a spoiler and muffler package?” She rolls her eyes and pads away toward the kitchen as I trail behind her like a joyless specter. “It’s a wine stain on a coaster, Lachlan. You could have gotten it anywhere.”

She scoffs but doesn’t look at me.

Next, I take two sticks with brightly painted bulbous ends from the box. “And what are these?”

Her focus darts to the items in my hand. She avoids my eyes. “Maracas, clearly.”

I clear my throat for dramatic effect. “Maracas …” Lark nods. “And what would they be made of, exactly?”

Lark turns to the fridge for butter. “How am I supposed to know?”

I rattle them, the objects inside hitting the lacquered walls of what looks suspiciously like skin. “You know I’m a leatherworker, Lark. Want to try again?”

She refuses to acknowledge me.

Lark pretends to focus on the muffin she pops into the microwave.

Lark’s eyes flick from the item on the table and back to the microwave as it dings. She shrugs. “A ring …?”

I let the weight of my gaze hammer into the side of her head, and even though she fidgets, she resists the urge to turn around. “A ring,” I repeat.

She nods.

A nervous laugh trails behind her as Lark moves toward the sink. She grips the stainless-steel edge as though she hopes it might suck her down the drain. When she finally turns to face me, she’s biting her lower lip, unable to control the cringe that creases her features.

I clear my throat, every carefully curated word a proclamation when I ask, “So you took the whole finger?”

A flare of irritation bursts in her eyes. “Seems to be the case, genius. I see your observational skills haven’t improved with the presence of glasses.”

I let out a long, slow breath. “Let’s try this another way. Why did you feel compelled to take this combination of finger and ring and then save it in a jar? It was shockingly easy to find, by the way. For future, I suggest a safe, not a literal hole in the wall.”

I haven’t had time to look up the crest on the signet ring, but obviously it has significant meaning to her that I don’t yet understand. Perhaps there’s even a clue on the inner surface, and I start to spin the lid to open it up so I can try pulling the ring free of the waxy gray flesh.

Lark mutters something that sounds like snuffluk as she scratches her head and trains her gaze toward the floor.

I glance from her to the jar and back again before I pick it up to give it a shake. The ring clanks against the glass and the finger taps the steel lid. When I set it back down, tiny, glittering snowflakes swirl around the severed digit before they slowly fall toward the base of the jar.

Lark tilts her head, her brows raised as she waits for me to continue. Her shoulders go rigid, and I know she’s arming herself for battle, so I might as well just spit it out before she puts the last of her psychological chain mail on.

Lark gives a single, decisive nod, the glossy blond waves of her ponytail bouncing across her shoulder. I don’t think I’ve even blinked yet but she looks like she’s just had ten shots of espresso when she beams a bright smile and says, “Honestly, it feels so much better to finally tell someone.”

Lark pivots on her heel to face the espresso machine.

Silence descends. Unsurprisingly, she fills it with humming.

She grinds beans. Grabs a pink mug shaped like a skull. Pours milk into the stainless-steel pitcher and turns on the machine. She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m staring at her the whole time with my mouth agape.

Dumbfounded. I’m bloody dumbfounded. I don’t even know what to say.

Not that it matters, because Lark just keeps going.

No, I realize. The other way around.

It’s like a sudden fog that rolls in from the sea to obscure the sun.

Light dulls in her eyes as she squares her shoulders. She holds the pitcher clutched between her palms, the milk not yet frothed, her knuckles bleached with the force of her grip. By the look of determination on her face, I figure I’ll be wearing that milk if I take another step closer.

But it’s not just determination. I can see it in the way her pulse drums within the smooth column of her neck.

I know fear. And I know it better than most.

I try to relax my stance, though judging by the way her eyes dart from my face to my shoulders to my balled fists and back again, I’m not very feckin’ successful at coming off as reassuring.

When I struggle to keep my hands loose, I slide them into my pockets, then say, “How about we go back to the ‘multiple deleter’ part for a second.”

Lark swallows.

My reply is a silent, dead-eyed glare.

She sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Make it nine.”

Lark growls.

Eyes molten with a dare, she gives me a sardonic smile. “Kane. Lark feckin’ Kane.”

Her words smack me like a fist to the face.

Whether our vows were real or not, whether she believes them or not, whether she uses her name or mine, she’s deftly reminded me of the ultimate truth: for better or worse, we are stitched together.

The Montague and Covaci dynasties have kept her safe, at least from law enforcement. I might have experience traversing her world, even thriving in it, but I don’t have the means to offer the same protection. Even worse, I come with another set of targets and vendettas and baggage that could put her in danger. If someone else finds out what she’s done …

I’m still caught in the grip of this new fear when she tilts her head and inhales a sharp breath.

We stand in silence as I try to pick through the thousand questions that compete for top spot in my short-circuiting brain. She watches me with wide, innocent eyes, and even hearing it from her own mouth, I have a hard time believing it’s possible. The Lark Montague I know is annoyingly kind, at least to everyone but me. She’s unfailingly loyal. Empathetic to her own detriment.

And she’s … a serial killer …?

One question finally works its way to the top.

She swallows, her lips pressed tight in a resolved line. I’ve seen her fierce. I’ve seen her determined. I’ve seen her full of light, beaming with joy. I’ve seen her bite and tease. Adoration and defeat, resignation and heartbreak and hope. I’ve seen them all in Lark. But there’s something in her eyes now, buried deep beneath all her layers, hidden in the shadows of music and chaos and movie quotes and all the sunshine she wears like blinding armor.

The armor is the Lark I thought I knew.

And though I’ve glimpsed it before, this is the first time I’ve truly looked beneath her shield and I see someone else entirely. I see pain that festers in the dark.

Lark might fear me, but she doesn’t back down, doesn’t let her eyes shift from mine when she says, “So that no one I love has to do it for me ever again.”

Her words are a blade that slips between my ribs.

