Leather & Lark (Ruinous Love, #2)

by Brynne Weaver

“Hey.” It’s not my most slick opening line, I know. But Lark still smiles when she glances over her shoulder at me. “Hey. You’re not coming out here to be an asshat, are you?” I chuckle, shutting the door behind me. “No, that’s only weekdays from nine to five. The rest of the time I just brood.” “That just sounds so wrong,” she says through a tinkling laugh. “It’s like you spend your evenings in a chicken coop sitting on a clutch of eggs. But somehow it kinda makes sense with your brother’s doily vibe.” “You’re right, scratch that.” She snorts. “Scratch? You’re really wedded to the chicken puns, aren’t you.” “Oh my dear Christ. This is the least smooth opening I’ve ever had. Let me start again.” I turn around and head inside. I can hear her laughing through the glass as I open the door again and step back out onto the balcony. “What a lovely evening. Mind if I join you? I know nothing about chickens, by the way.” “That’s good. The last guy was way too into poultry.” “He sounds like a feckin’ asshat. Feather fetishes aren’t really my thing.” “Such a shame, I do love a bit of feather play—” I turn around again, opening and closing the door for a third time before she’s even finished laughing. “Hi. My name’s Lachlan and I don’t know anything about chickens but I do like feathers under the right circumstances.” Lark is still giggling, her eyes shining and bright in the ambient glow of the city lights. “Well, you sound like my kind of guy. The first dude had a chicken obsession...

“He’s great. So perfect for Sloane. Don’t be an asshat.” I grin, my eyes locked to her full lips. “Whatever you say, ma’am.” She snorts. “‘Ma’am.’ Please don’t.” “Miss?” Her nose scrunches. “Madam?” I offer. Lark shakes her head. “Yeah, that’s not much better than ‘ma’am,’ I guess. Wait, I’ve got it. Duchess.” “Ooh I like it. Somehow it works with the feather thing. Regal, yet saucy.”

“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.”

“What do you want from me?” he hisses. “For you to die, obviously.” I roll my eyes and spill the rest of the pot of glitter across the rose, the excess landing in a thin film that adheres to Patrick’s skin. “I like to think of this as justice, but make it sparkly. Also, I need a coffee table.” “Just g-go to Target.” “But I like DIY,” I reply

Ink climbs Lachlan’s skin from beneath the collar of his black suit. His hair is slicked back, a cocky smirk lifting one edge of his lips when his eyes connect to mine. He pats my aunt’s gloved hand as though proving a point, and my eyes narrow to thin slits. “Really? You hate him? Because you look like you want to climb him like a tree.” I whip around to face Sloane. “I do not.” “You’re right. You don’t. You look like you want to decapitate him and parade around town with his head on a pike.” Sloane leans closer as my mouth drops open and my flesh flames crimson. “Piece of advice, Lark. If your intention is to convince anyone that this isn’t just some sham marriage, you should probably at least pretend to want to fuck your husband on your wedding day.” “Shit. You’re probably right.” My shoulders lift and drop with a heavy sigh. “He does look pretty good. I just have to pretend he’s not just a sexy skin suit over a completely shitbag interior.” “That’s the spirit,” Sloane deadpans.

Then I look to Lachlan, whose grin has become diabolical. For someone who probably hates this idea as much as I do, he certainly looks like he’s enjoying himself nearly as much as my aunt. Not to be outdone, I put on my most vibrant smile. “Darling.” Lachlan’s smirk brightens. “Duchess.” “It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding ceremony.” “Is it? Huh.” Lachlan runs a hand over his freshly shaved face, rings glinting in the October sun. “You mean it can get worse?” “In the most loving way possible, fuck off,” I say, flashing Lachlan a sardonic grin as I roll up the tinted window.

“Geallaim duit a bheith i mo fhear céile dílis duit, fad a mhairimid le chéile,”

“what is this …?” Lark’s eyes flick from the item on the table and back to the microwave as it dings. She shrugs. “A ring …?” I let the weight of my gaze hammer into the side of her head, and even though she fidgets, she resists the urge to turn around. “A ring,” I repeat. She nods. “Did you happen to notice it’s attached to a finger in a feckin’ jar?” A nervous laugh trails behind her as Lark moves toward the sink. She grips the stainless-steel edge as though she hopes it might suck her down the drain. When she finally turns to face me, she’s biting her lower lip, unable to control the cringe that creases her features. “Ha … yeah …” Lark’s half-hearted laugh disintegrates as I set the mason jar down on the table with a damning thunk. A little shiver racks her body as she shores herself up and raises her head, readying herself for a confrontation. “Well, there’s a very straightforward explanation.” “Which is?” “I couldn’t get it off. His fingers were too thick.”

