Leather & Lark: The Ruinous Love Trilogy (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, 2)

“This is probably one of the worst days of my life,” I say as I dispense a burst of spray adhesive onto the petals of a pristine white rose.

A string of swears and pleas and panicked exhalations accompanies the song that plays in the background.

“I mean, I can’t say it’s the worst, but definitely top five for sure. Probably number three. And considering that the top two spots have involved gruesome deaths and harrowing, traumatic experiences that carved indelible marks into my very soul, that’s really quite the accomplishment for a wedding day.”

My captive strains against his leather bonds. His bare toes squeak along the bottom side of his plexiglass casket as a ribbon of epoxy drops onto his legs from the tap in the barrel I’ve rigged on a stand above him. This old factory that I’ve been steadily transforming into my personal music retreat, an unused space gifted to me by my stepdad, came with all kinds of gadgets that have really spoken to my crafting soul. And this project is my most ambitious yet. Poor Dad—he probably gave me this old textile factory hoping that I’d have so much fun transforming it that I’d settle into a more sedentary lifestyle. Little could he know that the space would also prove useful to ensure no one will hear Patrick O’Neill’s final screams.

I glance at Patrick’s sweat-streaked face. The box has nearly filled to his ears. He won’t be able to hear me soon.

With a pot of gold glitter in hand, I lean over the edge of Patrick’s enclosure and tap the shining flecks onto the surface of the rose, the excess falling into the glitter-infused resin next to his head. “You’re married, right? Were you nervous when you got married?”

“Fuck you, you psycho bitch,” he snarls before his fury transforms into frustrated sobs.

“I think it’s probably normal to be nervous, right? It’s a big day. Like, the biggest.” I set the rose aside to dry and grab the next one, this time leaning over the clear casket when I spray the adhesive so droplets land on Patrick’s face. “Tell me a secret, Mr. O’Neill. In fact, let’s call it your opportunity for repentance,” I say as I smile down at his desperation and distress. He can’t seem to decide on rage or fear as my smile takes on a devious edge. “Were you nervous the first time you groomed a student?”

Patrick’s lips purse and I manage to dodge the lob of spit he fires at me. It falls and lands on his own cheek with a thick plop and slides into the resin that’s creeping higher with every second that passes.

“Did you see what I did there? Weddings. Groom. Groomed. I thought it was pretty clever for literally no sleep.” I shrug and twist the flower between my fingers, the thorns sliced free. “I always wondered why you married guys aren’t a little bit more careful. It makes sense for the single guys. But you’re just as gullible. It only took, what? A day or two of baiting you online before you were trying to meet up?”

“What do you want from me?” he hisses.

“For you to die, obviously.” I roll my eyes and spill the rest of the pot of glitter across the rose, the excess landing in a thin film that adheres to Patrick’s skin. “I like to think of this as justice, but make it sparkly. Also, I need a coffee table.”

“Just g-go to Target.”

“But I like DIY,” I reply with a shrug, setting my rose next to the others. “My fiancé—God, I hate that word—is moving in tomorrow and I wanted a bold statement piece so he doesn’t think he can just bring in some shitty bachelor pad furniture. And since I like to take a little trophy from every pedo shitbag I delete from this beautiful world, I figured two birds, one stone, you know? I need a coffee table, you’re a pedo shitbag—it’s kismet.”

“You have the wrong m-man,” Patrick begs as I open a new pot of glitter and start on a fresh rose.

“No, I don’t.”

“I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Yes, you did.”

“If you let me go, I swear I’ll never go near another school again.”

“Well, at least we can agree on your last point. You’ll definitely never go near another school again.” With a faint, menacing smile, I lean into his enclosure and blow across the surface of the rose, dispensing a fine cloud of sparkling dust across his skin. “You’ll never lure another student. Never touch another child. Never steal another future. Never break another soul.” I hold Patrick’s eyes for a long moment, the gray-blue shade of his irises contrasting with the network of tiny red blood vessels that lace through the whites of his eyes. Not for the first time, I wish Sloane knew about this side of me. Her talent for removing her victims’ eyes is maybe a bit gross for my tastes, but there are some people who simply deserve to be relieved of their body parts, and this Patrick O’Neill is certainly a good candidate.