Lark’s only admission is the shine in her eyes, and I stop myself before I push her too far.

When was the last time I felt this way? I can’t even remember. I’ve left only enough room to worry about my brothers and business and my psycho boss and nothing else, no one else. And suddenly there’s Lark, who was never meant to be here, was never meant to shine light into places I thought could only stay dark. But with those words she manages to reach right inside and ignite something I never thought I’d feel. Pain and loss and heartache for someone standing on the outside of my tiny sphere.

I clear my throat. “Lark …”

All it takes is one bright smile, and everything I think she wants to say disappears.

The door slams shut.

I stand for a long moment in the space between the rooms. Not quite the kitchen. Not the dining room or den. The void.

Whenever she leaves the room, it’s as though the warmth disappears. It’s like returning to a version of myself that isn’t me anymore.

Well, fuck that shit.

I stride toward the door and pull it open with more force than necessary, a crash of metal against the wall. Lark is already two thirds of the way down the stairs.

Lark shrugs. “Not particularly.”

Her grasp tightens around the railing as Lark turns just enough to cut me with her glare. “What was I going to say when you shook the finger jar? ‘Oops, not sure how those snowflakes wound up in there with a severed digit but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about’?”

I swallow my irritation and stay planted to the landing, unwilling to approach her even though I want to. But I can’t. I can’t bear that flash of fear in her again. Not of me.

Bentley plops down between us on the metal stairs with a disgruntled huff like I’m the dumbest feckin’ eejit to walk the earth. I swear his eyes roll as Lark lets out an incredulous bark of a laugh. “Talk to you? Since when have you made it fun to do that? You cannot wait to judge the shit out of me again. You really are an asshat, Lachlan Kane.” Lark shakes her head, and the smile that should be so bright it’s blinding only comes off dark and lethal. “You asked me once if I really cared what you thought about me, and I said yes. Well, go ahead and judge me all you want, because I got over that. Fucking fast too, I might add.”

Lark watches. Waits. But I feel like something is broken inside me. Like I keep pressing a piano key and no sound comes out.

For a moment, the look in Lark’s eyes is pitying. “I haven’t told Sloane because I love her, Lachlan. I haven’t told Rowan because I love him. They expect me to be a different person than the one I am. Everyone does. And I don’t want them to be disappointed. I don’t want them to think the worst of me. But you already do. You have from the first moment you laid eyes on me. So what does it matter if I tell you? What is it really going to change about living with you? You’ll like me less?” With a sardonic snort of a laugh and an eye roll, Lark turns away. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about than how much less you’ll like me.”

Her footsteps echo against concrete walls and steel beams as she descends the stairs, Bentley a ghost in her wake. And I just watch. I don’t call after them, and they don’t look back. The door is an exclamation of metal, and then silence.

I’m still here. Standing still. Holding on. Holding on to what?

I release the railing from my grip and turn my palms upward. Tiny flakes of rust stain my skin.

It’s only now that she’s gone that the realization truly settles in my thoughts.

Even with these secrets revealed, I still know next to nothing about Lark Montague.

I enter the apartment, determination growing with every step I take. Then I grab my keys and jacket and leave.

HOLOGRAM

Lark

My eyes are still closed as one thought plays on a loop in my head, a song on repeat: I have many regrets. And most of them are related to this fucking chair. Maybe one or two related to Lachlan. But mostly the chair.

It was shortly after midnight and I’d just torn myself away from cleaning to sit in this round wicker chair by the windows. This is where I can almost convince myself that I’m out in the open, the city lights spread before me like a blanket of stars, a view that feels endless. Lachlan had gone to see his boss after our argument and came back with the details memorized of what Leander wants from my family. It’s a pretty simple list. A minimum of four jobs per contract per year. A five-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer fee. Muffins homemade by Ethel herself.

I gave him a suspicious glance as he loomed in my periphery. “You’ve never tried one?”

When he shook his head, a little sliver of disappointment wedged into my thoughts. If the situation were reversed, I’d have tried every flavor by now so I’d know my adversary better. Just like I’ve googled everything about his studio, Kane Atelier. I’ve seen every photo in Lachlan’s portfolio and read every testimonial for his business. I scoped out his social media posts too—they’re mostly about his different leather projects, with the occasional scuba diving photo dump. I mean, I only really care that he knows fuck-all about me because it’ll make it that much harder to convince my family that we’re truly in love. That’s one hundred percent the only reason.

Lachlan lingered as though he wanted to start another conversation, probably about the elevator, or Claire, or maybe my cache of trophies, all of which are absolutely the last thing I want to discuss with him. So I shifted my headphones over my ears and tried to concentrate on the sheet music in front of my folded knees. I strummed my guitar until Lachlan finally disappeared.

It must have been nearly five when I finally fell asleep in the round chair, and it was just after six when I awoke with the guitar still resting on my lap.

And now I’m trying to unfold my legs.

I can’t feel my feet. Or my ass. Or one of my hands, which spent the last hour trapped between my leg and the body of the guitar. I pull my headphones off and groan, a sound that dissolves into an exhausted whimper as I rub my eyes.

When I open them, a cup of coffee hovers in view, clutched by a tattooed hand.

As I accept the cup, I study him. He seems serious today. There’s not a single teasing note in his voice. He looks down at me like I’m dying and he doesn’t know what to do. A deep crease has formed between his brows and even after I take a sip of the vile brown liquid that I refuse to call coffee, he still hovers, some kind of pent-up anxiety rolling from him in waves despite his attempts to cover it. He even whisks the guitar from my grip when I try to set it on the floor.

Lachlan sighs. “I already told you. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

I snap my fingers and give him a devious grin. “And I was wearing makeup. An infallible disguise,” I say as I place the mug on the side table and heave myself out of the chair.

Lachlan’s eye roll nearly rivals Sloane’s and warmth spreads in my chest. Irritating him is even more energizing than the disgusting sludge I take with me to the kitchen.

