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 …
“Feckin’ bollocks.” I drop my phone on my desk and rest my pounding forehead on my arms as I try to work out what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
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.
“Feckin’ eejit,” I mutter, barely aware that I’ve said it out loud.
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.
“I saw the first posters for your gig at Amigos,” Sloane says, and I know by the way Lark smiles and nods that she hasn’t shared what a drain it’s been trying to boost up the band she’s playing with. She’s only mentioned the show to me in passing, as though it’s no big deal, but I can see the effect it has on her when she has to rearrange her schedule to fit in everything, from social media posts to rehearsals for their upcoming gig. It’s yet another favor for a friend who likely doesn’t appreciate the effort she’s putting in. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it, I’ll be away that week for a meeting.”
“Where are you off to this time?”
“Singapore. The client is a pain in the ass, but worth it for the trip. I’m going to build in an extra day for some sightseeing.”
“That’s amazing, Sloaney.” Though Lark’s smile is genuine and warm, I still find myself shifting in my seat, eager to suggest she tag along even though I know she never would. No matter how hard I remind myself it’s none of my feckin’ business, and I shouldn’t care, and it’s better for me to just stay away, it doesn’t work.
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.”
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.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Claire says. Sloane only gives a tight smile but Claire barely notices, her focus already shifting to Lark.
“And this is Lark,” I say as I bow my head in her direction. “My wife.”
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.
“You’re married?”
“Yep.”
“Lachlan Kane,” she says and shakes her head. “I never thought I would see the day. A lot has certainly changed since that Halloween party two years ago.” There’s a cutting edge to Claire’s voice that’s meant to leave wounds. But when I meet Lark’s eyes, there’s only an unreadable mask watching me back. I should probably feel relieved that she seems unscathed, but part of me is a little disappointed, as much as I don’t like to admit it.
“Yeah. Well, see you around,” I say with finality as I turn back to my food.
“Yes, definitely,” Claire says as her phone rings. “I’ll stop by the shop sometime. We can catch up properly.”
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.
“Well, this was fun. Gotta run,” she says as she beams a smile bright as a feckin’ laser at Sloane and Rowan. When it lands on me, that smile feels like it could slash my skin open. “See you at home.”
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?”
“Go get her before she knifes Claire, you bellend,” he says.
“Nah … she …” I look toward the door and then to Sloane, her eyes full of sparks. “What …?”
“Listen,” she says, laying her palm flat against the table as she finally meets my eyes. That bloody dimple flashes next to her lip. It’s like her bat signal for mischief. “Lark Montague might be cute as a button, all shiny happy ra-ra cheerleader shit, but bitch is fucking vindictive. I love her to death and beyond, but let’s just say that particular unicorn doesn’t shit rainbows.”
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.
“Lachlan,” Sloane says, shaking her head, “I’m going to give you this one because you’re hopeless and I pity you.”
“Thanks …”
“Lark Montague doesn’t just have a ‘spiteful streak.’ She takes the idea of retribution and makes it into a full-on glitter parade of vengeance.”
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.”
“When we were in boarding school, this girl named Macie Roberts called one of Lark’s friends a ‘skanky cum bucket.’ So Lark got into Macie’s room and spent an entire night writing I’m a skanky cum bucket in fabric paint on literally every item of clothing Macie had, even her underwear.”
“Tell him about the sequins.”
“Sequins?” I ask as the two snicker.
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?”
“Well … Lark will neither confirm nor deny her involvement, but two months later, Andrew died in a freak fireworks ‘accident,’” Sloane says with air quotes.
“You think Lark … murdered someone …? That Lark?”
Sloane shrugs.
“Don’t know why you’re still sitting here when she’s probably slicing Claire’s face off to make into a kite, but it’s your bail money, I guess,” Rowan says, and in a heartbeat I’m halfway to the door.
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.
“Feckin’ banjaxed bollocks,” I hiss, and the memory of her laugh slaps me. She would make fun of me for saying that. Tease me until I’m forced to turn away to hide the smirking grin that begs to break free every time she pushes my buttons. Then she’d fire some snarky comment at me about Budget Batman and put her walls back up, just like I try to keep mine from falling.
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.
“What the fuck?” Lark grips my arm and tries to pull my hand away, but I don’t budge. “Let me go.”
“I don’t think so, duchess.”
“Stop with the fucking duchess already.”
“Stop with the chasing down random women to kill them and slice their faces off.”
“Random my ass,” she snarks. Lark’s nose scrunches, her pulse a fierce thrum beneath my palm. “And she could live without a face.”
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.”
“I was arguing sequentially.”
“Sure you were. And what was your plan, exactly? Because something makes me think you weren’t about to invite Claire over for popcorn and a Keanu movie marathon.”
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.”
“You seem to be glossing over the main point of what I said.”
“You have a point? I just thought you were being a bossy asshole.”
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?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Maybe follow her home. Break into her house—”
“Christ—”
“Rig up a few cans of spray adhesive and put a glitter bomb in her closet I guess.” The devious glint in Lark’s eyes becomes downright maniacal. “Can you imagine that woman with a tricked-out, sparkly wardrobe? I think that would be her personal hell.”
“Actually, I can, since my brother said that you did something similar to his car recently. Seems like you have a bit of a glitter psycho streak going, duchess.”
Lark glares at me.
“Okay, so I get why you would do that to Rowan. It was probably deserved, given it’s my dumbass brother. But why would you give a shit about Claire?”
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.
“Spit it out, duchess.” I lean in closer and try not to make it obvious when I take a deep breath of her sweet scent. My gaze drifts across her features and her breath hitches, her eyes locked to mine. “What’s your issue? Just talk to me.”
“Kind of hard to do with your hand around my throat.”
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—”
“She’s the reason, right?” Lark’s lash line glistens with furious tears that she blinks into submission. “That night. Halloween. You didn’t want to leave a party and you had no choice because of me.”
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.
“I ruined your chance,” Lark whispers. “I’m the reason you left the party. And Claire is the reason you wanted to stay.”
“No, duchess. Fionn is the reason I wanted to stay.”
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.”
“She was with Fionn …?”
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.”
“But … the way she said—”
“Yeah. I’m sure she wanted to hook up. Of course I would never indulge Claire, but she doesn’t take the rejection well. Not really her personality type.”
“So … it wasn’t because I ruined your shot with Claire …?”
“No, Lark.”
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.
“We need to talk,” I call after her as she nears the mouth of the alley.
“Hard pass,” she yells back, and flips me the bird before she disappears.
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.
