Chapter 7: Leather & Lark: Chapter 6

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.

“Christ Jesus,” I hiss as she tosses me a devious grin and takes a step forward, prompting me to match her stride. “Just when I thought my brother was the biggest pain in my arse, you came along.”

“I’m trying to keep you humble, Lachlan. An impossible job, quite honestly,” she says, her smile only widening when I mutter a weak protest. “But in all seriousness, don’t forget what I said.”

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.

“Bride’s orders,” Sloane whispers as though she’s crawled right into my brain. “Or I’ll take an eye.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“What did I say about threatening me with a good time?” When Sloane looks up, a little tremor quivers in her lip and the grumbles I want to shoot back at her evaporate. Her teasing bravado falters and she knows I can see it, the nerves beneath the mask, the glassy sheen at her lash line.

“Hey,” I say, patting her hand. “You remember when you came into the restaurant that first time and I was there?”

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

“I whispered something to my brother. Want to know what I said?”

She pauses, then nods again.

“I said, ‘That girl is too good for you, asshat, but she loves you anyway. Don’t fuck it up.’ And he won’t. One thing I know for sure, Spider Lady. You and Rowan are meant for each other.”

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.”

“Sure. Just keep my brother out of the whiskey. He’ll start singing ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ and it’s bad. It’s so feckin’ bad. He’s got a voice that’ll make Satan weep.”

“Give Rowan all the whiskey. Got it.”

“Christ Jesus.”

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.

“Do you boys ever leave one another alone?” Sloane whispers to me as Fionn grins and Rowan returns to his state of crumbling disarray.

“Not usually. No.”

“Of course you don’t.”

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.

“You okay, pretty boy?” Sloane whispers to Rowan as he replaces his damp handkerchief with a fresh one.

“You look …” Rowan trails off and clears his throat to try again. It’s an admirable attempt, but his voice remains little more than a gravelly whisper when he says, “You look so beautiful, Blackbird.”

“You kind of cleaned up okay yourself. Though I’m a bit disappointed you’re not in a velveteen dragon onesie.”

“It could use a wash,” he squeaks out.

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.

“You’d better kiss me, pretty boy. You’re not my husband until you do,” Sloane whispers as a single tear breaches her lashes and slides toward her lips.

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.

“Asshat,” Fionn says, interrupting my thoughts as he stops next to me at the edge of the dance floor, which is filled with a combination of our little wedding party and locals who have been swept along in our celebrations.

“Doctor Doily.” I smirk when he shoots me a side-eye that’s equal parts menacing and pleading. I give a nod toward the small crowd. “Nice craic this, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Though you might have more fun if you weren’t such a dick and asked the maid of honor for a little spin on the dance floor.”

“Ahh. The bride put you up to this?”

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

“So are crochet and a shocking inability to say no to dumb shit.”

“Stop deflecting from the issue at hand.”

“Oh, so you mean there’s a point to this conversation?”

“Damn straight there is. And the point is this: What the fuck is your problem with Lark Montague?”

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.

“You think you’d have learned how to be a bit smoother, seeing as how you’ve spent the last decade going through the women of Boston faster than you change your fucking socks,” Fionn finally says.

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.”

“I’ve been watching you look at her all day. One minute you’re glowering, the next you’re staring at her like a lost kitten, then you’re glaring at her like she ripped the head off your teddy bear.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl. “And leave Mr. Buttons out of it.”

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.

“Seriously though. You all right, brother?” Fionn finally asks. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine focused on the dancers. “It’s not like you to be so miserable about a woman. Or to a woman, for that matter.”

“I’m not feckin’ miserable, you bellend.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Then why are you being an arse? Like, more of an arse than usual?”

“I’m not being an arse.”

“No. You’re right, you seem perfectly charming. I’m sure she finds it endearing.”

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.”

“Right. Well you’d better figure it out soon, because I have a feeling the bride noticed you trying your best to avoid Lark all day. Kinda hard to miss your shittier-than-usual attitude, brother. And if there’s anyone in this room scarier than you,” Fionn says as he claps me on the shoulder, “it’s her.”

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.

“Ah shit,” I whisper as he passes her a full bottle of Teeling whiskey. She tosses me a dark and devious grin. My hands raise in a truce. “Okay, okay.”

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

“Feckin’ pain in the arse.” I’m about to stride across the dance floor and beg her not to give the bottle to Rowan when Sloane’s face transforms. A slow smile plays on her lips and her eyes move to something just over my shoulder.

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.

“Dance with me.”

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.

“Sloane will just stand there staring until you dance with me,” Lark says.

“Christ. You’re probably right.” A heavy sigh passes my lips as I continue waiting for Sloane to at least blink, but she doesn’t. “I guess we might as well.”

“That’s the spirit. Just the enthusiasm every woman is dying for.”

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.”

“Just the compliment every man is dying for.”

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 don’t hate you,” I finally say in the hope the tension between us will break, my tone low and quiet, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes snap to mine and her cold edge is back.

“Sure you do. And I don’t think I like you either.”

“Would you really give a shit if I did?”

