Chapter 4: Leather & Lark: Chapter 3

I buzz the intercom for my brother Rowan’s apartment for the second time and take a step back from the panel to stare up at the brick building toward the third floor. My grip is tight around the bottle of Athrú Keshcorran whiskey as I tamp down the urge to hurtle it at the window. With a curse, I surge forward to jam my finger down on the little black button when a voice crackles over the speaker.

“If you’re selling farts in a jar, I don’t want them.”

My eyes narrow. Fionn. I love our younger brother dearly, but he’s a right little shit.

“You and I both know you order them on the internet in bulk. Let me up, ya gobshite,” I say, pulling the neck of the bottle free of the brown paper bag as I hold it toward the camera above the door. “Unless you don’t want any of this.”

The door buzzes and I step inside.

When I arrive at the third-floor landing, Fionn is there with a devious grin, leaning against the threshold of the open door as he picks at a bag of trail mix. I can hear music, bits of conversation, and laughter trickling out of the apartment.

“Good to see you, ya little shit,” I say as I wrap my arms around him. He’s an inch taller than me, built of lean, powerful muscle that’s solid beneath my arms. He claps me hard twice on the back as though proving his strength. “How long will you be gracing us with your presence in Boston?”

“Just until Monday.”

“Or you could just stay permanently.”

“Hard pass.”

We part enough to press our foreheads together, something we’ve done since the very first moment I held him in my arms in the hospital room back in Sligo the day he was born. When he takes a step back, Fionn scrutinizes the details of my face with clinical intensity. “You look miserable.”

“And you look like a dickhead with your feckin’ bag of birdseed.”

“Omega fatty acids decrease inflammation and LDL cholesterol,” he says as I pass by to enter Rowan’s apartment, a space that takes up the entirety of the third floor in the narrow building.

“I’m sure they do. They also increase your chance of looking like a dickhead, Dr. Kane.”

Fionn chatters on about fatty acids and brain inflammation as he trails behind me down the hallway that opens to the living space of exposed brick and industrial windows. Our friend Anna casts me a wave from the kitchen, where she’s making a pair of martinis. There’s a small but fierce-looking woman sitting on the couch with a broken leg propped on the coffee table, her black cast adorned with a single gold star sticker. I realize she’s the one Rowan has been texting me about, the injured motorcycle circus performer who’s somehow found herself staying at Fionn’s place in Nebraska and who he says Sloane befriended after a crutch-wielding incident. Fionn introduces her as Rose but seems unwilling to provide any context for their relationship, which I file away for later so I can take the piss out of him. Judging by the snarky smirk on Rose’s lips, she’s thinking the same. Rowan and Sloane’s demonic cat, Winston, sits next to her raised foot, his tail flopping from one side to the other as though he’s contemplating how quickly he could bite off one of her exposed toes. My attention lands next on Sloane, who rises from her chair to approach me with a wary smile.

And then she moves aside and my breath catches as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen steps into view. Her bright-blue eyes lock on me, her plump lips curved in a sly but warm smile, her glossy, honey-colored waves cascading across her shoulder. I think I should say something, or do something, but I can’t seem to do anything but stare.

“Lachlan,” Sloane says.

I swallow and replace my shock with a forced smirk as I tear my attention away from the unfamiliar woman and focus on Sloane. “Spider Lady. How are your crafting hobbies going these days? Made any new projects?”

Her eyes narrow. Even though she could pry my eyeballs out of my head, she’s still so fun to antagonize.

“What about sketches? Leave any more bird drawings behind for my lovesick little brother?”

Sloane’s cheeks flame crimson and my smile spreads as I hold the bottle of whiskey out for her to take, but before she can grab it, Fionn whips it from my hand as he passes between us. She doesn’t so much as glance at Fionn, her attention locked on me as though she’s trying to communicate a warning in her lightless glare. “Lachlan, this is my friend Lark.”

I shift my focus to Lark and hold out a hand. When she takes a step closer, the details of her face blur and I curse myself for leaving my glasses in the car. I might not be able to see the finest features of her smile at this distance, but I can feel it, her energy a lick of warmth on my skin. My gaze drops to our hands. An electric hum zings through my flesh at her touch.