I snort and rinse out the mug. “I know ‘Constantine, John Constantine.’” As expected, when I glance over my shoulder at him, Lachlan seems clueless. “You haven’t actually seen Constantine? I thought you were joking when you asked the other day, but honestly that does not surprise me one bit that you have no idea what I’m talking about. Batch oven for you.”

I bark a laugh. “None of your business.”

Lachlan lets out a little huff, a sound of surprise. “I want to go there too, for the diving.”

I nod and sip my coffee. Even with my eyes trained on my mug, I can feel him watching me like I’m something broken that he doesn’t know how to fix. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that, so long I’ve forgotten how it used to make me feel. Damaged. Irreparable. Weak. But for some reason, I don’t want to put in the effort to cover it over with a fresh veneer, a glossy surface. I guess that’s the irony of being married to someone I have absolutely no desire to make happy. For once, I don’t have to try so damn hard to project one thing while I feel another, and the realization of how exhausting that is settles into my thoughts. But with Lachlan, I can turn the hologram off and just exist.

… Well.

That’s a fucking terrifying epiphany.

I take a long sip of my coffee even though it’s still too hot, then leave the rest behind. “I’d better go walk Bentley before he starts getting all dramatic,” I say as I stand. But Lachlan catches my wrist as I pass, holding it just long enough to stop me before he lets go.

Lachlan shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I did bribe him with chicken.”

I look over at Bentley, who keeps his head down on his folded paws and watches our exchange with guilt-ridden eyes. “Traitor.”

I’m still standing, my eyes glued to my dog, unsure of where I should look or what I should do next when Lachlan grazes my hand with one of his knuckles. “Hey,” he says. My attention shifts back to him, but I say nothing in reply. “Just … sit down.”

I raise a brow and bite my lip, trying not to smile. “Are you bossing me around in my own home?”

Lachlan blushes. “No … but … please?” he asks, fidgeting with his glasses. “I’ll make breakfast. We can talk a bit longer before we have to go.”

Our eyes lock once more and I let myself really look at Lachlan. Deep blue eyes, the color of a cold and treacherous sea. His dark hair swept into place. Tattoos that flow down his neck beneath the collar of his gray Henley, scrolling Irish script and an intricate triquetra on one side, a weeping angel on the other. I don’t know what they mean or the story they tell, but I do know a lot about pain and grief. Sometimes, you need to carve the things you’ve lost right into your skin so you remember what you left behind.

I sit back down across from Lachlan, and his shoulders drop with relief.

I look up at Lachlan and the faint smile on his face might be the most genuine of his I’ve seen. And I know he’s still an asshole. I’m not going to forget that. It’s not like he’s ever apologized to me for being a dick or stuffing me in the trunk. Not going to let that one slide either. But he’s kind of okay to listen to when he gives me that smile, or when he gets up and makes breakfast and it’s actually really good—and bonus: not poisoned. There’s maybe a decent guy buried in there somewhere. Deep, deep, deep down. Not that I want to find out, but learning a little bit about him doesn’t hurt, I guess.

The question is, will it be enough to convince my family?

That, I don’t know. But before long, we’re on our way to find out.

We stop first at Shoreview Assisted Living to pick up my aunt, and despite Lachlan’s multiple offers to assist, I head into the facility on my own. I find Ethel in her room already waiting to go, hair coiffed, lipstick on, cane polished. When I escort her out the doors, Lachlan is standing outside his Charger in the bitter wind, waiting with the seat flipped forward so I can slide in the back before he helps my aunt into the passenger seat. Ethel’s cough is vicious with the transition from warm to cold to warm again, but she fights her way through the persistent rumble to ask Lachlan a million questions about the vehicle. They chatter for almost the entire hour-long drive to my parents’ home in Providence.

When we pull into the driveway and Lachlan cuts the engine, my aunt turns to me with a wicked grin. “Ready to stir some shit up, my girl?”

I shake my head. “No. No, I am not.”

I start to follow her, trying to steel my nerves for what’s ahead, when Lachlan’s hand reaches into the back seat. I take it, feeling an unexpected reassurance from sharing warmth with the only other person who could possibly feel what I’m feeling right now. When I’m out of the car and standing next to him, he doesn’t let go like I thought he would.

I feel like I’m coating myself in layers of papier-mâché when I smile. “Yeah, of course.”

But Lachlan isn’t buying it. “You sure?”

My internal reprimand is immediate. He shouldn’t see any weakness in me. Lachlan Kane does not like me. He’s only going through this whole insane escapade to save his ass.

I lock my spine and pull my shoulders back. “I’m nervous for you. If they suggest taking you for a tour of an industrial facility in Portsmouth, you should politely decline. And then run.”

Worry flares in Lachlan’s expression before he smothers it beneath a smirk. “All right, you feckin’ catastrophe. Let me show you how it’s done.”

I snort. “If they don’t throw you in the batch oven, I’ll do it myself.”

With a final glare at each other that doesn’t really sting, we follow my aunt to the front door, our hands still clasped together.

IN NOMINE PATRI

Lark

My aunt rings the doorbell and we wait. She can’t help but bash her cane against the door a few times when it takes longer than it should for someone to fetch us. When the door swings open, Ethel is already grinning, ready enough for the both of us to set off a few bombs at what is normally an uneventful weekly brunch. She gives Ava a kiss on both cheeks, then stands aside in the foyer to watch the first drops of chaos hit the hot pan that is my sister’s volatile temper.

Ava lets out a deafening shriek that echoes up the vaulted ceiling of the foyer.

Ethel is having the time of her life watching my normally cool and composed sister spiral. And in true Ethel style, she loves nothing more than to hasten the descent. “I believe the proper response is ‘congratulations on your elopement,’ dear.”

My mom’s voice cuts short the instant she sees Lachlan, but Ava is there to fill the void. “She’s married, Mom. Lark. Is. Married,” Ava says as she grabs my wrist and thrusts my hand toward my mother. Mom immediately recognizes the ring and shoots Ethel a shocked glare.