But as tempting as it might be to clue Sloane in on my hobby, one that was in fact inspired by her, it would also be unsafe. So I tell myself the same mantra I always repeat when the urge to confess rises:

The more Sloane knows, the more danger she’ll be in.

I take a deep inhalation of a fresh rose and the petals whisper against my skin, the scent almost strong enough to mask the fumes from the resin. For a little while, I just watch the epoxy ripple from the tap. A sense of calm washes over me, despite Patrick’s endless swears and begging. There’s a rightness to the sweet fragrance of the rose and the shimmer of gold. There’s beauty in terror when it sparks to life in dark souls.

My watch alarm goes off, cutting through my momentary peace. Eleven in the morning. Sloane will be ready to pick me up by one, and the wedding is at two sharp. And I’m truly hoping that this adventure in table-making will help calm me down, not just for my upcoming nuptials, but for facing Sloane. It kind of went down like a lead balloon when I told her two days after her own wedding that I was going to marry Lachlan Kane, and she’s been hounding me for details in the few days since then, details I’ve avoided sharing. But I guess it’s time to face the music, as they say.

“Well, Patrick, this has been fun and all,” I say as I spray the final rose and dust it with glitter to set it on the table with my other flowers that I’ll tie in a ribbon, “but I really have to get going. Big day and all. I want to look my best, you know? These overalls probably won’t cut it, even though I am marrying a certifiable asshat.”

Patrick’s never-ending pleas grow louder as I stand and dust off my overalls. “You can’t do this,” he says as he struggles to keep his head lifted above the viscous liquid that fills his box.

I smile as I turn the tap fully open on the barrel of epoxy and change songs on my playlist. The heavy beat pumps through the speakers mounted on the walls. “I can do this, actually,” I reply as I walk back toward Patrick’s head and grasp the metal handle of the cart his casket rests on. “And I will.”

Hands gripped around the cold steel, I push the cart forward. The caster wheels squeak as they spin on the polished concrete.

“P-please, I’m b-begging you,” Patrick sobs. His eyes bounce between me and the golden liquid that sloshes around his body as I roll him closer to the tap. It coats his legs. His hips. His lower abdomen. Veins protrude beneath the pale, sweat-slicked skin of his temples as we roll closer, inch by inch. “I’ll g-give you anything you w-want. Anything.”

“Mr. O’Neill. You probably should have figured it out by now.” I push the cart until the tap of the suspended barrel hovers just over the notch of his throat. His hammering pulse disappears beneath shimmering waves of resin. “I want things that no man can simply provide.”

With a final shove, the cart stops where his mouth lines up with the viscous stream. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. Thrashes his head side to side. Sputters and spits, shooting spatters of resin against the plexiglass. He begs for help, for a God who will not answer.

“Don’t bother asking Him for help,” I say as I pull on my long leather work gloves and slip my hands into the pool. Palms pressed against his temples, I hold his head steady beneath the stream. “He never answered me either.”

Patrick fights and shakes and holds his breath until he can’t anymore. Air escapes his lungs in a rush. There’s only liquid waiting to fill his mouth on the next inhale.

I know he can’t hear me beneath the resin as I list the names of every girl I know he harmed. But I say them out loud anyway. I name every child he made into a survivor as his lungs seize in a rhythmic pulse. And when his body goes still, I pull my hands from beautiful swirls of gold and watch until his face and body disappear beneath the shimmering surface.

With a final, satisfied look at the golden block, I turn up the heaters and fans to help cure the epoxy, pick up my flowers, and leave.

My dog rises from his favorite spot on the floor of the craft room and follows in my wake as I walk down the corridor, heading to the main floor of what was once a textile factory. I pass the old steel elevator that still works but freaks me the fuck out and head toward the metal staircase on the far wall instead, taking the steps by twos until I reach my apartment, with exposed brick, tall windows, and eclectic decorations—photos and sculptures and wall hangings and posters—mostly things I’ve collected from the times I’ve spent performing on the road. There might even be a few souvenirs of sparkly justice, and though they’re mostly hidden from view, their presence still makes this space feel like home.

