I hate seeing her feel this way, so worried with no way to fix it because I’ve kept her in the dark. I hate being the one to do this to her. I hate everything about this plan, except that it gives me my best chance to keep her safe and to figure out what the hell is happening to my family.
Never again.
I square my shoulders and grip Sloane’s hand tighter. “Let’s get this done. The sooner we do, the sooner we can go drinking at the Dubliner as official sisters.”
“Wedding night, Lark,” Sloane says as we walk hand in hand toward the city hall entrance. “You’re supposed to go fuck your husband, remember? Not have two martinis and start crying on a stranger.”
“I do not do that. I’m an adorable drunk.”
Sloane snorts as we pass through the doors and into the lobby. Our heels clack against the floor and echo off the stark walls and vaulted ceiling. “Either adorably happy or adorably weepy. Fifty-fifty chance of happy Lark or sad Lark. One hundred percent chance of singing and tears.”
“All right, fine, maybe a little crying happens on occasion. But I think I get a free pass this time. It is my wedding day. Tears are warranted.”
I meet Sloane’s eyes with a cringe, and she reflects an equal amount of discomfort back to me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to make that face every time you say ‘wedding,’ or ‘married,’ or ‘husband.’ Just FYI.”
“Right,” I say as we enter the elevators to the city clerk office. “Smile. Pretend I want to fuck him. Got it.”
“At least he looks damn good. He’s kind of like a combination of Constantine-era Keanu with Mad Max–era Tom Hardy. Hot and kind of sad.”
I turn and glare at Sloane. She tries not to smile but her dimple gives her away like it always does when she’s up to no good. “That is the most profane thing you have ever said. I am disgusted, Sloane Sutherland.”
Sloane’s grin breaks free as the elevator dings and the metal door slides open. “You’re only salty because you know I’m right.”
When we step out onto our floor, Lachlan’s at the end of the hallway, standing next to Rowan with his hands in his pockets. My aunt is seated in one of the chairs lining the wall. And though I don’t admit it, Sloane called it perfectly—he is a bit Keanu-Hardy, all hot and dangerous and sad. Though Lachlan smiles at whatever my aunt is saying, there’s something haunted in his eyes, something missing.
And when he turns to me, that chasm fills with fire.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, whether it’s hatred or determination or suspicion. I can’t interpret his hard, dark stare or his furrowed brow. All I know for sure is that no one has ever looked at me the way he does now.
I shove my shoulders back. Chin up. If it’s butterflies in my stomach, they’ve come armed, because it feels like I’m being hollowed out. Scraped clean.
The crease deepens between Lachlan’s brows as I draw to a halt in front of him. He takes in the details of my face, from my eyes to my lips, where his focus lingers, then the flush that heats my cheeks, then the scar at my hairline. A faint smile lifts one corner of his lips as his gaze reconnects with mine. “Thought we weren’t supposed to see each other before the ceremony, duchess.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” I roll my eyes and take a step forward to move around him and greet my aunt, but Lachlan catches my wrist. His expression has turned serious, any trace of amusement burned away.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers, his attention fixed to my lips. It resurrects a memory I keep trying to bury, but one that claws its way into the light more often than I wish it would. I’d like to say this is the first time I’ve thought about our kiss on Rowan’s balcony, but that would be a complete lie.
I swallow the phantom taste of whiskey on my tongue as I pat Lachlan on the chest. “Better not say that too loud. Someone might hear you. Wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression and think you’re actually pleasant.”
“Don’t worry, we know he’s not,” Rowan pipes up from behind Lachlan’s shoulder, which earns him a sharp kick to the shin from his older brother. Rowan winces and walks it off in a circle that ends at Sloane’s side. “Looking great, Lark.”
“Thanks.”
“Yes, you look so lovely, dear,” my aunt says, and Lachlan finally breaks his gaze away from my face to turn and help her up from the chair. When she’s steady on her feet, she extends an antique red velvet jewelry box in my direction. “Here, I want you to have this. Consider it your something old.”
I take the box from her with a tentative hand, casting a glance toward Sloane, who lifts a shoulder, her expression as puzzled as mine must be. I open it …
… then snap the lid shut.
“No.” I thrust it in Ethel’s direction as I shake my head. A fist lodges in my throat, sudden tears burning my eyes. “I can’t take that.”
My aunt’s wrinkled hand folds over mine and pushes the box back in my direction. “Yes, you can.”
“You can’t give this to me.”
“I can give it to whoever the hell I please.”
The first tear slides down my face. “Ava should have it.”
“Why?”
I try to push the box away again, but for a dying octogenarian, Ethel is pretty damn strong. She digs her fingernails into the back of my hand just enough to cause discomfort. My voice is a breathy plea when I say, “Because she’s my older sister. And this would make her happy.”