Ethel grins.

Lachlan snickers and glances down his shoulder at me. “Watch and learn, Blunder Barbie.”

He winks at me. Fucking winks. And then he steps into the fray holding out the black bag with the gift he brought. “Perhaps we should crack this open and I can explain,” he says as he reaches into the cloud of tissue paper and pulls out a bottle of 2018 Château Pétrus. “Or there’s a bottle of Springbank whiskey if that’s your preference. Figured we all might want to share something a bit stronger, given the circumstances.”

The arguing stops momentarily as all three women eye him.

No one says anything for a beat and I begin to think we’re going to have to slink back out the door and give up on this plan. But then Ava whips the bottle of whiskey from the bag with a glare and leads the way toward the back of the house.

My mom lingers for a moment with a long, grave look in my direction then locks her silver-blue eyes on Lachlan. “I’m looking forward to hearing this ‘not wild’ version of events. Please, do come in,” she says before she follows my sister, my aunt trailing after her.

Lachlan extends a hand for me to take. I cross my arms and he shrugs as if to say suit yourself.

Lachlan’s smile is nothing short of devious. “Ye wound me with yer accusations, me darlin’ wife.”

Lachlan twinkles his tattooed fingers in my direction, and I heave a dramatic sigh before taking his hand again. “Told you I would be fine.”

The sound of heated conversation greets us as we head toward the kitchen, where my mom and sister try to simultaneously explain to my stepdad that yes, I am indeed married and yes, his name is actually Lachlan Kane. Thankfully, my sister just looks confused when my parents shoot each other knowing glances. If Ava knew about their concerns regarding Lachlan, I’m pretty sure he’d be dead already. She’s always had over-protective sibling energy and I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s spent her adult life looking for an excuse to activate her Montague murder genes.

I put everything into radiating what I know they need to see. Happiness. Contentment. Adoration for the man whose hand I hold a little too tightly. I introduce Lachlan to my stepdad and stay Velcroed to his side until I’m sure my new husband won’t be murdered on the marble island. The barrage of questions starts, of course, and they don’t let up as we bring the food over to the dining table and take our seats. Some moments of the inquisition are more painful than others. When did this happen? Where? Why weren’t we invited?

As if to rub it in, Ethel coughs, at first a gentle rumble that I’m not entirely sure she’s not conjuring into existence, but one that quickly turns into a lengthy fit. My mom rubs my aunt’s shoulder while my sister fetches a box of tissues, and when it finally subsides, the first thing my aunt says is, “Do you know how these two met? It’ll be a great story for the grandkids. He tossed her in the trunk of a car.”

Oh dear God.

I cough around a sip of water, nearly spitting it back into the glass.

My mom and stepdad exchange weighted glances. I see fury in my mom, but disappointment in my stepfather, and somehow the latter is worse. I lay my hand on his, waiting for him to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whisper, my throat suddenly tightening around my words. “I’ve always wanted you to walk me down the aisle. But I fell in love with Lachlan so fast,” I say, gazing over at Lachlan in a way I hope is convincing. “And it just … happened.”

Part of me wishes my stepdad would challenge me on this. Dig a little deeper. Call me out. But to him, this is probably just another example in a long line of Lark doing her own thing, fuck the consequences. What else would he expect from someone who phones him in the middle of the night to cover up a fatal accident? Or who drops her job to go touring for six months, or packs up on a whim and moves closer to home because her best friend did?

He never calls me out, not really. Instead, he plasters on a weak smile and gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “It’s all right, Lark. I’m just … very surprised. It’s a big shock.”

His eyes narrow at me, just briefly. With the slightest bob of his head, I realize he’s communicating with me. Asking if I’m okay.

My smile grows a little brighter. Of course I’m okay.

There’s a slight tilt to his head as he studies me. He doesn’t look convinced.

My eyes widen until I know they’ll look a hint deranged. Play the fuck along, unless you want a tour of the batch ovens.

At least his lie is pretty convincing, because we sure as hell didn’t spare each other a single fucking second. Every time Lachlan was suggested as a companion for a run to the florist or the venue, I made every excuse possible to take someone else or do it solo. I’m sure the same was true for Lachlan, though I made a point of never asking about him, even though I remember every detail that fell into my lap. I can still recall the satisfaction I felt but pushed away when Rowan said Lachlan wasn’t bringing a plus-one to the wedding. I don’t analyze that thought.

My aunt jumps on the mention of the wedding to redirect the conversation to Rowan and Sloane’s nuptials, and I finally feel like I can take a breath. When questions come back around to Lachlan, he handles them with ease. Questions about his studio. About Ireland. About his parents, which has him shifting in his seat. He calls his father “a troubled man” and focuses on his mother instead. I know most of this from Sloane and Rowan, at least at a surface level. It’s different to not just hear it from Lachlan, but to see it in him. The haunted depths in his eyes where secrets thrive in shadow. His smile when he speaks about his brothers with pride that was earned by the pain he must have endured to raise them when his mother passed away. Every once in a while, Lachlan catches my eye as he talks, especially about the harder topics. He leaves the details unspoken, but I can hear them, the ghost notes in a melody.

And by the time we’ve finished the main course, I’m a little more at ease. Not just with myself, or because I know my family is at least trying to make sense of this situation, but with Lachlan too. When Ava clears our plates and returns with coffee and dessert, I feel calmer. We may not be in the clear yet, but we’re on our way.

Which is, naturally, exactly when Ethel chooses to strike.

My stepfather wipes a hand down his face. My sister chokes on her coffee. My mother tries to chastise Ethel, which seems to delight the old matriarch. I groan and lean back in my chair as a headache needles my sleepless eyes. And Lachlan? He looks like he wants to melt into some other dimension, which brings me a single sliver of joy to realize I’m sitting across from a deadly assassin who’s out of his depth with family drama.