“Lark Montague. Pleased to meet you,” she says. There’s a devious edge in her, like a vibration that slips between our palms. “So, you’re the notorious Lachlan Kane.”

“Notorious?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Indeed. I’ve heard … things.”

“Oh, you’ve heard things, have you? What kinds of … things?”

She giggles and slips her hand free of mine as she says, “Well, I think the word ‘broody’ might have been tossed around.”

“Now, now,” Fionn chides as he brings me a glass of whiskey on ice. “Don’t mischaracterize my poor brother. I said he’s a broody asshole.”

“Asshat,” Rose pipes up. “You said he’s a ‘broody asshat whose only hobby is scowling.’”

Sloane snorts. “Accurate.”

“Hey, I do more than just scowl.” I lean closer to Lark and give her a lopsided, rakish smile. “I have hobbies.”

She laughs when I give her a wink. “Oh yeah? Like what, crochet? I could see you being a big crochet guy. I bet you make a mean doily.”

Rose cackles, her eyes dancing from one person to the next. “Nah, that’s doc’s forte—”

My brother chokes on a sip of whiskey. “Rose—”

“He’s in a club, actually—”

“Fucksakes, Rose—”

“They meet every Sunday. It’s called the Suture Sisters, and he’s the—” Rose’s next words are lost to the palm my brother clamps over her mouth, her diabolical laugh replacing whatever would have come next. The look that Fionn gives me is both horrified and pleading.

“Don’t tell Rowan,” he begs. “I finally got the upper hand by resurrecting his Shitflicker nickname when he came to Nebraska.”

I bellow a laugh and shake my head. “My sweet, adorable, naive baby brother. Of course I’m going to tell Rowan. It’s my job to promote the maximum amount of conflict between you two. That’s the only way I can get any peace.” I clap a hand to his shoulder and slip past him to take a seat on one of the leather armchairs. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re still in your peak Sadman Cinderwhatever era with this doily shit. Rowan is going to love this.”

Fionn tosses out some nonsensical explanation, something about a flyer and a simple misunderstanding, but I don’t really pay much attention. Not when Lark follows to sit across from me on the end of the couch. Sloane’s psycho cat curls in her lap the moment she’s settled.

I can see her much clearer at this distance, from the mole on the edge of her upper lip to the ripple in the skin near her hairline, a cut that must have been left unmended and healed with jagged edges. But even though I couldn’t see her clearly, she’d be impossible to miss. All the energy in the room seems to siphon through her and concentrate before it radiates through her bright blue eyes and her glowing skin and her easy smile. It pours through her laugh and warms the notes of her voice. And even though I’m not listening to the good-natured argument between Fionn and Rose, she is. She interjects just frequently enough to bolster the person she seems to think is losing in a given moment, which is mostly Fionn. Do you take commissions? Or, I bet you could make a killing on Etsy. She focuses every ounce of her attention on the person talking while her hand trails through Winston’s fur, his purr rumbling beneath the conversation. It’s as though nothing and no one else in the world exists, even me. If she can feel the weight of my gaze on her face, she never lets on.

Lark Montague is beautiful.

And I have to stop staring like a feckin’ creep.

I look down at the drink in my hands. Scars hidden beneath ink. The missing tip of my index finger. Tattoos on my knuckles. Silver rings. I tap one against the glass before I raise it to my lips. My hands would look so good on her perfect skin. Folded around her soft thighs. The image of my tattooed fingers gripped around her smooth flesh has me shifting in my seat in a failed attempt to alleviate the strain of my hard cock against my zipper. Someone like me with someone like her? Even imagining it feels wrong.

Yet so deliciously right.

When I look up again, the doily argument is still going, but Lark’s eyes connect with mine, her smile conspiratorial. It’s just a flash of camaraderie before she turns her attention back to Fionn and Rose, but there’s something in that brief grin that sticks with me. A silent conversation. A familiarity I can’t explain.