“Yes, but not because I’m desperate for some dickhead guy to like me.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s just weird. So yes, I do give a shit.” There’s no hint of hesitation in Lark’s voice. Her honesty isn’t just surprising, it’s refreshing. She must notice that she’s caught me off guard with her reply, because she lets her eyes rest on me for a moment before she looks away and shrugs. “Despite what you think, I’m pretty nice, most of the time. People like me. Even the ones who betray me.”

“Betray you? That’s dramatic,” I scoff, though an irrational spike of anger still flares and dissolves in my chest. “They can’t like you that much if they turn on you.”

“I said they like me. I didn’t say they respect me. There’s a difference.”

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.”

“Most people don’t like you? What a shocking revelation.”

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.

“How’s work? Still going swimmingly?” she asks. “Many glowing reviews?”

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?”

“That’s right. And since your sense of intuition is about as functional as tits on a rock, I’ll tell you this plan makes me fucking miserable, if that’s any consolation.”

“Well, that does hold a certain appeal. Do continue.”

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.”

“You mean my contract killer side gig and all the other bollocks that I get roped into on a regular basis for my psycho boss?”

“Yeah,” Lark says after an audible swallow. “That.”

“Sure, retirement would be the goal, but I don’t think that’s ever gonna happen.”

“You’re right, it won’t. Not unless you have a little help.”

“And you think you can help me?”

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.”

“The Montague side didn’t. We’ve always handled our own shit. But things are changing.” She looks up at me, then glances at something over my shoulder. When I turn to follow her line of sight, I watch Sloane gather the skirt of her wedding dress so she can sit on Rowan’s lap. His arm wraps around her waist, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to the elbows, his recent tattoo a burst of black and color across healed scars. They whisper to each other as they pass the bottle of whiskey between them. “The Montague side of the family is going to need to outsource soon,” Lark says, drawing my attention back to her. “Protection. Fixing. Cleaning. It won’t be as much work as my stepdad’s contract, but still enough to be of interest to your boss, I’m sure.”

“What’s the business? If it’s drug smuggling, I won’t do it.”

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

“What then, weapons? Shipping logistics? Investments?”

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

“Muffins …? Your family’s big bad business is feckin’ 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.”

“And you need contracts. For your muffin business.”

“It’s a highly competitive industry. Don’t you know Bob’s Banoffees? That guy’s always riding my aunt’s ass.”

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.”

“Fine. Maybe sometimes weapons might get shipped with a batch or two, but mostly it’s just about the muffins.” Lark rolls her eyes and shifts her attention to the other couples on the dance floor. Her steps become smaller as she watches them, her movements stiff. Maybe it’s just nerves that I sense in her. She’s clearly worried about getting to the point of what she wants out of this proposed deal. But when her eyes linger on Conor and his wife, Gabriela, as they dance nearby, it isn’t just anxiety that I see in Lark. It looks like loss. Like surrender. Like she’s trying to wrap herself in tight armor, when all she really wants, all she really needs, is just a deep breath of cool air.

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.”

“Spoken like a true trash panda,” Lark says with a fleeting, melancholy smile. When she tugs her gaze away from Conor and Gabriela, she keeps her eyes away from mine, her face pale. “It seems as though someone is killing off my mother and stepfather’s business associates. It’s spilling into my extended family. And this isn’t really the kind of thing where we want the police nosing around in our shit. I’m sure you can understand wanting to keep law officials away from the people you love, right?”

“Right,” I reply, my voice grim. I automatically scan the room to find my brothers. “Do you have anything to go on?”

“Nothing concrete yet aside from a set schedule. The killer seems to be targeting the victims when they’re alone and leaves nothing behind. But I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me put the pieces together. From what I understand, that kind of thing is in your skill set.” Lark nods in Rowan and Sloane’s direction. “You know how to investigate crime as much as you know how to cause it. I know you’ve put together information for their annual game.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you know about that.”

“Let’s just assume from now on that I know more about you than you do about me, shall we?”

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.

“So my boss gets the two contracts, you get the murderer, and I get my freedom. Everybody wins. Does that sum it up?”

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

“What do you mean, almost?”

“There’s a slight catch.”

“Can’t wait to hear this.”

“We need to get married.”

“Bollocks.” I snort a laugh, but nothing in Lark’s expression changes. I laugh again and it’s a derisive, mirthless sound, but she doesn’t flinch. “Oh my feckin’ Christ, you’re bloody serious.”

“Sadly.”

“Why …? Why the hell would we need to do that?”

“Because it’s the only way I can guarantee your safety. My family sees you as a likely suspect.”

“Me.”

“Disgruntled assassin with the means to exact precise revenge on the people who fucked up his contract killer gig? Kinda fits the bill, don’t you think?”

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.

“Right. I feel your concern for my well-being in my very soul. But since you’re clearly not motivated by my health and happiness, which tracks, you should know that you and I aren’t the only ones on the line.” Lark’s determination is a fortress when she nods toward Rowan and Sloane, and I can only break against her like a wave. “They know enough about your brother to think he’s a risk. And they don’t suffer risks, they mitigate them. To my family, it’s best to put down all the strays.”

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.”

“Let me know if we have a deal by the end of the night,” Lark says, her voice grave as it rises above the off-key lyrics that leak from the speakers. “We don’t have much time.”

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.