Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (19)

The worst suffering is not death. It is in living, day after day, knowing you’ve forever lost that which you most cherished. Most loved. Most desired. It’s being forced to continue existing in a world indifferent to your pain. To realize how powerless you are against the tide of God’s wrath.

So I will bring them pain. The Butcher. The Spider. Lark Montague. And what is the worst fate for a man like Lachlan Kane?

To ensure anyone left behind believes he is the cause of Lark Montague’s destruction.

With the pure you will show yourself pure. And with the devious you will show yourself shrewd.

Step one. Destabilize.

I smile and turn to leave, the cat taking a swipe at my leg as I go.

But know this: in the last days, there will be suffering.

For he shall then repay each person according to what he has done.

An eye for an eye.

And a tooth for a tooth.





THREADS




Lark


… ONE YEAR LATER


I let myself into my great aunt Ethel’s sprawling home, the familiar rhythm of waves following on my heels from the nearby rocky shore until I close the door behind me. The scent of lavender and roses greets me in the foyer from the large bouquets that line either side of the entryway. There’s a framed photo of Ethel and my great uncle Thomas resting between two of the vases, a picture I took at their wedding anniversary party six months ago. I’m staring down at the photo when my older sister, Ava, appears from the direction of the kitchen, the cadence of her footsteps so familiar that I don’t need to look up to know it’s her.

“That was a great party, wasn’t it?” I say when she stops at my side to admire the warmth of our aunt and uncle’s wrinkled faces, their smiles forever frozen as they dance against the backdrop of friends and family.

“Yeah, it was. Aside from that jellied carrot salad. What the fuck.”

“It’s Ethel. She likes what she likes.”

“Apparently, she likes making the rest of us gag at the table. How she can be so good at muffins and so horrible at literally everything else, I’ll never know.” Ava shudders in my peripheral vision before turning to embrace me. “Hey, Meadowlark.”

“I missed you,” I reply, and she squeezes tighter before letting me go. “Are you still good to drive Ethel to the venue this weekend if everything with Sloane’s surprise elopement goes to plan?”

Ava sighs, my biceps gripped in her hands as she appraises me. Something about her expression seems drawn now that I have the chance to really look at her. Maybe it’s just the stress of recent travel from California. She’s not the type to chill, and it’s probably starting to catch up to her along with everything she’s been organizing here. I give her a bright smile and hum a few bars of the “Wedding March,” but it doesn’t crack her stoic mask.

“Sure, I can get her there, but I can’t stay for the wedding, unfortunately. You’ll have to give Sloane my best if she ends up saying yes to this crazy elopement plan,” Ava finally says as she lets go of my arms.

“Where is Auntie Ethel anyway? She wanted me here at eleven o’clock exactly, for some reason,” I say as my gaze pans across the living room. Normally, when my aunt demands a specific time, she’s already at the door, ready to bark her orders.

“She’s upstairs. Mom and Dad were in the sitting room with Tremblay the last time I saw them. I’ll be in the office going through the eighty million pieces of fucking paper that are still left. If you don’t see me, I’ve chosen to end things by paper cut rather than read through another ledger of flour and sugar orders.”

“I know what will cheer you up.”

“Margaritas?”

“Jellied salad.”

“In the most loving way possible, fuck off.”

My sister gives me a sardonic grin before she presses a kiss to my cheek and then marches away, disappearing down the corridor past the boxes of paperwork she’s set out in the hallway. A sense of unease settles in my chest like a thick syrup that sticks to my bones.

My watch buzzes with an incoming text from my aunt.

You’re not late, are you?



I roll my eyes but smile as I pull out my phone to tap a reply.

Right on time, Auntie. Just arrived.

Good. Take the rear steps. And bring me the hand lotion from the bathroom down there, would you? Take your time.



My face scrunches. I’m not unfamiliar with my aunt’s strange demands. Hurry up. Then take your time. Bring me a random thing. Even still, it’s a little odd.

I shrug it off and send her a simple “okay” before I head toward the bathroom next to the stairway that leads to the wing where my aunt’s bedroom looks across the sea. I’m nearly there when I hear tense voices floating out into the corridor. It’s the familiar tone and cadence of my stepfather speaking, followed by another man’s voice I recognize to be Stan Tremblay’s. His deep baritone summons goose bumps on my skin.

Normally, I would leave my mom and stepdad to their secrets and plans and the never-ending machinations that keep their respective businesses running and their family happy. I’ve overheard meetings like this for as long as I can remember. They’re part of the murk rippling beneath the pristine surface that gives the appearance of a flawless life.