Even after the conversation takes other turns, that feeling stays with me. It’s like there’s a thin thread binding us together. And as Lark seizes the opportunity to slip away to the balcony when she seems to think her absence won’t be noticed, that connection tugs at my chest. Though I spend a few minutes trying to snip it free, it still pulls, and it doesn’t loosen even after I follow.

When I slide the balcony door open, Lark doesn’t move from where she leans against the railing, as though she’s been expecting me.

“Hey.” It’s not my most slick opening line, I know. But Lark still smiles when she glances over her shoulder at me.

“Hey. You’re not coming out here to be an asshat, are you?”

I chuckle, shutting the door behind me. “No, that’s only weekdays from nine to five. The rest of the time I just brood.”

“That just sounds so wrong,” she says through a tinkling laugh. “It’s like you spend your evenings in a chicken coop sitting on a clutch of eggs. But somehow it kinda makes sense with your brother’s doily vibe.”

“You’re right, scratch that.”

She snorts. “Scratch? You’re really wedded to the chicken puns, aren’t you.”

“Oh my dear Christ. This is the least smooth opening I’ve ever had. Let me start again.” I turn around and head inside. I can hear her laughing through the glass as I open the door again and step back out onto the balcony. “What a lovely evening. Mind if I join you? I know nothing about chickens, by the way.”

“That’s good. The last guy was way too into poultry.”

“He sounds like a feckin’ asshat. Feather fetishes aren’t really my thing.”

“Such a shame, I do love a bit of feather play—”

I turn around again, opening and closing the door for a third time before she’s even finished laughing. “Hi. My name’s Lachlan and I don’t know anything about chickens but I do like feathers under the right circumstances.”

Lark is still giggling, her eyes shining and bright in the ambient glow of the city lights. “Well, you sound like my kind of guy. The first dude had a chicken obsession and the next guy hated feathers. I’m batting oh for two here. But you’re welcome to share my little perch.”

I step just close enough to catch the scent of perfume on the autumn breeze, the fragrance of sweet citrus. Lark studies the drop below us and I follow her gaze even though I’ve stood out here many times before. It’s not the greatest view from here. Just a dark alley, a brick apartment building next door that feels too close on the other side of a black chasm. But somehow she makes even this seem like more than a narrow wedge of space suspended over darkness. Her keen interest in everything she observes makes me want to pay more attention, like maybe I’ve been missing something in the details.

“First time in Boston?” I ask when she lifts her focus to sweep across the buildings in the distance.

Lark smiles and shifts her golden hair over her shoulder so she can get a better look at me. “Not exactly. I grew up not too far away.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Rhode Island.”

I hum a note and nod, then take a sip of my drink. “Sloane says you’ve been friends a long time.”

“Yeah,” Lark says. Her smile wanes, but only for a moment. With a blink, she reins in the blip of emotion beneath a brighter smile. “We met at boarding school, actually. Took me a while to wear her down, but now we’re best friends.”

“That doesn’t take much imagination.”

Lark shrugs and twists her interlaced fingers. “Sloane’s not as sketchy as she seems. She might have a crusty exterior but she’s gooey in the middle.”

“I meant you,” I say, giving her a smirk as a chuckle escapes me. A crease flickers between Lark’s brows as her gaze lands on my lingering, lopsided smile. “I could see you wearing her down. Doubt she could have withstood you for long.”

Lark rolls her eyes and turns to face me, leaning her weight on the wrought iron railing. She tries to look fierce but she can’t help the smile that stretches across her lips. “And why is that, exactly? You’re going to say my sparkling personality? My happy-go-lucky charm?”

“Pretty much, yep,” I admit, and this earns me a breath of a laugh. “It’s working on me.”

“Working toward what, exactly?”

I hold her gaze. She seems so endearing and sweet that I’d expect a woman like Lark to back down the longer I stare. At least give me a blush. A nervous nibble of her full lips. An unsteady breath. But she doesn’t do any of those things. Her half-smile remains unchanged.