Ethel grins. “There will be for the Montagues.”

My aunt snorts. “‘Conflict of interest’ my wrinkled old ass. We’re not doctors or lawyers. We make muffins, Nina. Since when have we cared about a conflict of interest?”

My mother’s gaze bounds from one person to the next before it lands on me, her hand gripped so tightly to her napkin that her knuckles bleach. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Lark.”

My heart cracks when I softly say, “Maybe we should all be transparent for once and admit that when it comes to this family, he’s not the only one.”

There’s a brief second of stark silence. I can feel the disbelief like an entity that hovers above our plates, a ghost caught between our rigid bodies as we sit unmoving in its midst.

My stepfather’s sharp inhale breaks the spell. “Lark Montague—”

I toss the plastic card down on the table. The final bomb.

A sheen coats my mother’s eyes, but she blinks it back before straightening her spine like she does when she’s pissed and preparing for battle. “Well. That’s just—”

I bury my short nails into my palms. The weight of Lachlan’s gaze lies heavy on my face, but I can’t look up. I don’t know what will happen if I do.

My stepfather takes a sip of his coffee and clears his throat, and though he forces a smile, all I see is the torn heart beneath it. “Lachlan must mean so much to you.”

His words summon a mist across my vision and an ache in my throat. I glance at Lachlan. He studies me before his attention flicks to my stepfather and back again. It’s as though he knows there’s so much more that’s been left unspoken, but he can’t see his way through the fog.

I nod a little too enthusiastically. “Thank you. We’ll think about that when things settle down a little bit.” I can’t look at them, so I look everywhere else. My watch. The half-eaten dessert. My empty coffee cup. Finally, I catch Lachlan’s eyes and take a breath. “We have to get going, I’m sorry. We need to take Auntie Ethel back and then I’ve got rehearsal.” I don’t take my eyes from Lachlan as I shift in my chair. He’s faster than me, fluid and graceful as he comes to my side of the table and pulls back my chair. “Thank you for brunch. I’m sorry it went a little sideways, but just know that I love you.”

I give my mother and sister swift kisses to their cheeks before my stepfather leads us to the door. His embrace is long and tight. His familiar smell is both a comfort and a burning ache in my chest. My eyes sting when he kisses the crown of my head. “You look tired, Meadowlark,” he whispers. “Try to get some rest.”

I squeeze a little tighter before I let him go and step back. Lachlan is there with a hand extended, and after a brief hesitation, my stepfather takes it.

An electric charge hits my heart. This isn’t real, I remind myself. But the way Lachlan looks at me, really looks at me, I believe him. I might be his wife on paper only, but I know what he’s trying to tell me in a simple glance. He will keep his word.

We walk in silence to the car, Lachlan escorting my aunt, who seems to move slower now after so much excitement. But he doesn’t release my hand either. He keeps hold of it even when we can’t be seen from the house. He doesn’t let go until I get into the rear seat, and even then I sense a momentary reluctance. A reluctance that, for some reason, I share.

It’s just camaraderie, I try to remind myself when the moment passes and he pushes the seat back before helping Ethel settle into the passenger side. And then we’re off, my heart still beating too fast in my chest.

Lachlan turns enough to give me a brief glance. “I know, Lark. It’s all right.”

I blow out a long breath and look out the window as the familiar neighborhood slips past. I gnaw at my lower lip until I taste an iron thread of blood. “Maybe.”

I can feel Lachlan watching me in the rearview. But I can’t bear to meet his gaze.

NETWORK

Lark

How can we come back from this when you left me in the dark?

You left me in the dark.

But I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop wanting you.

I scratch through the last few lines of text and close my notebook, placing it back in my bag as I watch through the window of my aunt’s room. I’ve never been so blocked with a song before. It’s like I just can’t figure out what to say. I can’t hear the notes that should come naturally. I’d like to think it’s because I’m tired. So fucking tired. But I know it’s not just that. In the last ten days since we went to my parents’ place, Lachlan has crept into my thoughts, into my daily life. He makes coffee and breakfast every morning. He brings me little things every night, as though he thinks they might help me sleep. A silk eye mask. He blushed when he gave me that. An incense diffuser. Tonight, he’ll make me a cup of chamomile tea and hand it to me with a haunted look in his eyes, just like he does every night. He’ll disappear into his room and then we’ll do the whole thing all over again tomorrow, over and over until we die.

But one thing Lachlan hasn’t done? Apologize. And I can’t seem to let go of those first moments we met. My hurt still festers, and maybe I just need him to open that wound. But he won’t.

A surprised gasp leaves my lips as I sit up straighter and look toward my aunt. She shoots me a devious grin before she raises the back of her bed.

Though I roll my eyes at the teasing spark in my aunt’s voice, heat still creeps into my cheeks. “He’s trying.”

Ethel nods and coughs but waves me off when I rise to help her with water or tissues. This time her cough takes a long while to subside. Unease burns in my guts. Guilt creeps into my veins. She’s been so lively with all the scheming lately, but maybe it’s taken too much out of her. She suddenly looks so frail, pain etched across her crinkled skin.

Despite her protests, I press the call button for the nurse, who enters a moment later, followed by a doctor, who comes in while the fit still rumbles on. The doctor maintains her professional detachment when she tells me they’re going to administer an IV for pain relief and antibiotics to prevent secondary infection, but I’ve been around facilities like this long enough to know that the prognosis of Ethel’s cancer is grim, and this might be the fast deterioration of a disease my aunt refuses to treat.

Ethel’s cough dissipates as they ready the fluids and prepare the cannula. “I don’t like needles,” my aunt says, her eyes darting toward the door to her room and holding there. I’m about to follow her gaze when she grabs my hand. “Sing to me for a distraction, girl.”

A melancholy smile lifts my aunt’s lips. “The one you sang at our anniversary party.”

It’s hard to believe it wasn’t even a year ago.