I thought my furniture project downstairs would make me feel better about what’s to come, and though it helped, the effect is more temporary than I expected. The nerves creep back in with every second that passes, like an infectious melody that takes over my thoughts note by note until it’s all I can hear. I turn up the volume on my music in the hope it will drown the anxiety. I dance as I roll my hair in curlers and sing as I do my makeup. I even pick up my guitar and play along with a few songs before I get dressed in an ivory satin pantsuit with a strapless lace corset. When I’m finished and every detail is in place, I take a moment to twist side to side in the floor-length mirror in my bedroom. It probably comes as no surprise to say I always thought I’d have a big white wedding. A princess dress and a flowing veil. Five hundred guests and fireworks and a fairy tale.

But that’s not my reality and I’m not upset about it. Am I still nervous? Sure. But I also feel fierce. Destined to defy expectations.

By the time Sloane texts that she’s arrived, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

And I know the instant I slip into her car that I’m doing the right thing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Sloane asks, worry etched in her features, the green hues of her hazel eyes more vibrant against the bloodshot evidence of the worried tears she must have shed during her drive here. “I thought you hated Lachlan. You can’t be serious about marrying him.”

“What gave you the impression I hate him?”

“You saying, ‘Lachlan is a dickhead, I really hate that guy,’ might be one reason.”

I let out an unsteady laugh as I try not to fidget with the bouquet clutched in my iron grip. “Well, he can kind of be a dickhead, sure, but hate might be a bit strong.”

Sloane turns toward me, the car still idling in park. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, Lark. You’re my best friend. You’re the most impetuous person I know, but this? A random-as-fuck wedding to Lachlan Kane when you’ve spoken to each other what, like, five times? And all those times have been some kind of miserable? There has to be a reason for this sudden one-eighty.” She shakes her head as fresh tears well at her lash line. Her voice is barely more than a strained squeak when she says, “The math. It ain’t mathin’.”

I grab Sloane’s hand across the center console and stare into her eyes. It takes more force than it should to remain steadfast, to not cave to the temptation of saying to hell with this insane plan before I run away to fuck-knows-where. “I promise you, sweetie, everything will be okay.”

“But—”

“I love you,” I whisper as I lay a hand to the side of Sloane’s face. There’s no measure of relief in her expression when I give her a reassuring smile, one that feels discordant with the sting in my nose and the vise that grips my heart. “You don’t need to look after me this time, Sloane. I really just need you to trust me, no questions asked. I’ve got this.”

It takes a long moment, but Sloane finally reins in her tears. “Okay,” she says. “But if he hurts you, I swear to God I will take his fucking eyes.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Slowly. With a rusty spoon. Like, a full-on gouging. Rough edges. Amateur-looking shit. Really shoddy work.”

“Okay. Well, you could leave me one eye.”

“I’m serious, Lark.”

“Yeah, me too. I think I’d probably enjoy having you teach me your tricks,” I say with a grin.

After a final, scrutinous look, Sloane shifts into drive and we pull away, headed for downtown Boston.

I connect my playlist to Sloane’s car on our ride to the courthouse for this auspicious day. “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. “Marry You” by Bruno Mars. It’s got a fun vibe that I’m hoping will buoy my mood. “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, because obviously. Though I sing and have a smile ready whenever she glances my way, Sloane is having none of it.

“What about your mom and Damian?” she asks, turning the music down as we crawl closer to Boston City Hall through the midday traffic.

My heart squeezes. “What about them?”

“Won’t they be upset?”

“Maybe,” I reply, picking at the hem of my white satin jacket. My gaze shifts out the window and I squint at the passing buildings. “I think they’ve got plenty to worry about with Ethel though.”

“Not doing so well?” Sloane asks, and I shake my head. When I don’t look her way, she pulls my hand from my lap and holds it on the center console. “I’m sorry, Lark.”

“Thank you.” My brittle smile does little to reassure Sloane, judging by the way her brow furrows when she glances my way. “Maybe this will give them something to focus on instead of Auntie Ethel.”

Sloane’s face scrunches. “You think your elopement to a man they’ve never met will help with that?”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Entertainment, you know? Something to take their minds off … stuff.”

“What kinds of stuff?”

“Like, Ethel dying stuff.”

“That’s not what you meant.”

“What else would I mean?”