I lean closer. If anything, her eyes glitter with amusement.

“Maybe toward me kissing you. Or, more accurately, you asking me to.”

“How bold,” she says with a tsk, but I can tell by the bright glimmer in her eyes that she likes it. “You think I’d want that?”

I grin and look down into my glass as I swirl the liquor across the ice. The image of my hands on her skin returns, my tattooed fingers gripped tight around her flesh. I take just a moment to indulge in that fantasy before I lift my gaze to hers and shrug. “I do own an impressive collection of feathers.”

Lark laughs and I take a long sip of my drink, my eyes soldered to hers over the lip of my glass. She glances away, but her attention returns as though drawn back to me despite her best efforts to sever the energy that crackles between us. I hear the moment she gives in to it, the way she sighs. I even see it in the fog that escapes her lips and rises on the cooling breeze.

“Despite the rumors, you don’t seem like too much of an asshat,” Lark says as she unlaces her fingers to grip the railing.

“I might be a little bit. Sometimes.”

“That’s probably not a bad thing.”

“You think?”

Lark lifts a shoulder. “Sure. If you’re too nice, you might get roped into making doilies on Sundays.”

“Feckin’ Fionn,” I say, my lip curled in a derisive grin. “What I wouldn’t give to find out what Rose was about to say before he cut her off. He’s probably the treasurer of their little club. It’s definitely the kind of thing he’d find himself sucked into. He’s always been a sweet kid. Too feckin’ sweet for his own good.” Lark smiles but her brows flicker as though she’s working out a complex problem. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she replies as she shakes her head, her expression smoothing as her gaze bounds between mine. “I just … I dunno. Something about you seems familiar. It’s probably just because I’m getting to know Rowan and I see the likeness in you.”

I chuckle and nudge her elbow before I take another sip of my drink. “Now there’s an asshat. Don’t compare me to that reckless little shit.”

“Oh stop,” she chides, giving me a gentle backhanded whack on my arm. “He’s great. So perfect for Sloane. Don’t be an asshat.”

I grin, my eyes locked to her full lips. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

She snorts. “‘Ma’am.’ Please don’t.”

“Miss?”

Her nose scrunches.

“Madam?” I offer. Lark shakes her head. “Yeah, that’s not much better than ‘ma’am,’ I guess. Wait, I’ve got it. Duchess.”

“Ooh I like it. Somehow it works with the feather thing. Regal, yet saucy.”

Saucy. I don’t know why that word does something to my blood when she says it, as though she’s plugged herself into my veins and hit them with a jolt of electricity. Images fly through my mind of Lark in all kinds of regal, yet saucy scenarios, and even the ones that inexplicably involve Marie Antoinette wigs are sexy as fuck.

“You okay there?” Lark’s voice is soft but the amusement still colors every note. “You look like you’ve gone full brood mode.”

“Yeah,” I say as I clear my throat and force my hand to relax around my glass before I crush it. “I, um … I’m good.”

“You sure …? Maybe you’re not so bold after all.”

The heat of Lark’s body creeps into mine as she steps closer. When I turn to face her fully, a faint smile plays on her lips. Even though I can’t see the details of her features clearly at this near distance, the crystalline shade of her eyes is still piercing, cutting through the dimmest light.

“Seems like something I said has you a bit … flustered,” she whispers. Her head tilts as she regards me, her gaze falling from mine to fix on my mouth. “Was it the ‘regal’ comment I made? Maybe you have a thing for corsets and tulle to go with the feather fetish.”

Christ Jesus. Now corsets. “Not really—”

“Shame, that would have been super hot.”

“I mean, not really just corsets and tulle. Also wigs.”

Her rich, melodic laugh surrounds me.

Lark Montague crawls right into my brain and injects unexpected, wild fantasies into my thoughts every time she opens her feckin’ mouth. She’s taken control of some part of my mind I’m not sure I even knew existed, and I have no idea where she’s going to send me next. I just know I’m going to follow whatever trail she lays down. It’s unnerving. But it’s also irresistible.