“But giving it to you will make me happy.”
I glance at Lachlan, who watches us with a crease between his brows. He seems more pensive than usual. Maybe it’s the suit paired with his glasses that’s giving a calculating edge to his already intimidating presence. I feel like I’m being studied. Measured. Probably deemed to be falling short, because it is Lachlan Kane after all. When he catches my eye, he seems to suddenly realize his attention is too intense. He looks down to my hand and relaxes his stance, but the notch between his brows remains.
Ethel opens the box and takes out the ring. It’s a huge dark yellow diamond flanked with baguette-cut white diamonds on each shoulder. “When Thomas proposed to me with this ring, it was the happiest day of my life. But I was naive, of course. I knew nothing about how to build a successful marriage. It took a while to learn that being in love is not enough. Choosing love is what it takes,” she says as she slides the ring onto my finger. Ethel’s hand folds over mine and she flicks a glance not to Lachlan, but to where Rowan and Sloane stand behind me before she leans a little closer. “You are choosing love, Lark. And I am so proud of you.”
My aunt lifts her hand away and I stare down at that diamond. There are so many beautiful memories of my aunt and uncle reflected in the familiar facets that glint in the light. I press my lips tight and try to smile at Ethel through the haze of tears. It earns me a rogue lash cluster that drops onto my cheek, and after a brief but fierce embrace with my aunt, Sloane pulls me away to fix my makeup in the washroom, and we rejoin the others just as we’re called into the office for the ceremony.
“You ready?” Lachlan asks when I stop in front of him as the others lead the way into the room. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, his suit perfectly pressed, that goddamn smirk—he looks so calm and collected, and I feel like such a mess beneath a forced smile.
“It was my idea, wasn’t it?”
It was. It was my insane idea that I’m one hundred percent not regretting now. Oh my God, what am I doing? I’ve literally lost my mind. I’m marrying Lachlan Kane, Boston’s biggest asshole. This is probably crazier than blowing someone up with fireworks.
“Sure was, duchess,” Lachlan says with a fleeting grin. He leans a little closer, his voice low enough that only I can hear him when he whispers, “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
I allow myself just one deep breath. One moment to live on the razor edge between two futures. “I’ve made my choice.”
With a single nod, Lachlan extends his arm and I take it, and we follow our loved ones into the room.
Rowan FaceTimes Rose and Fionn so they can watch the ceremony. We stand in front of a glass bookcase. Lachlan holds my hands. He watches me as though he expects me to ditch and run. But I don’t. Maybe he thinks I’m going to cry. I don’t do that either. I repeat the vows after the officiant and my voice is clear, never wavering. We slide our wedding bands onto each other’s fingers, and in only a few minutes, it’s over. The officiant declares us married. A union under the laws of Massachusetts. You may kiss the bride.
I don’t know what I expected from this moment. Maybe for Lachlan to quickly press his lips to mine and stalk away. Maybe even a kiss to the cheek. Hell, I’m not even sure I expected us to get this far. But I know I didn’t expect Lachlan to look so intently at me as though he’s savoring the details of my face and this bittersweet moment. I didn’t think I’d see longing hidden away in their dark blue depths. I never imagined he would sweep the end of my high ponytail away from my shoulder and let his fingertips graze my neck, or that he’d lean in slowly.
“Geallaim duit a bheith i mo fhear céile dílis duit, fad a mhairimid le chéile,” Lachlan whispers before his lips press to mine in a kiss that blankets my heart with an electric charge. Need and denial. Heartache and loss. I feel everything as his mouth slants over mine and I drown in his scent of amber and mint. He kisses me like I’m exactly what I am. His key to survival.
And I kiss him back as though I’m saying goodbye to something that was never mine in the first place. Because I’m choosing love.
Just not my own.
FRICTION
Lachlan
There’s a steady tension in the air, the shearing whine of friction and an electric motor wrapped in the melody of music that echoes down the concrete corridor. Lark’s voice mixes with the mayhem, a pure and precious sound, the one thread of calm within a cacophony. When I stop at the doorway, her back faces me, head bobbing in time to the song as she guides a sander across the surface of a long golden block of a coffee table on a raised cart. A huge dog rests a few paces away from her slippered feet. Its thick coat is a mix of white and dark, patches of brindle and splashes of dots, as though the universe said fuck it and just mixed all the options together. The beast senses me above the racket and stands, raising its bearlike head to let out a single, authoritative woof.
The room is plunged into sudden silence as Lark switches off the sander and music, then turns to face me.
I cross my arms and resolve to keep my eyes on Lark’s face and not on the thin sliver of exposed skin I can see between the sides of her overalls and the cropped shirt that skims her ribs. “Hi.”