Sloane sighs and her grip tightens on the steering wheel, her knuckles white across the bone. “Something such as, I don’t know, the real reason behind what is clearly a sham marriage to a man you loathe?”

“Sloane, I thought we just agreed. I’ve got this.”

“We didn’t agree to shit. You just told me not to worry, which makes me exponentially more worried.”

“More worried than if I’d suddenly said, ‘Sloaney, I just realized I’m madly in love with Lachlan Kane and we’re going to get hitched’?”

Sloane blinks. Tilts her head. Calculates. “No. All options are shit.”

“Even the one where we’re officially sisters-in-law?”

“Okay, that is the upside. But the only one.”

“Well, just take that for the ray of sunshine that it is.” I pat Sloane’s leg and she glares at me, coaxing out the first genuine smile I think I’ve made in days. I love poking Sloane’s lethal side, especially knowing I have complete immunity from her retribution. “Honestly though, I’m not sure how I’m going to tell them all yet. Was thinking I might just wing it. Goes with the elopement theme.”

“I’m shocked. Truly.”

“Maybe I’ll just send a pic to Ava. No context, just me and Lachlan and the officiant. Then turn off my phone.”

“Didn’t you tell me once that Ethel was the only person who loved to poke your sister more than you?”

“Yeah …” I say, tilting my head to the side. “Why?”

“Well, I think sweet ol’ Ethel has it covered today.”

Sloane nods toward the sidewalk. I follow her line of sight and my gaze lands on a familiar elderly woman, her hair curled in a halo of white waves, her floral dress billowing beneath a glossy black fur coat even though it’s a mild October day, an ebony cane clutched in her hand.

Her other arm is looped with that of none other than Lachlan fucking Kane.

“How in the ever-loving fuck …” I hiss.

“Looks like she enjoys poking you, too,” Sloane says, giving my shoulder a playful nudge.

We slide into a parking spot right next to where they’re walking, which would probably have gone unnoticed if Sloane didn’t beep-beep them a joyful little honk. My aunt grins at me from the other side of the tinted glass.

“I hate you both,” I whisper through a fake smile before my gaze shifts to Lachlan. “But I hate him most of all.”

Ink climbs Lachlan’s skin from beneath the collar of his black suit. His hair is slicked back, a cocky smirk lifting one edge of his lips when his eyes connect to mine. He pats my aunt’s gloved hand as though proving a point, and my eyes narrow to thin slits.

“Really? You hate him? Because you look like you want to climb him like a tree.”

I whip around to face Sloane. “I do not.”

“You’re right. You don’t. You look like you want to decapitate him and parade around town with his head on a pike.” Sloane leans closer as my mouth drops open and my flesh flames crimson. “Piece of advice, Lark. If your intention is to convince anyone that this isn’t just some sham marriage, you should probably at least pretend to want to fuck your husband on your wedding day.”

“Shit. You’re probably right.” My shoulders lift and drop with a heavy sigh. “He does look pretty good. I just have to pretend he’s not just a sexy skin suit over a completely shitbag interior.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sloane deadpans.

I give her a weak smile and turn my attention back out the window where my aunt and Lachlan linger on the sidewalk. Rowan waves at them, walking faster to catch up, but his attempt at enthusiasm does little to disguise his worry. He probably thinks this is just as batshit crazy as everyone else does, myself included. Well, everyone except Ethel, who looks like she’s having the time of her life.

I lower the tinted window just enough to be heard clearly through the crack. “Hi, Auntie.”

Ethel’s eyes glimmer despite their cataract haze. “Hello, dear. Lovely day for a wedding.”

“Sure.”

I shift my attention to Rowan and give him a wave. Then I look to Lachlan, whose grin has become diabolical. For someone who probably hates this idea as much as I do, he certainly looks like he’s enjoying himself nearly as much as my aunt.

Not to be outdone, I put on my most vibrant smile. “Darling.”

Lachlan’s smirk brightens. “Duchess.”

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding ceremony.”

“Is it? Huh.” Lachlan runs a hand over his freshly shaved face, rings glinting in the October sun. “You mean it can get worse?”

“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 …

… then snap the lid shut.

“No.” I thrust it in Ethel’s direction as I shake my head. A fist lodges in my throat, sudden tears burning my eyes. “I can’t take that.”

