I swallow the distaste for this environment that has engulfed me for the past week. My gaze drifts from one end of the street to the other, but it always returns to the door across the street and the curve of gold letters on the glass.
My watch alarm beeps. Twelve noon.
Lord, I ask for your blessings to be poured out onto me, your humble servant. Lift my hand against my adversaries. Send back upon them every wrongdoing and injustice they have loosed upon me, your faithful disciple.
Amen.
I open my eyes and resume my vigil from the cafe patio. My tea has cooled, the book splayed before me remains unread. My fingers tap in time to the music that echoes in my head. A hymn, one my mother used to sing.
Let sinners take their course,
And choose the road to death
The door opens across the street. A tall man with an athletic build holds it open for a woman with raven hair. Her gaze flicks to her surroundings. ‘The Killers,’ her black t-shirt says.
My blood heats.
But I, with all my cares,
Will lean upon the Lord;
I’ll cast my burdens on his arm,
And rest upon his word
As they step onto the sidewalk, the couple turns to speak with another man who lingers behind on the threshold of the door. Black tattoos cover his hands and his muscled arms. He’s not as tall as the first man but more powerful in build. The protector. The fighter. I can tell—the way he stands, the way he grins, the coiled readiness in every move. A snake, always ready to strike.
They exchange words I can’t hear, smiles I can’t feel. The second man clamps his hand over the shoulder of the first. Their foreheads press together before they separate. The first man then walks away hand-in-hand with the woman. He places a kiss to her temple and she grins. I watch them stroll down the street and turn the corner. For a long moment, my gaze remains there, trapped on their absence as though I haunt their footsteps, a ghost lurking in their shadows.
I settle deeper into my chair. I refocus my attention where it needs to be.
On Kane Atelier.
I seek His blessing every noon,
And pay my vows at night.
Rowan Kane took my brother.
And I vow to take his.
THANK you so much for reading!! Keep flipping the pages for a first look at Leather & Lark, Book 2 in the Ruinous Love Trilogy that will follow Lark Montague and Lachlan Kane’s journey to love. And for a bonus spicy chapter of Rowan and Sloane, click the link below!
Butcher & Blackbird Bonus Chapter - “Skullduggery”
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LEATHER & LARK
This is a first teaser for Lachlan and Lark’s story - a hate-to-love, marriage of convenience, dark romantic comedy! Teaser subject to change. Release date TBC.
LACHLAN
Lark and Sloane exchange some kind of silent conversation.
Sloane raises a single brow.
Lark’s eyes narrow.
Sloane sighs and shrugs.
And then Lark is pushing her seat back. She stands and hikes her ridiculous hobo bag up her shoulder.
“Gotta run,” she says as she beams a smile bright as a feckin’ laser at Sloane and Rowan. When it lands on me, that smile feels like it could slash my skin open. “See you at home.”
And then she’s striding out of Butcher & Blackbird, her energy trailing after her like a comet.
Rowan laughs and shakes his head before he takes a sip of his drink. “Unless you want to be bailing her out of jail, you’d better go get your wife.”
I lean back in my chair and tap the ring on my index finger against my glass as I try not to look toward the door. My focus lands on Sloane instead, who masks her smile with a bite of food.
A sinking feeling coats my chest. “What are you on about?”
“Go get her before she knifes Claire, you bellend,” he says.
“Nah…she…” I look toward the door and then to Sloane, her eyes full of sparks. “What…？”
“Listen,” she says, laying her palm flat against the table as she finally meets my eyes. That bloody dimple flashes next to her lip. It’s like her bat signal for mischief. “Lark Montague might be cute as a button, all shiny happy rainbows ra-ra cheerleader shit, but bitch is a fucking psycho in disguise. I love her to death and beyond, but psycho.”
I still can’t reconcile their words with the woman I think I know. “That Lark…Music therapist, singer songwriter, happy-happy-joy-joy Lark…？ You’re telling me she has a psycho streak…？”
They both laugh. Fucking laugh.