“I think you could pull off a waistcoat and breeches,” Lark says with a grin as she takes a final step, closing any space between us. Her fingers curl into my shirt, one after the next, each touch a gentle rasp against my chest until she’s balled the black fabric in her delicate fist. “Those tattoos on your neck would look pretty hot peeking out from beneath a cravat.”

I swallow, my breath caught in my lungs as Lark rises on her toes, her eyes locked to my lips, my heart a hammer beneath her hand. Every one of her exhalations pours an electric warmth into my flesh. “Rakish, yet debonair,” I finally say on a gravelly whisper.

“Goes pretty well with ‘regal, yet saucy,’ don’t you think?” Her head tilts, and it feels like the whole world distills to this moment. “Maybe you’re not the bold one after all.”

Any clever reply I’m about to attempt is lost the moment Lark’s lips press to mine.

My brain is a black void behind my shuttered eyelids. Lark’s citrus scent floods my nostrils. She runs the tip of her tongue across the seam of my lips and I taste the echo of the orange soda she was drinking. The softest moan vibrates from her mouth to mine.

And I come undone.

My tongue plunders her mouth. Lark’s fist tightens in my shirt. The glass clutched in my hand is in danger of being crushed to dust or thrown over the balcony. I’m desperate to mold her flesh in my palms, but I settle for laying one hand to the side of her neck instead. The second my palm touches her skin, she whimpers with need. My erection is painful against my zipper as she presses her body against mine.

Our teeth clash. The kiss grows brutal. Within seconds, Lark has ripped through any restraint I thought I had. She kisses me with the kind of fevered desperation that makes me feel not just wanted. Or needed. It’s as though she craves me. She grips onto the back of my neck as though she’ll fall apart if she doesn’t hold on. When she sucks in a breath, she dives deeper, towing me into the dark with her. Every time I think I’ve gotten control of the kiss, she tears it from me. With a touch. With a bite or a suck or a moan.

Lark’s tongue sweeps over mine and then she pulls away, taking my bottom lip with her before she lets it slide from between her teeth, her bite the perfect balance between pain and pleasure.

“Lark …”

Her breathy laugh eradicates any thoughts of whatever plea I was about to make. She trails a line of open-mouthed kisses along my jaw. My fingers thread into her golden waves when she nips at my earlobe hard enough that I hiss. I tighten my hold on the strands in my grasp and she moans, her mouth dropping to my neck where she sucks on my inked flesh.

A growl rips free of my chest as I grip her hair. “Feckin’ Christ Jesus,” I groan.

Her lips go still on my pulse.

… Shit.

I immediately loosen the fist tangled in her locks. Did I do something wrong? Something definitely seems wrong. It’s obvious in the way she stiffens.

“What did you say?” she whispers, her breath hot on my skin.

Fuck. Fuck.

What did I do? Was it the whole thou shalt not use the Lord’s name in vain business? Maybe Lark is super religious. I can’t remember if she or Sloane mentioned if the boarding school was some strict Catholic thing. Nuns. Were there nuns?

I swallow. “Uh, I said ‘feckin’ Christ Jesus.’”

“Growlier,” Lark snaps.

“Feckin’ Christ Jesus.”

There’s a single heartbeat of stillness in the world.

And then Lark has backed away out of reach, the heat of her body gone, a chill left behind on my skin. Both of her hands cover her mouth but they can’t mask the shock in her eyes.

Shock and … fury.

“Oh my fucking God,” she hisses into her fingers.

“What …? Was it the Jesus?”

“No. No, it was not ‘the Jesus,’” she says with air quotes and a sneer as she leans close enough to jab a single finger into my chest. “It was ‘the Batman.’ The Budget Batman.”

Lark takes a step back. Crosses her arms. Raises a single brow.

My eyes narrow to thin slits. The words come out as a venomous hiss when I say, “Blunder Barbie.”

“Oh. My. God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Lark says, flapping her hands like she’s trying to get any residue of me off of her. “You had your tongue in my mouth.”

“I’d hate to remind us both, Blunder Barbie, but you kissed me.”