My aunt’s wrinkled hand folds over mine and pushes the box back in my direction. “Yes, you can.”

“You can’t give this to me.”

“I can give it to whoever the hell I please.”

The first tear slides down my face. “Ava should have it.”

“Why?”

I try to push the box away again, but for a dying octogenarian, Ethel is pretty damn strong. She digs her fingernails into the back of my hand just enough to cause discomfort. My voice is a breathy plea when I say, “Because she’s my older sister. And this would make her happy.”

“But giving it to you will make me happy.”

I glance at Lachlan, who watches us with a crease between his brows. He seems more pensive than usual. Maybe it’s the suit paired with his glasses that’s giving a calculating edge to his already intimidating presence. I feel like I’m being studied. Measured. Probably deemed to be falling short, because it is Lachlan Kane after all. When he catches my eye, he seems to suddenly realize his attention is too intense. He looks down to my hand and relaxes his stance, but the notch between his brows remains.

Ethel opens the box and takes out the ring. It’s a huge dark yellow diamond flanked with baguette-cut white diamonds on each shoulder. “When Thomas proposed to me with this ring, it was the happiest day of my life. But I was naive, of course. I knew nothing about how to build a successful marriage. It took a while to learn that being in love is not enough. Choosing love is what it takes,” she says as she slides the ring onto my finger. Ethel’s hand folds over mine and she flicks a glance not to Lachlan, but to where Rowan and Sloane stand behind me before she leans a little closer. “You are choosing love, Lark. And I am so proud of you.”

My aunt lifts her hand away and I stare down at that diamond. There are so many beautiful memories of my aunt and uncle reflected in the familiar facets that glint in the light. I press my lips tight and try to smile at Ethel through the haze of tears. It earns me a rogue lash cluster that drops onto my cheek, and after a brief but fierce embrace with my aunt, Sloane pulls me away to fix my makeup in the washroom, and we rejoin the others just as we’re called into the office for the ceremony.This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

“You ready?” Lachlan asks when I stop in front of him as the others lead the way into the room. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, his suit perfectly pressed, that goddamn smirk—he looks so calm and collected, and I feel like such a mess beneath a forced smile.

“It was my idea, wasn’t it?”

It was. It was my insane idea that I’m one hundred percent not regretting now. Oh my God, what am I doing? I’ve literally lost my mind. I’m marrying Lachlan Kane, Boston’s biggest asshole. This is probably crazier than blowing someone up with fireworks.

“Sure was, duchess,” Lachlan says with a fleeting grin. He leans a little closer, his voice low enough that only I can hear him when he whispers, “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

I allow myself just one deep breath. One moment to live on the razor edge between two futures. “I’ve made my choice.”

With a single nod, Lachlan extends his arm and I take it, and we follow our loved ones into the room.

Rowan FaceTimes Rose and Fionn so they can watch the ceremony. We stand in front of a glass bookcase. Lachlan holds my hands. He watches me as though he expects me to ditch and run. But I don’t. Maybe he thinks I’m going to cry. I don’t do that either. I repeat the vows after the officiant and my voice is clear, never wavering. We slide our wedding bands onto each other’s fingers, and in only a few minutes, it’s over. The officiant declares us married. A union under the laws of Massachusetts. You may kiss the bride.

I don’t know what I expected from this moment. Maybe for Lachlan to quickly press his lips to mine and stalk away. Maybe even a kiss to the cheek. Hell, I’m not even sure I expected us to get this far. But I know I didn’t expect Lachlan to look so intently at me as though he’s savoring the details of my face and this bittersweet moment. I didn’t think I’d see longing hidden away in their dark blue depths. I never imagined he would sweep the end of my high ponytail away from my shoulder and let his fingertips graze my neck, or that he’d lean in slowly.

“Geallaim duit a bheith i mo fhear céile dílis duit, fad a mhairimid le chéile,” Lachlan whispers before his lips press to mine in a kiss that blankets my heart with an electric charge. Need and denial. Heartache and loss. I feel everything as his mouth slants over mine and I drown in his scent of amber and mint. He kisses me like I’m exactly what I am. His key to survival.

And I kiss him back as though I’m saying goodbye to something that was never mine in the first place. Because I’m choosing love.

Just not my own.