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
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