Author: Brynne Weaver
Genre: Romance
Year: 2024
Series: The Ruinous Love Triology
SUMMARY
Contract killer Lachlan Kane wants a quiet life working in his leather studio and forgetting all about his traumatic past. But when he botches a job for his boss’s biggest client, Lachlan knows he’ll never claw his way out of the underworld. At least, not until songbird Lark Montague offers him a deal: use his skills to hunt down a killer and she’ll find a way to secure his freedom. The catch? He has to marry her first.
And they can’t stand each other.
Indie singer-songwriter Lark is the sunshine and glitter that burns through every cloud and clings to every crevice that Lachlan Kane tries to hide inside. The surly older brother of her best friend’s soulmate, Lachlan thinks she’s just a privileged princess, but Lark has plenty of secrets hiding in the shadows of her bright light. With her formidable family in a tailspin and her best friend’s happiness on the line, she’s willing to make a vow to the man she’s determined to hate, no matter how tempting the broody assassin might be.
As Lachlan and Lark navigate the dark world that binds them together, it becomes impossible to discern their fake marriage from a real one. But it’s not just familiar dangers that haunt them.
There’s another phantom lurking on their doorstep.
And this one has come for blood.
Tropes:
Hate-to-love
Marriage of convenience
Grumpy / sunshine
He falls first
Groveling, but make it psycho
Touch her/him and die
PROLOGUE
IGNITE
Lark
“This is called the consequences of your actions, sweetie,” I say as I unravel the fuse to the fireworks strapped between Andrew’s thighs.
His cries reach a fever pitch only to die in the tape strapped across his mouth.
You wouldn’t look at me and think it, but it’s true …
I love the sound of his distress.
Andrew sobs and thrashes in his chair. I give him a bright grin and continue backing away through the meadow and toward the tree line, close enough that I can see the fear in his eyes, just far enough that I’ll be protected by thick trunks when I leave him alone in the clearing. His muffled pleas are desperate. His rapid breaths billow from his nose in plumes of fog that reach toward the starlit sky.
“Do you know why you’re there with fireworks strapped to your dick and I’m over here with a fuse?” I shout.
He shakes his head, then nods as though he can’t decide which answer will stop this torture. The truth is, it doesn’t matter what answer he lands on.