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.”