“And you let me. You fucking knew it was me.”

“Clearly, I did not, or I would have taken my chances with the fire escape.”

“There is no fire escape.”

“Pre-feckin’-cisely.”

Lark rolls her eyes before they sharpen on me in a lethal glare. “You are such a liar. You were all up in my face that night. With a flashlight. One that you smacked on my head.”

“Your face was plastered with makeup. And I didn’t smack—”

“My concussed head. Where I needed fucking stitches which I never got because I had to walk home, thankyouverymuch. And then you growled at me like some rabid trash panda that was about to gnaw my leg off and tossed me in the trunk of your car, you fucking psycho.”

“Oh I’m a feckin’ psycho, am I? You’re the one who jumped from a moving vehicle after you rammed some poor bloke into a lake and then fake teared up when I dropped his blimmin’ body at your feet. And they weren’t even good fake tears. They were sarcasm tears,” I snarl. I take a step closer and bend to meet her eye level, dabbing my eyes as I clear my throat for my best candy-sweet vocal impression. “Boo-hoo, I’m Blunder Barbie and I just feckin’ killed a man. My bad. But don’t worry, I’ll just get someone else to fix it so I can toddle on back to my perfect little life.”

“That is the biggest pile of hypocritical bullshit I’ve ever heard. How’s the contract killer gig going, by the way? Raking in some good cash with your murder-scuba skills, Batman?” Lark snorts and steps toward me, drawing a giant circle in front of my face with a dainty finger. “What you think you know about me, or anything, frankly, is this,” she says as she continues the circle. “But what you actually know is this.” She stops abruptly to hold her finger and thumb close together, only a whisper of space between them.

“What I actually know is that you’re a huge pain in the arse.”

“And what I actually know is that you’re a monumental douchebag.” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Is this some kind of cruel joke? Why would you let me kiss you, you fucking nutcase?”

“Like I said, I didn’t feckin’ recognize you. It was Halloween, for Chrissakes. You were in a costume. With makeup. Thick makeup.”

Her jaw drops. Then closes. Then drops again. “Seriously?” When I don’t reply, she balls her fists at her sides, and I find myself wishing she would try to throw a punch just so I could have the satisfaction of catching all her fury in my calloused palm. “You are unbelievable. You were wearing a full-on mask and I recognized you by your grumble whisper and ass-backwards Christ Jesus–ing. All I had on that night was some white face paint and colored eye shadow. Hardly the same thing as your thrifted superhero disguise.”

Deciding it’s time to throw her off-kilter, I shrug and lean against the railing. My sudden nonchalance seems to infuriate her as much as I’d hoped, so I take a long sip of my drink before I give her the truth. “It was dark. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

“Your glasses,” she parrots after an incredulous snort. “Forgive me, dickhead, but that sounds like complete bullshit.”

“Forgiven. Well, for that, anyway.”

“You’re not wearing them now.”

“Highly observant of you, duchess. It’s probably all well and good too. I imagine you’d be ripping them off my face to smash them underfoot, am I right?” When I narrow my glare at her, Lark smirks, unable to hide her agreement. “Maybe now is a good time to inform you that you got me into so much shit at work. Or have you forgotten the part where you managed to single-handedly decimate a very important contract for my employer? You have no idea the shit my boss has put me through.”

“Me? You think it was me who fucked your contract?” she shrieks. “First of all, I did no such thing. But I can’t help it if rumors of your abysmal customer service skills worked their way back to your employer. Deserved. You were being a dick. Even your friend Conor agreed.”

Goddammit, Conor. He should know better than to give out his name. A low growl escapes my throat and a feckin’ demonic little grin creeps across Lark’s face. Oh, her dart hit the target and she knows it.

My foreboding expression doesn’t seem to scare her, not even when I lean a little closer. “This is not the kind of industry where you demand to see the manager and leave a shitty review, princess.”

