Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (66)

“Conor will take you back,” I say as I turn to face her. Disappointment flashes in her eyes, though she tries to hide it. But it lights up my chest all the same. “I’m going to clean up here. I’ll take care of everything, yeah?”

“Okay.” Lark hesitates, but then grips tighter to my hand and rises on her tiptoes to lay a swift kiss to my cheek. “Thank you, Lachlan. I …” Her gaze drifts to Campbell’s body, but when it returns, she gives me a tired smile. “I needed that.”

Her hand lifts away, and then I watch as Lark leaves the cabin, passing Conor, where he watches next to the door.

“You good?” Conor asks, pulling me out of a sudden desire to follow her into the night.

“Yeah. I’m good,” I reply. I take a knife from the toolbox and start cutting the ropes and tape that bind Campbell’s lifeless body to the chair.

“You ever heard of a place called Club Pacifico?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, I’ve got something you should check out from the records you pulled. Might be connected to what’s happening to Lark’s family.”

A current slithers down my spine. “Oh yeah?” I ask as I bend to start cutting away the ropes at Campbell’s ankles. “What’s that?”

“Large payments are going through the club’s books every month, but I can’t figure out where they’re headed. Fifty thousand dollars each time, three hundred thousand paid out to date. The guy who owns the club is named Lucas Martins. He’s a second cousin of Bob Foster’s.”

“Payments for what?”

“Not sure. Couldn’t find any details, just amounts. Might be worth checking at the club, maybe there’s something on a hard drive there.”

“Thanks. I’ll look into it,” I say, cutting the final bond free before I stand and kick Campbell off his bloody throne, his body falling to a heap on the floor. We stand for a moment in silence before I jerk a nod toward the door. “Keep her safe, yeah?”

Conor chuckles as I take the grinder from the toolbox and plug it in. “Of course, bro.”

“What are you laughing about?”

“Nothin’. I’m just happy for you, man.”

“Shut the hell up. Feckin’ gobshite.”

I turn the grinder on to drown out Conor’s delighted cackle as he leaves the cabin. When he’s gone, I turn it off again for just a moment to listen to the engine of the van start and the crunch of gravel beneath the tires as it departs. And then I get to work.

It’s close to three in the morning when I make it home, and though I’m tempted to text Lark, I don’t. Still too hyped up by the night’s events to be ready for sleep, I walk Bentley instead, then take the toolkit with me to Lark’s craft room, my trophy hidden inside. There’s a wooden box there that will suit my needs perfectly, and several cans of unopened clear epoxy left over from one of her projects. I connect my phone to the speakers and start playing my latest book as I pour myself a drink. I then clean my prize at the sink and pat it dry before I bring out gold crafting wire and start bending the pieces into shape.

I’ve just finished forming the wire frame when I receive a call from Lark.

“Hey,” I say simply as I put the phone on speaker and continue my work.

“Hey.”

“Anyone see you come back?”

“Nope, I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Good. You’re like, a pro or something,” I say, and she giggles and then yawns. “You sound tired. I was kind of hoping that our little excursion would have worn you out enough that you’d be asleep by now, duchess.”

Lark huffs a laugh. “It did. But then again, I’m always tired.”

She must be, I think. Always tired. Physically tired. Mentally tired. Stretched thinner and thinner until she’s a warped and distorted image of who she’s supposed to be. It fills the bottom of my stomach with something that burns. “How’d it go earlier at the retreat, anyway? Think you’ll enjoy the next few days? I never got a chance to ask.”

“It was great,” Lark replies, and I hear the shuffle of sheets in the background. I imagine her settling deeper into a plush bed. She’s probably wearing the lace-edged sleep shorts I packed for her and the matching spaghetti strap tank top. The thought of slowly dragging that delicate black fabric down her skin has my dick instantly hardening. “I went for a swim after you dropped me off this afternoon then did a Bikram yoga class after dinner.”

“What’s that?”

“The hot yoga where they pump the heat way up, you know? I was head-to-toe covered in sweat. Like, dripping.”

My cock twitches, demanding attention. I shift on my seat. “Right. Yeah …”

“It was great though. I still feel all bendy. I even managed to do the Yoganidrasana pose.”

“I have no idea what that is, but it sounds complicated.”

“It’s the yoga sleep pose. You lie on your back and fold your feet behind your head and your hands under your bum. I got my instructor to take a picture, I’ll send it.”

My phone dings and sure enough, it’s a photo of Lark twisted into some kind of impossible shape, her shorts stretched tight across her ass, her strong, sweat-slicked legs trailing up the length of her body to where her ankles cross beneath her head. If she wasn’t wearing those shorts …