My aunt and uncle danced beneath the patio lights we strung up in the tent. They looked into each other’s eyes as I started to sing and I thought, I wonder how much love is out there like that, really. I wonder if I’ll ever find it. And if I do, I hope I deserve it.

And now I think, Maybe we don’t find it. It doesn’t just appear. It’s not fantasy, not a fairy tale. We make choices, note after note, chord after chord, until we create it.

I lean down and place a kiss on my aunt’s cheek before I clear my throat and sing:

I can’t give you anything but love, baby

That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby

Scheme awhile, dream awhile

We’re sure to find

Happiness and I guess

All those things you’ve always pined for

Gee, I’d like to see you looking swell, baby.

The nurse slides the cannula into the vein and my aunt never flinches. She keeps her eyes on me and I don’t even finish the song before she says, “Doll, go and get me a candy from the reception desk, would you? I like those hard caramels.”

I scrunch my face in a question but my aunt just pulls her hand free of mine to flick me away.

I give Ethel a bemused grin and slide off the bed as the nurse checks the pump and the doctor reviews her chart.

And when I turn from the room to join the corridor that leads to the reception desk, Lachlan is there, head lowered, one hand raised to his forehead as he strides toward the doors like he can’t get out of here fast enough.

He halts instantly, but he doesn’t turn around. I’ve stopped too, waiting for something, maybe a reaction or a word or even movement, but Lachlan remains tense and still.

There’s a long pause before he nods.

Lachlan clears his throat, but he doesn’t turn around. He only gives me the corner of his eye before he looks away. “Came in to say Leander needs me. You can come too if you’re free. I can give you a ride, if you want. Or if you want to stay, I can take your guitar so you don’t have to carry it.”

One final nod, like that’s all he’s capable of, and then Lachlan strides through the lobby and into brisk autumn wind. I watch as the Charger departs, and then I grab a fistful of candies for Ethel.

When I take them back to my aunt’s room, she’s pretending to be asleep.

I cross my arms and glare down at Ethel, though she still hasn’t opened her eyes. “He said I can go to his boss’s house today, but he hasn’t sent me directions.”

One cloudy eye cracks open and scrutinizes me before Ethel reaches beneath her pillow and pulls out a phone.

My aunt glares at me as she puts her phone back and settles in deeper beneath her covers. “I get all the boys’ numbers, missy,” she says as she shoos me away, the IV tube dangling from the top of her hand. A heartbeat later, a text comes through on my phone from Lachlan with a dropped pin. “Now get out of here. And take the muffins for his boss with you. Made them fresh this morning with Nurse Lucy. They’re at the front desk.”

Ethel blesses me with a cheeky grin, and then with a deep, contented sigh, she closes her eyes. With a shake of my head, I grab my bag and order an Uber, and before long I’m headed to the sprawling estate home of Leander Mayes with a box of my aunt’s muffins on my lap.

When we pass the fortified gate and the house comes into view, Lachlan is waiting for me at the entrance. We roll to a stop and he comes forward to open my door, his hand outstretched in an offer. I hesitate only briefly before taking it.

I wonder how tiring that must be, or if he even notices at all.

Lachlan’s face remains grim as he opens the door for me. His hand finds the small of my back as I pass the threshold, his touch igniting a hum in my belly. “Remember what I said.”

Lachlan ushers me through another door, this one leading to a set of concrete stairs that descends to the basement. I can hear a man’s jovial voice talking over loud music. Before I can take my first step down, Lachlan presses a hand to my stomach to stop me.

He lifts his hand away and turns to lead our descent, leaving an empty ache behind.

No. No ache. That was definitely a hunger pang. It’s just all that talk about pizza. Probably.

And even if it wasn’t the pizza and it was an ache, it’s still just simple biology. I’m on a very long dry spell, that’s all. And Lachlan’s being extra broody and weirdly protective, and he’s hot, and I have eyes. I can appreciate hot. It doesn’t mean I want to fuck my husband.

I snort a laugh.

Lachlan’s head whips around as my outburst echoes across the concrete. He looks at me with both confusion and fear, as though Leander could come storming through the door at the bottom of the stairs to blow our heads off.

And that’s pretty much what Leander does.

I’m looking down the muzzle of a gun.

At first it’s all I see, a snapshot etched into memory. Lachlan’s hand darts out and he yanks me up onto the step behind him. The movement takes just long enough that I capture the image of Leander on the threshold of the open door, gun raised, a welcoming yet terrifying smile on his face. And then all I see is Lachlan’s back, my body sheltered by his.

Our host laughs and lowers his gun before stepping back from the doorway in an invitation to pass. “Can never be too careful.”

Leander grins as he shakes my hand. There’s something off about this guy, just like Lachlan said. A disconnect between his sharp green eyes and cutting smile. “Kane, huh? You don’t have to keep that up here.”

Rather than return my hand to my side, I take Lachlan’s arm instead, a detail that Leander absorbs before he ushers us inside.

Leander welcomes us into a room that’s meant to look like a pub, with a stocked bar and a big-screen TV and a dartboard. He offers us drinks that we decline and directs us to a set of leather couches and chairs. I don’t feel any comfort in this space that’s meant to feel familiar. All I feel is out of my depth.

But he can’t know that. And neither can Lachlan.

I might not know what the fuck I’m doing negotiating contracts in this underground world, but one thing I do know is how to play a part.

Lachlan is rigid beside me. He’s sitting so close to me that I can feel the tension radiate from his coiled muscles. “I said my wife will make you a deal. The conditions are up to her.”

Leander’s brows flick once, a reaction that feels too much like dissatisfaction for my liking. His head bobs with a pensive nod and he takes another bite of the muffin before he raises his eyes to me. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll follow through on the second contract?”

I dart a sharp glance toward Lachlan before he can make any further promises. I know how much he wants out. He needs it. And I don’t want him to stay on Leander’s hooks longer than he has to. Something about that just doesn’t sit right with me.