“Snowflakes,” she repeats a little louder, then flicks a hand in my direction without meeting my eyes. “Shake it.” I glance from her to the jar and back again before I pick it up to give it a shake. The ring clanks against the glass and the finger taps the steel lid. When I set it back down, tiny, glittering snowflakes swirl around the severed digit before they slowly fall toward the base of the jar. “A snow globe,” I say slowly, waiting for her to look up, which she doesn’t do. “You made a severed finger into a feckin’ snow globe.” “It was almost Christmas,” she says with a shrug. “It felt … festive.” “F … fest …” I blow out a long, thin stream of a breath and set the jar back down with numb fingers. “I just … what the fuck, Lark … Are you …” Lark tilts her head, her brows raised as she waits for me to continue. Her shoulders go rigid, and I know she’s arming herself for battle, so I might as well just spit it out before she puts the last of her psychological chain mail on. “Are you a serial killer?” “No.” She scoffs. It’s entirely forced. “Of course not. No. I’m more like a …” She drifts off into thought as she seems to weigh several possible responses. Dread sinks into my guts as her brow furrows and then smooths. A heartbeat later, a vibrant smile erupts on her face. “I’m more like a multiple deleter.”

Tension radiates from his coiled muscles. I slow to a crawl of motion as the fabric climbs higher until it finally reaches the lace edge of my panties. And then I stop. Lachlan’s eyes snap to mine, dark with a dare. His thumb traces the hem. “Thought you didn’t like to wear these,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Special circumstances.” I press my hand over his when he grips the edge of scalloped lace. “I want you,” I say before doubt can blossom in his thoughts. “You know things about me and my past that I don’t tell anyone.” His face creases with pain. He takes a breath to reply, but I press my fingertips to his lips. “Just don’t go thinking I want you to play nice.” A slow smile creeps across my lips. “I’m not your demure little duchess. I’m your fucking whore, understand?” I slip my thumb into his mouth. Lachlan groans as he wraps his lips around my flesh and sucks. When I move to pull my thumb free he bites down, his teeth bared, his eyes hooded as he drinks in my reaction. I’m caught in the balance of pain and pleasure. The push and pull of power. Lachlan lets me go and turns up the vibration on the toy and I suck in a tremulous breath. “Then lift that dress up and fucking prove it.”

In a flash of motion, something metallic slides across my hip and my panties go slack. Lachlan tugs them away and with another slice of his knife they’re off completely. The toy is gone, and my feet hit the floor. He grips my waist and spins me to face the mirror. The blade he used falls into the sink as Lachlan wraps the panties around my throat but doesn’t tighten them, his eyes fused to my reflection. With the vibrating toy clutched in his grip, Lachlan drags a knuckle down my cheek as the other hand holds the fabric around my neck. “Red means …?” “Stop.” “Orange means?” “Slow down.” “Green means?” “Fuck me and fill me with your cum.” Lachlan chuckles against my ear before he gives it a nip, letting his teeth rake across the flesh. “Only if you beg,” he whispers.

No animal should emit smells like that.” Bentley glares at me from his seat. “It wasn’t his fault,” Lark says as she takes two plates to the dining table and we settle into chairs across from each other. “I know. It’s yours, for feeding him bacon and cheese.” “No, I mean I blamed it on him, but it was the dead guy in the coffee table.” I blink at Lark. Then at the coffee table. Then at Lark again. “What?” Lark takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I sanded the tip of his nose a little when we were talking. That was the smell. Nose bits and resin, I guess.” She shrugs and starts cutting into her bacon and eggs. “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.”

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.”

“Have you ever killed anyone with a pencil?” I blurt out. Lachlan gives me a brief, suspicious glance over his shoulder before he refocuses on the emergency door. “No. Why would I kill someone with a pencil?” “Because you could,” I reply with a shrug. “What about slicing someone’s jugular with a card?” “What kind of card?” “A playing card. A tarot card would be badass though. Have you ever killed anyone with a tarot card?” “No.” I let out a disappointed sigh. “What is it?” “I was going to say you look a bit Keanu-y right now, but I take it back.” “Christ Jesus.” Lachlan’s eyes narrow into a petulant glare. “I killed a guy with a Himalayan salt lamp once. Has Keanu done that?” I shrug. “No, Keanu has not done that, because he is a bloody actor, ya feckin’ catastrophe.”

“You feckin’ catastrophe. Don’t you ever. Ever. Do that to me again,” he grits out as a tear slips from his lashes to fall down his cheek. “Getting kidnapped by a psychopath? I’m not planning on any do-overs, Batman,” I whisper through an unsteady smile. Lachlan shakes his head. “No. Forcing me to not choose you.” Though he grasps for control of his emotions, he’s as powerless as I am to stop them. “You’re brave as hell. But you’re my person, Lark. I can’t do this without you.”