“Sometimes, I forget that I’m married to a serial”—Lark glares at me and I catch myself—“multiple deleter. And then you conveniently remind me that you’ve made your victims into crafts. Crafts which I’ve apparently been setting my drinks on while watching Constantine, or Speed, or basically any other Keanu movie ever made.”
“About that, you should probably start using my coasters.”
“I’ve seen your coasters. I’ll take a pass.”
“Anyway, crafting is a soothing hobby. I could start selling things on Etsy,” Lark says with a charmingly sardonic smile. “How’s your contract killer gig going by the way, dear husband?”
“About that …” I pull my phone from my pocket and set it next to me, opening the messages from Leander that came through while I was asleep. “Leander needs me to head over there this afternoon. Naturally, he’s asked if his favorite muffin murderer could come with. Conor said the payments we found in Pacifico were legit, so I was thinking we should go back to the drawing board and search for some new options on who the killer might be. What do you think?”
“I’d be delighted. And I’ll make some muffins.”
We exchange smiles and slip into a routine that feels so easy and familiar that it’s hard to reconcile our marriage with the circumstances of its beginning. We talk and laugh as we finish our breakfast and then bake together. We enjoy comfortable silences and long, weighted glances, slow smiles and crimson blushes. We take a shower together and I fuck my wife against the tiles, her legs wrapped around my back and her mouth pressed to mine.
And then we head to Leander Mayes’s estate.
Visiting Leander sets me on edge as it always does, especially with Lark at my side. But he’s welcoming this time, though maybe suspicious of the muffins until Lark and I each have one. He’s taken with Lark in a way that a gem collector might obsess over a rare diamond. He hangs on to her words like they’re precious facets of light. Polishes her with compliments. I’m halfway convinced that he only called me over here so he could learn more about the woman who waltzed into his home and left him on the floor of his man cave with a splitting headache and a bruised ego. He only asks me a few mundane questions about an old job and then his focus is back on Lark. I finally manage to pry us away and lead Lark into Leander’s office.
“We need to start branching out,” I say when we settle at a workstation. I’m trying to get down to business but my eyes almost instinctively linger on Lark’s mouth. I clear my throat and turn back to the screen. “Let’s think of people you and your family know—even people who you don’t think of as enemies. Could it be someone in your inner circle? Someone trying to cause disarray among your family for their own advantage?”
Lark shrugs and leans forward, resting her chin on the heel of her palm. “Maybe. Most people in that circle have been with our family for years, though, and nothing like this has ever happened.”
“Now that your aunt is so ill, maybe they’re seizing their chance. Who’s closest to her? Is there someone who holds sway with both the Montagues and the Covacis?”
Lark types a name as a little shudder rolls through her arms. “Probably not worth digging too deeply on him, but Stan Tremblay is my aunt’s enforcer, for lack of a better term. He’s the one who always handled our dirty work, for the Montagues, anyway. My stepfather keeps him at arm’s length but respects him, particularly after the way he handled things with the school.”
“Ashborne?”
“Yeah,” she replies as she enters Tremblay’s information into the advanced search. Though I’m sure she can feel the heat of my gaze warm her face, she doesn’t glance my way. “He cleaned everything up when Sloane …”
Lark’s sentence tapers off, and she gives a little shake of her head as she swallows.
“Leander did that for me, like Stan,” I say before she can claw her way through an explanation she’s not ready to give. “He waltzed in just moments after Rowan and I killed my father. My father owed debts everywhere, and eventually, he fucked with the wrong people. Leander’s people. Leander came to collect for some of his extended family while he was visiting Sligo. Guess he did collect a soul, just not the way he thought he would.” When Lark raises her eyes to mine, I give her a warning look. “Leander covered our crime. Got us to America. Set us up. He’s been one of the closest people to me for more than fifteen years. I owe him my freedom, my brother’s freedom. But I don’t feckin’ trust him. So don’t discount anyone from your inner circle, no matter what they’ve done for you. Trust your instincts. Can you see this guy being the one?”
“Maybe. At the very least, he keeps meticulous records about the family business. He might know more than he’s letting on.”
“Then that’s enough to spend time on him. We’ll see what comes up,” I say with a tip of my head toward the screen. Lark nods and enters the last fields of information on Stan Tremblay and then presses enter.
Tremblay’s contact card appears, but it’s surrounded by a red border, with the word WARNING next to his name.
Lark’s head tilts with a question, but I’m already pulling the keyboard and mouse toward me. I click through several options before a transcript appears.
Code 2. Code 4100. Tremblay’s address. A physical description that Lark confirms matches the man she knows.
A new entry appears on the screen, knocking the others down the list. Code 100.
“What is this?” she asks as I lean back in my chair. I see her eyes widen when she looks at me. She must see the faint wisp of fear on my face. “What does this mean?
“Code one hundred is a homicide,” I say. “Stan Tremblay is already dead.”