My focus returns to Leander as he washes the last bites of the muffin down with a long sip of beer. “I will get you the Covaci contract, but this job needs to be done first.”

I watch as Leander kisses his fingertips in a dramatic al bacio gesture before his gaze settles on mine. With just a blink, he goes from jovial and amused to stern and shadowed. My eyebrows raise in a silent question. What now?

After another pull from his pint glass, Leander leans a little closer, steepling his fingers as he regards me. “One million for the retainer. Five jobs a year.”

Leander’s smile is predatory as it shifts from Lachlan to me. “She can have unlimited use. For double. And five jobs a year.”

A smile sneaks across Leander’s lips as he extends a hand across the space between us. “Done.”

I take his hand, and as soon as I let go, he’s writing in the agreed numbers and passing me the paperwork to sign.

Leander claps his hands together. With this business done, his demeanor shifts again. He starts poking Lachlan for details on the recent Kane weddings, information that Lachlan deftly keeps to a minimum. It seems second nature for Lachlan to provide just enough color for Leander to feel satisfied, and just enough shade to keep him at arm’s length. By the time I’ve wired the retainer money, Leander seems relaxed, maybe even a bit drunk, though he’s only finished one pint since we arrived.

I tamp down a grim smile.

Leander stands. He takes two unsteady steps.

Then he falls flat on his face.

I shrug. “Ethel doesn’t like to be bossed around. Especially when it comes to muffins. She gets a little vindictive.”

Lachlan shakes his head and gestures toward the man sprawled at his feet. A rumbling snore rises from the floor. With a string of whispered curses, Lachlan rolls him into the recovery position then turns his attention to me, his expression incredulous.

With a wink, I stand and clap my hands. Leander’s snore continues, undisturbed by the sudden sound. “Right. Let’s go to the office then, shall we?”

Lachlan gives me a weary shake of his head, then gestures for me to follow as he leads the way to the basement door.

The house is empty and silent as we leave out the back door and walk down a curved path toward a separate building, one that feels utilitarian compared to the house. Stark white brick with a black steel roof, the darkly tinted windows giving no indication of what lies within. The single access point is a fortified steel door.

Lachlan places his left hand on a control panel, then leans toward a circular lens that scans his iris. A moment later, a set of cylindrical bolts disengages and the door cracks open.

I give him a teasing grin, and before either of us can get too sucked into a nonabrasive moment of levity, we break the connection between us and head deeper into the room.

The interior is as utilitarian as the outside of the building, no decorations on the waffled soundproofing that lines the walls. There are several screens that hang from the ceiling, nothing displayed on their matte surfaces. Four computer stations sit in the center of the room, each with three monitors. The desks are uncluttered, only a mouse and keyboard on each one. A metal staircase leads to a lower level from which a low hum resonates.

Lachlan looks from me to the monitor and back again, confusion etched between his brows. “Yes … that’s … how it works …”

I’m met with silence from Lachlan. Ignoring his reticent expression, I pull the keyboard closer. “Can I look up anyone on this?”

I give him a brief smile that he seems to ignore before I turn back to the screen. The system looks slick but simple, and I start typing a name into the search field at the top of the page.

Louis Campbell. Location: Connecticut. Age, I leave that blank. Occupation: education. I don’t bother with the advanced search fields, details I don’t know or maybe I did once but have since forgotten.

I press enter. Seven Louis Campbells populate in a list below the search fields. Each has basic details—age, address, contact details, medical insurance, utility providers, job history. One contact card blares at me like a siren.

Though I feel Lachlan watching me, I don’t turn toward him. “You sure—”

I have enough information about Bob Foster to enter into the search fields for the results to turn up a single contact card. When I click on it, a spread of more detailed data fills the screen. There’s a row of locked queries at the bottom of the page, the information hidden behind paywalls.

When I meet Lachlan’s gaze, his brow is furrowed, his eyes dark as they sweep across my skin, leaving heat behind. “It’s your contract, duchess. Do what you want.”

I return my attention to the screen and gnaw at my lip.

I grin at Lachlan. And though it’s soft and almost shy, he smiles back.

And we hunt through the records together.

RETREAT

Lark

Lachlan leans against the passenger side of the Charger with his arms crossed. The doors to Shoreview Assisted Living slide shut behind me and I take a few steps into the muted light of the overcast morning, my bag slung across one shoulder, the strap of a guitar case across the other. Though my eyes are hidden by sunglasses, I know he can see the surprise and trepidation in my wary stance as I draw to a halt. I don’t know why I’m surprised when it’s been just over two weeks now of Lachlan doing little things to try to chip away at the wall I try to keep between us. It’s not the first time he’s showed up somewhere unexpectedly to offer me a ride. But something in his expression seems different this time, even from a distance, and it keeps me locked in place.

Lachlan unfolds his arms, stepping to the side to open the car door. He flips the passenger seat forward so I can put my belongings on the back seat. When he faces me once more, I haven’t moved an inch.

I swallow and fidget with the strap of my bag but I don’t come closer. A heavy beat drums in my chest as indecision and distrust root me to the ground.

Lachlan takes a small step forward and I remain still, my steady breath a fog in the cold air. “The … uh … the passenger seat is comfortable.”

He winces. “I thought it might be too soon for that joke.”

His hand slides to the back of his neck. I cross my arms over my chest, waiting to see what he’ll say. We’ve never spoken openly about that night—maybe we’re both too stubborn, or are unwilling to fracture the fragile peace that’s grown between us. But something seems different in Lachlan today. Like there’s both heartache and hope in his eyes.

He takes another step closer. I stand my ground. “That night we met,” he says, his voice soft with regret. “The way I acted, the way I took my shitty attitude out on you, putting you in the trunk … it wasn’t right. I’m sorry, Lark. I know what I did was … it was cruel. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take a lot of things back. But I can’t. I can only tell you I’m sorry, and I’m not going to ask you to forgive me.”

