Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (18)

“Whatever you say,” I snarl after her, but she’s already slid the glass door open and stepped over the threshold. She doesn’t even acknowledge the way I close the door after me with a thud that’s just a little too abrupt, a little too loud.

Lark is striding toward the kitchen when Sloane intercepts her from the corridor that leads to the home office. “Hey, I was about to come find you.” Her faint smile disappears as she scans the details of Lark’s face. “You okay?”

Lark wraps an arm around Sloane’s shoulders, not breaking her stride. “Yeah, of course. You look so beautiful, by the way. Have I told you that?”

“You might have said that once or twice when you tried to put gold star stickers on my tits.”

“They deserve it. That dress is smokin’ hot.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“I could really use a glass of wine, or like, maybe a bathtub of tequila so let’s get to the restaurant tout suite, we’re running late. I don’t want Rowan to be worried about you.”

“Okay …” Sloane glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. I raise my hands and saunter after them with a smirk tugging on one corner of my lips, something about my forced grin seems off this time, and with the way a crease flickers between Sloane’s brows, I think I’m not the only one who can sense it.

And that feeling of being pushed off my axis? Well, it doesn’t leave. Not as we arrange for two Ubers to the restaurant, Lark ensuring she doesn’t ride in mine. Not as we eat our meal and celebrate the opening night of Butcher & Blackbird, and she spends the whole time beaming her smile everywhere but on me. Not even when she slips away shortly after Rowan and Sloane. Much like the first night we met, she disappears, only an unfamiliar void left behind.

Even after she’s gone, that feeling remains, like something has shifted in the world that surrounds me. Like I’ve been displaced.

Like I’m standing in the shade.





GERMINATE




The Phantom


I slide the tension tool into the bottom of the keyhole. Next, the needle of the snap gun. When it’s positioned beneath the pins in the lock, I strike the trigger until they give way. Five quiet ticks of metal friction. A moment later, I’m standing in the home of my adversaries.

Behold, I am coming soon, bringing my recompense with me, to repay everyone for what he has done.

Pocketing my tools, I close the door behind me and check my notebook. I’ve memorized the details already. I checked it again just before I walked here. But there must be no room for errors.

August 2nd. 13:00. Tattoo appointment, Prism Tattoo Parlor. Estimated time of absence: two hours.



I put the notebook away and cast my eyes across the details of the room.

The interior is familiar to me. I’ve seen it many times through the windows. I know where the Orb Weaver sits to do her work. What times she has recurring phone calls. What time she enjoys a morning coffee. The Boston Butcher’s habits were initially more difficult to track. Easier now that I’ve obtained access to the restaurant schedules. But I have observed long enough that patterns have emerged.

A growl emanates from beneath the coffee table. I bend at the waist until I meet the eyes of the cat.

“Ah yes,” I say with a slow smile. “Hello, you.”

The feline hisses at me, and I fold my gloved hand into a fist. My heart rate spikes as dark urges threaten to take over. The memory of my mother’s anger calms them.

Let the wicked change their ways and banish the very thought of doing wrong. Let them turn to the Lord so that he may have mercy on them. Yes, turn to our God, for he will forgive generously.

I turn away from the animal and walk to the sliding door leading to the balcony. I open it and step outside. Many times, I’ve seen the Butcher and the Spider here. They share coffee in warm weather. A glass of wine in the evening. They commit lewd acts, as though no one else can see them.

But I do. I have been watching.

For my suffering and servitude, my Lord has rewarded my dedication. One evening, he showed me my true prize here, standing right where I stand now. The brother. The assassin. The eye for an eye.

But he gave me an even more precious gift. He showed me the best friend. The one so close to the Spider that they could be sisters. The singer.

The tooth for a tooth.

I reenter the apartment and slide the door closed behind me. The hand of the Lord guides me. His voice whispers and I follow.

I stop at the sideboard in the dining room, where framed photographs face away from the window. The Boston Butcher and the Orb Weaver. Faces I recognize. Faces I don’t. Among the pictures, there’s one at the restaurant in a booth. Rowan Kane and Sloane Sutherland sitting next to each other. Lark Montague smiling at the camera. Lachlan Kane, killer for hire, the deadliest serpent in a nest of snakes. His gaze is caught on Miss Montague. Hate and desire are often indistinguishable to me. But I know what I saw on the balcony the same night that the restaurant opened. I know what I heard. There was anger between them. But beneath it, there was need. It burned in Kane’s eyes like twin flames as he watched her walk away.

My focus returns to Lark Montague. The cherished daughter of two empires of sin. The beloved friend of the Orb Weaver. The coveted object of Lachlan Kane’s desire. And divine inspiration strikes. A new idea. The seeds of a magnificent plan. A plan to not only avenge, but to debride their rotting souls with the cleansing, righteous fire of pain. Of suffering.