Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (47)

“Back the fuck up,” I interrupt, my voice low and stern as I take a step closer. The change in Lark is instantaneous. Amusement evaporates from her expression.

No, I realize. The other way around.

It’s like a sudden fog that rolls in from the sea to obscure the sun.

Light dulls in her eyes as she squares her shoulders. She holds the pitcher clutched between her palms, the milk not yet frothed, her knuckles bleached with the force of her grip. By the look of determination on her face, I figure I’ll be wearing that milk if I take another step closer.

But it’s not just determination. I can see it in the way her pulse drums within the smooth column of her neck.

I know fear. And I know it better than most.

I try to relax my stance, though judging by the way her eyes dart from my face to my shoulders to my balled fists and back again, I’m not very feckin’ successful at coming off as reassuring.

When I struggle to keep my hands loose, I slide them into my pockets, then say, “How about we go back to the ‘multiple deleter’ part for a second.”

Lark swallows.

“How many … deletions … are we talking about, exactly?”

“Umm.” Lark’s gaze shifts to the ceiling. “I think … seven?”

“Seven?”

“No, eight. Definitely eight.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Well, there was this one guy who died in the hospital maybe, like, four days later. Does he really count?”

My reply is a silent, dead-eyed glare.

“He could have died from medical incompetence,” she barrels on, tapping her calloused fingertips on the metal jug. “Or maybe he choked on a bagel. The food in the hospital is pretty bad, you know? Could have been anything, really. Yeah, I don’t think he counts. Four days has gotta be past the grace period.”

“There’s no grace period, Lark.”

She sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Make it nine.”

“You’re telling me you’ve killed—”

Lark growls.

“Fine, you deleted nine people,” I say, pulling a hand from my pocket to wave it in her direction. “You. Lark feckin’ Montague.”

Eyes molten with a dare, she gives me a sardonic smile. “Kane. Lark feckin’ Kane.”

Her words smack me like a fist to the face.

Whether our vows were real or not, whether she believes them or not, whether she uses her name or mine, she’s deftly reminded me of the ultimate truth: for better or worse, we are stitched together.

The Montague and Covaci dynasties have kept her safe, at least from law enforcement. I might have experience traversing her world, even thriving in it, but I don’t have the means to offer the same protection. Even worse, I come with another set of targets and vendettas and baggage that could put her in danger. If someone else finds out what she’s done …

I’m still caught in the grip of this new fear when she tilts her head and inhales a sharp breath.

“So there was this guy—”

“Lark.”

“Ten,” she whispers.

We stand in silence as I try to pick through the thousand questions that compete for top spot in my short-circuiting brain. She watches me with wide, innocent eyes, and even hearing it from her own mouth, I have a hard time believing it’s possible. The Lark Montague I know is annoyingly kind, at least to everyone but me. She’s unfailingly loyal. Empathetic to her own detriment.

And she’s … a serial killer …?

One question finally works its way to the top.

“Why, Lark? Why would you kill ten people?”

She swallows, her lips pressed tight in a resolved line. I’ve seen her fierce. I’ve seen her determined. I’ve seen her full of light, beaming with joy. I’ve seen her bite and tease. Adoration and defeat, resignation and heartbreak and hope. I’ve seen them all in Lark. But there’s something in her eyes now, buried deep beneath all her layers, hidden in the shadows of music and chaos and movie quotes and all the sunshine she wears like blinding armor.

The armor is the Lark I thought I knew.

And though I’ve glimpsed it before, this is the first time I’ve truly looked beneath her shield and I see someone else entirely. I see pain that festers in the dark.

Lark might fear me, but she doesn’t back down, doesn’t let her eyes shift from mine when she says, “So that no one I love has to do it for me ever again.”

Her words are a blade that slips between my ribs.

“Sloane …?” I ask, my voice low. “Did she … is that what happened at the boarding school …?”

Lark’s only admission is the shine in her eyes, and I stop myself before I push her too far.

When was the last time I felt this way? I can’t even remember. I’ve left only enough room to worry about my brothers and business and my psycho boss and nothing else, no one else. And suddenly there’s Lark, who was never meant to be here, was never meant to shine light into places I thought could only stay dark. But with those words she manages to reach right inside and ignite something I never thought I’d feel. Pain and loss and heartache for someone standing on the outside of my tiny sphere.

I clear my throat. “Lark …”

All it takes is one bright smile, and everything I think she wants to say disappears.