I square my shoulders and tip up my chin. “Well, that’s kind of a half-decent apology, aside from the weird forgiveness part.”

My cheeks heat beneath the cold bite of the wind. And he sees it. His lips curve in a faint smile before he turns and starts walking back to the car.

Lachlan flinches from the sting of my words.

He lays my bag in the back seat and slides off his sunglasses as he turns to face me. The leather of my gloves creaks as my grip tightens across the strap of my guitar case. I clutch it as though it’s a lifeline in choppy waters. “There’s no end date, duchess. Get in,” Lachlan says. “We’ve got somewhere to be, and before you ask again, I’m not going to tell you. It’s a surprise. So please just get in.”

I grin and draw closer, finally passing him the instrument. “‘Please’? I didn’t realize that word was in your vocabulary.”

When he starts driving, he grips the steering wheel too tightly, getting a little distracted when I connect my phone to the stereo. When I ask him about music he stalls the car at a red light. He grumbles a handful of swears and his cheeks flush crimson. When he glances my way, I turn to look out the window, hiding a teasing grin.

It takes us a minute to find our stride. But soon we’re talking about … everything. By the time we reach our destination, we’ve been talking for a half hour nonstop about the band I’ve been rehearsing with, and I feel at ease.

At least I do until we turn down a quiet lane and roll to a stop at the end of a paved walkway.

My breath hitches in my throat as I attempt to process his words. “A … what?”

My eyes are narrow slits. “Did you just abduct me for nefarious purposes under the guise of sleep?”

Other than a faint nod, I don’t reply. I just keep my attention fixed to the retreat as I fidget, playing a phantom song with one hand on the back of the other. Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before. “What about you?” I finally ask, still unwilling to look in Lachlan’s direction.

His words are met with silence as a thousand thoughts swirl in my head. A blush creeps up my neck as I look out the window and worry my bottom lip. I want to go. But what if something happens to Ethel? What about Bentley? My responsibilities? Band rehearsals? And most unexpected, what if Lachlan is trying to get rid of me for the weekend? Is there a woman he wants to take home? It’s not like we’re a real couple. We never talked about not being with other people. So why does a hole burn in my chest when I wonder if that’s the real reason he’s doing this?

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. How am I supposed to tell him that I’m afraid of losing something that isn’t mine to begin with? Why should it mean anything to me what he’s doing or who he’s seeing? It’s not a real marriage. It’s not real.

Silence stretches on in the car. And then I feel his touch. A simple graze of his fingers to the bones on the back of my hand.

My head whips around and I pin Lachlan with a lethal glare.

He pulls his hand away as though he’s afraid he overstepped, but that just makes it even worse. Frustrated tears fill my eyes.

Lachlan shakes his head, confusion etched between his brows. “Why is what so hard?”

The first tear breaches my lash line and slides down my cheek toward my trembling lips. Lachlan’s face creases with worry as I lose the battle to hold my emotions back. “You,” I say with a flick of my hand between us as more tears escape my control. “This. It’s so fucking hard. I don’t want to care what you’re doing or where you’re going. It shouldn’t matter to me at all. But it does fucking matter and I don’t know why—”

Lachlan grasps my chin and stares right into me until I press my eyes closed. “Lark,” he whispers. I try to bury the turmoil I feel, but it’s unstoppable, a molten core that churns in the dark. I can feel it in the heat that radiates from my skin, in the hammer of my pulse beneath the finger that Lachlan lets rest against my neck. “Lark, look at me.”

I open my eyes but can’t hold Lachlan’s gaze, not with the heartache and contrition that stare back at me.

Lachlan’s thumb slides in a slow arc through the line of tears on my cheek as I take one steady breath in, letting it back out again in a thin stream through pursed lips. It takes more effort than I expect to bury my fears and insecurities and hopes back where they belong. In the shadows. I slip into familiar armor and raise my chin, and when I meet Lachlan’s gaze, he tamps down a half-hearted smile. “I … I don’t really care what you do in your spare time, you know,” I say.

A grin tugs at his lips as his hand falls away from my face, the softness of his touch imprinted in my flesh. “Definitely not, no.”

When he nods in the direction of the ranch, I follow his line of sight, swiping beneath my lashes with the hem of my sleeve. “Okay,” I reply after a long moment. I say it once more and punctuate my declaration with a decisive nod before I finally turn my eyes back to Lachlan. “Thank you.”

He offers a faint smile before he exits the vehicle, grabbing my belongings from the back seat and then a roller bag he packed for me from the trunk. I grumble at him about going through my panties, then about my retainer, and then about panties again, but I can’t help but point out things I like too, from the sprawling log and stone building to Bantam Lake that stretches behind it and the walking paths that snake into the woods.

The staff at the reception desk check me in and describe the amenities and the plan for the next few days, and I feel Lachlan’s focus on me the whole time, his attention unwavering and protective in the periphery. When an attendant takes my luggage and starts to lead the way toward my room, I pause in the center of the lobby and turn to face him. I know I look like shit. My eyes are puffy, my lashes damp with cooling tears, my skin blotchy. But Lachlan looks at me as though I’m beautiful. Like he can’t bear to look away.

He nods. I should pivot on my heel and walk away and put some space between us.

But I don’t. Not even when Lachlan steps closer.

I stand unmoving in the center of the lobby’s stone floor as though I’ve been carved from it, my expression unsure as Lachlan draws to a halt in front of me. He runs a hand over my hair and gently pulls my head to his chest. “Get some rest,” he whispers in my ear. “See you soon.”

His lips press to my temple in a kiss that lingers just long enough for me to take a deep breath of his scent of leather and amber and mint, and then he lets go. With a final, melancholy smile, he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and walks away. When he glances over his shoulder, I’m right where he left me, my cheeks flushed and the barest hint of a smile on my lips.

Before it can fade, Lachlan turns away and strides out the doors.

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.