Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (33)

“In the most loving way possible, fuck off,” I say, flashing Lachlan a sardonic grin as I roll up the tinted window.

“Yeah, so … we might need to work on that a little bit,” Sloane says, and then she pats my leg in a wordless command to stay seated. She gets out of the car and waits by my door until the others disappear around the corner. Only then does she help me out of the vehicle. But even when I’m steady on my pointed stilettos, Sloane still holds on. She gives my hand a squeeze. Offers a promise in her stern expression. “We can still turn around.”

“I know,” I say but I take a step forward. She gives me a resigned smile.

I hate seeing her feel this way, so worried with no way to fix it because I’ve kept her in the dark. I hate being the one to do this to her. I hate everything about this plan, except that it gives me my best chance to keep her safe and to figure out what the hell is happening to my family.

Never again.

I square my shoulders and grip Sloane’s hand tighter. “Let’s get this done. The sooner we do, the sooner we can go drinking at the Dubliner as official sisters.”

“Wedding night, Lark,” Sloane says as we walk hand in hand toward the city hall entrance. “You’re supposed to go fuck your husband, remember? Not have two martinis and start crying on a stranger.”

“I do not do that. I’m an adorable drunk.”

Sloane snorts as we pass through the doors and into the lobby. Our heels clack against the floor and echo off the stark walls and vaulted ceiling. “Either adorably happy or adorably weepy. Fifty-fifty chance of happy Lark or sad Lark. One hundred percent chance of singing and tears.”

“All right, fine, maybe a little crying happens on occasion. But I think I get a free pass this time. It is my wedding day. Tears are warranted.”

I meet Sloane’s eyes with a cringe, and she reflects an equal amount of discomfort back to me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to make that face every time you say ‘wedding,’ or ‘married,’ or ‘husband.’ Just FYI.”

“Right,” I say as we enter the elevators to the city clerk office. “Smile. Pretend I want to fuck him. Got it.”

“At least he looks damn good. He’s kind of like a combination of Constantine-era Keanu with Mad Max–era Tom Hardy. Hot and kind of sad.”

I turn and glare at Sloane. She tries not to smile but her dimple gives her away like it always does when she’s up to no good. “That is the most profane thing you have ever said. I am disgusted, Sloane Sutherland.”

Sloane’s grin breaks free as the elevator dings and the metal door slides open. “You’re only salty because you know I’m right.”

When we step out onto our floor, Lachlan’s at the end of the hallway, standing next to Rowan with his hands in his pockets. My aunt is seated in one of the chairs lining the wall. And though I don’t admit it, Sloane called it perfectly—he is a bit Keanu-Hardy, all hot and dangerous and sad. Though Lachlan smiles at whatever my aunt is saying, there’s something haunted in his eyes, something missing.

And when he turns to me, that chasm fills with fire.

I don’t know what he’s thinking, whether it’s hatred or determination or suspicion. I can’t interpret his hard, dark stare or his furrowed brow. All I know for sure is that no one has ever looked at me the way he does now.

I shove my shoulders back. Chin up. If it’s butterflies in my stomach, they’ve come armed, because it feels like I’m being hollowed out. Scraped clean.

The crease deepens between Lachlan’s brows as I draw to a halt in front of him. He takes in the details of my face, from my eyes to my lips, where his focus lingers, then the flush that heats my cheeks, then the scar at my hairline. A faint smile lifts one corner of his lips as his gaze reconnects with mine. “Thought we weren’t supposed to see each other before the ceremony, duchess.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” I roll my eyes and take a step forward to move around him and greet my aunt, but Lachlan catches my wrist. His expression has turned serious, any trace of amusement burned away.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers, his attention fixed to my lips. It resurrects a memory I keep trying to bury, but one that claws its way into the light more often than I wish it would. I’d like to say this is the first time I’ve thought about our kiss on Rowan’s balcony, but that would be a complete lie.

I swallow the phantom taste of whiskey on my tongue as I pat Lachlan on the chest. “Better not say that too loud. Someone might hear you. Wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression and think you’re actually pleasant.”

“Don’t worry, we know he’s not,” Rowan pipes up from behind Lachlan’s shoulder, which earns him a sharp kick to the shin from his older brother. Rowan winces and walks it off in a circle that ends at Sloane’s side. “Looking great, Lark.”

“Thanks.”

“Yes, you look so lovely, dear,” my aunt says, and Lachlan finally breaks his gaze away from my face to turn and help her up from the chair. When she’s steady on her feet, she extends an antique red velvet jewelry box in my direction. “Here, I want you to have this. Consider it your something old.”

I take the box from her with a tentative hand, casting a glance toward Sloane, who lifts a shoulder, her expression as puzzled as mine must be. I open it …