ENUCLEATE
Lark
Thoughts of Stan Tremblay consume me as Lachlan and I walk up the metal staircase to our apartment in silence that lingers even when we open the door to Bentley’s excited footsteps, his nails clacking against the hardwood. With a pat to his head, Lachlan passes me before he heads toward the kitchen, and I haven’t moved an inch.
I watch as Lachlan focuses on his phone, his thumbs rapidly tapping the screen. I know he’s most likely texting Conor to solidify details of the plan we started with him on the drive home. When he seems satisfied, he pockets the device and then busies himself in the kitchen, grabbing a glass of ice water before he turns to watch me, until the silence must linger too long even for him. There’s a fleeting look of worry in his eyes when he saunters closer.
“You okay there, duchess?” he asks.
I nod. His eyes skim over me as he offers me the water. I take a long sip and pass the glass back.
“I’m scared,” I finally admit.
Lachlan’s shoulders fall, not in disappointment, but in worry. I can see it in the way his brow creases. He takes my wrist and leads me toward the couch, setting the glass down on the gold coffee table as he gently pulls me down next to him.
“Scared of what?” he asks.
“Lots of stuff,” I say with a shrug as I evade his gaze. “I knew Stan better than anyone else who’s been targeted so far. It’s becoming more real, you know? Like … everything.”
When I look up, he watches me as though he knows this is about more than just Stan or the changes in my family that no one can stop. It’s about us, too. And I wonder if it scares him as much as it frightens me. It seems like he’s spent so long trying to ensure he had no one else to care about but his brothers and his business. So how do I fit into that? It’s not like we had much of a choice to be together—we were a product of circumstances. So what happens if those circumstances are taken away?
A deep inhalation fills Lachlan’s chest and he leans a little closer. “You know what I like most about you?”
I shake my head.
“You’re brave.” Lachlan squeezes my hand when I drop my gaze. “You’re afraid you’ll lose someone? You dive headfirst into a crazy plan to marry a broody asshat you hate just to save them. You’re afraid of my crazy boss? You give him drugged muffins and make him fall at your feet, wanting to be your friend. You’re afraid of the dark elevator? You sit in it for an hour so your dog won’t be alone.” Lachlan sweeps a lock of hair back from my shoulder with a faint smile. “You’re the bravest person I know, Lark. And I love that about you.”
I swallow a breath that catches in my throat.
He loves that about me? Does he love other things about me too? Maybe there are things I love about him. Like the way he puts the needs of others first. Or the way he looks at me when I laugh. I love his teasing smirk. His touch. His kiss. The way his body fits mine like it was made to. Maybe I love a lot of things about Lachlan Kane.
I look away, but he tightens his grip on my hand and I’m sure he can see the sudden shine in my eyes. “You’re wrong,” I whisper. Lachlan’s lips part on a sharp inhalation as though he’s about to protest when I say, “I don’t think I hated you. I think I might kinda like you, actually. Just a little bit.”
Surprise is a momentary burst of light in his eyes and then Lachlan’s teasing smile takes over. “Yeah, I kinda gathered as much this last little while. Not sure what gave me that impression. Might have been the remote control situation.” Lachlan draws me into his embrace. His heart drums beneath my ear and I sink into his warmth. “Bravery has nothing to do with not feeling fear, and everything to do with facing it. You know that better than anyone. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”
I nod against his chest and Lachlan runs his hand up and down my back, a motion he probably doesn’t think much about. But I do. Soon it’s the only thing I think about. His fingers running down the ridges of my spine. The way they slow at the waistband of my leggings and then return up my back. An ache builds with every pass of his hand, a need that slowly coils deep in my core, a need for more than just a reassuring touch.
I pull away and meet Lachlan’s eyes. His hand stalls on my back. He looks right into me, the real me. There’s need and fear and desire and longing staring back at me. Maybe he does love more than just my bravery. I think that’s what I see when I drift closer, when our breath mingles, when he frames my face in his hands.
“My feckin’ catastrophe,” he says as his thumb coasts across my cheek. “You fucking destroyed me. And now I can’t imagine being anything but the man that I am with you.”
“Lachlan Kane,” I whisper. “You’d better kiss me and prove it.”
One last breath. One look. And then he presses his lips to mine.
It starts sweet. A gentle sweep of our lips. A sigh. A stroke of my fingers across the short stubble on his jaw. And then the kiss deepens. The need for more seeps into every caress of his tongue across mine. I press my lips harder to his. I break away just long enough to pull his shirt off and then I take more from every moment that passes. A suck on his lip becomes a nip. The graze of my fingertips becomes a long scratch of my nails down his chest. A sigh becomes a moan.
In a flash of movement, I’m on my back on the couch with Lachlan’s weight bearing down on me.
“You sore, duchess?” Lachlan says between kisses and bites to my neck. One of his hands trails down my body until it slides beneath the waistband of my leggings. I nod my head as he circles my clit with a light touch. “Good.” I let out a soft, incredulous laugh that turns to a gasp as he bites my nipple through my shirt. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks when he raises his lustful gaze to me.
“Fuck no,” I whisper. He dips a finger into my soaked pussy, pumping it in slow strokes.
“Then I’ll make it better.”