One perfect brow flies up. Her smile stretches and her eyes glitter in the dim light. “Oh, it’s not?” she says, her voice saccharine. She saunters closer, one slow step after the next. “Because it certainly sounds like that’s exactly how your industry works, and you’re butthurt about being called out for acting like a prick. You’ve decided to take it out on me under the erroneous assumption that I’m the one who got you into trouble, instead of you looking in the mirror and giving yourself a stern talking-to.”

Lark stops so close to me that my chest will touch hers if I take a deep breath. Her eyes drop to my lips and linger there. Heat tingles on my flesh. I can still taste her kiss, the sweetness of soda on her lips. I don’t take my eyes from her face as she touches my sternum and walks two fingers toward my neck.

“Erroneous assumptions are kind of your forte, aren’t they? But this time I guess it’s just the consequences of your actions coming back to haunt you, sweetie.”

I catch her hand in a tight grip and guffaw a laugh. Even with its vicious edge, this still feels like the first true moment of delight that I’ve had in a long while. Well, at least since the kiss we just shared, though that particular event now seems like it happened to another man. “That is precisely the kind of oblivious, hypocritical horse shite I expected to come from someone like you.”

There’s a flash of hurt in her blue eyes, more fleeting than a lightning strike. “‘Someone like me’? You have no fucking idea who I am or what I know about consequences.”

The rage on her face is fuel. I want to find every one of her buttons and hammer them until she blows, just to see what she’ll do next. But this time, she doesn’t push back. Instead, her spine straightens. Her chin tips up. She slips her fingers free of my fist with a swift tug. I fight the strange urge to pull her back closer to me. I’m unsteady. Unmoored. Like I’ve been hit by a rogue wave and lost my balance. But I shove the feeling away.

Lark gestures to the glass door. “That is my best friend in there,” she says, her voice low and menacing, her eyes pinned on me. “And she deserves to celebrate with the love of her life. Your brother.” Lark’s face scrunches as though she just tasted something bitter. In an instant, she’s smoothed her mask out again and takes a step closer. “So I’m going to be nice to you. For her. And you can continue being whatever scowling, smirking, asshat jerkoff you want, but you’re not getting anything more from me.”

Without so much as a blink, she whips the drink from my hand and downs it. Her eyes water as soon as the liquor hits her tongue.

“Thought you didn’t drink, duchess,” I say with a smirk.

“I guess your stimulating company has that effect,” Lark retorts before shoving the glass against my chest, nothing more than chips of ice left behind. “And fuck off with the ‘duchess’ shit. That bitch has met the guillotine.”

“Whatever you say,” I snarl after her, but she’s already slid the glass door open and stepped over the threshold. She doesn’t even acknowledge the way I close the door after me with a thud that’s just a little too abrupt, a little too loud.

Lark is striding toward the kitchen when Sloane intercepts her from the corridor that leads to the home office. “Hey, I was about to come find you.” Her faint smile disappears as she scans the details of Lark’s face. “You okay?”

Lark wraps an arm around Sloane’s shoulders, not breaking her stride. “Yeah, of course. You look so beautiful, by the way. Have I told you that?”

“You might have said that once or twice when you tried to put gold star stickers on my tits.”

“They deserve it. That dress is smokin’ hot.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“I could really use a glass of wine, or like, maybe a bathtub of tequila so let’s get to the restaurant tout suite, we’re running late. I don’t want Rowan to be worried about you.”

“Okay …” Sloane glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. I raise my hands and saunter after them with a smirk tugging on one corner of my lips, something about my forced grin seems off this time, and with the way a crease flickers between Sloane’s brows, I think I’m not the only one who can sense it.

And that feeling of being pushed off my axis? Well, it doesn’t leave. Not as we arrange for two Ubers to the restaurant, Lark ensuring she doesn’t ride in mine. Not as we eat our meal and celebrate the opening night of Butcher & Blackbird, and she spends the whole time beaming her smile everywhere but on me. Not even when she slips away shortly after Rowan and Sloane. Much like the first night we met, she disappears, only an unfamiliar void left behind.

Even after she’s gone, that feeling remains, like something has shifted in the world that surrounds me. Like I’ve been displaced.

Like I’m standing in the shade.