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

I slide into the car and grip the steering wheel. One deep breath is all the time I allow myself to take before I key the engine and drive away from Rock Rose Lodge.

I plow through the next several hours, and even though I’m kept occupied, my thoughts always return to Lark. My pulse pounds faster with every second that ticks closer to eleven. Part of me hopes she won’t call. That she’ll be sound asleep. But a more selfish part of me needs to hear her voice.

It’s two minutes after eleven when my phone rings.

“Hey, duchess.”NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

“Hey.” I can tell from that one word that she’s wide awake. “I couldn’t sleep. Still a bit wound up, I guess … Am I disturbing you?”

“No. Not at all.”

There’s a pause. “How was your evening?”

“It was busy,” I reply, trying not to let excitement color my words. I know the mystery of my whereabouts this evening bothers her. “Saw some people. Did some shit.”

“Cool …”

She wants to ask. But she won’t. And I let the moment linger for a long beat before I finally say, “Want to see what I was up to?”

There’s a rustling sound in the background. I imagine Lark shifting off her bed, darting to the window of her room. “What do you mean? You’re here?”

“Maybe,” I say, and she fails to muffle an excited squeak that sets my blood on fire. “Do you want to come with me? I might have another little surprise for you, but it can wait a few days—”

“No, I’m coming now.”

My smile grows wider as I hear her gather her belongings. “Leave the giant bag there, duchess. And put on a sweater. Come out the back door of the lodge and try not to let anyone see you. Keep me on the line until you get to the car, I’m parked out front.”

“Okay,” she says, a little breathless.

In just a few moments, Lark is jogging down the path from the lodge and I key the engine as soon as she pulls the door open. In a whirl of motion, she’s seated next to me, her familiar scent and her bright energy a balm to the unexpected anxiety I’ve felt in her absence.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Can’t say.” I glance over just in time to catch her teasing pout. Those feckin’ lips. My cock aches with the sudden image of my erection gliding through the hot embrace of her mouth. I shift on my seat and refocus on the road ahead as we pull away. “Let’s just say the sleep retreat is in a prime location. And it makes for a solid alibi.”

I glance at Lark and meet her wary gaze. But she can’t hide the excitement that glimmers in her eyes.

We hardly talk at all on the short drive to our destination, but Lark fills the silence with songs. Maybe she’s as nervous as I am. I think back to the Scituate Reservoir and how I pulled up to the scene of Lark’s “accident,” how my flashlight illuminated a woman standing alone on the road, blood trickling from the deep gash on her forehead. I wonder if Lark goes back to that memory too. She’s never told me about Jamie Merrick, the man I pulled from the lake, but I’ve been digging into him in Leander’s office in my spare time during my recent quest to learn more about my wife. One day, maybe she’ll be willing to tell me everything. Maybe even after tonight.

It’s eleven thirty when we turn down a gravel driveway and park between a white van and a vintage Jaguar. There’s an A-frame cabin in front of us, the lake shimmering just behind it, the black waves illuminated by the lights that spill from the tall windows of the cottage. Conor steps out onto the porch and gives us a wave. Lark takes hold of the door handle and moves to exit the Charger when I grab her wrist to stop her.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

“Do what?” Lark’s eyes shift between me and the cabin. Confusion is etched between her brows. “To whom?”

“You’ll see. But I’m telling you now. You can walk away.”

Lark’s eyes linger on me, falling to my mouth and resting there. She nods and I unfold my fingers from her wrist.

We step out of the car and I retrieve my toolbox from the trunk. I resist the urge to take Lark’s hand as we ascend the wooden stairs to meet Conor on the porch. He holds a gun in one hand, sheaves of paper in the other.

“Everything okay?” I ask as I take the weapon and documents from his extended hands.

“Not much to report. He got a little vocal. I gave him something to take the edge off and taped him up pretty good so I could get some work done, but he’s awake now.” Conor’s gaze shifts to Lark, and I feel the tension radiate from her as she tries to work out what’s going on. A grim kind of hope settles in my chest as I turn my attention to the gun in my hand and check the magazine before I turn to face Lark. When she shudders in the cold, I set my belongings down and shrug my jacket off to drape it over her shoulders. Her eyes shine in the dim light as she watches me and the rest of the world fades into darkness. All I see is her. The way her lips part to spill her foggy exhalations into the night. The pulse that drums in her neck. My hand raises beyond my control and I sweep my fingertips across her cheek. Her breath hitches at my touch.

“Come in if you want to. You’ll know when,” I say, letting my hand fall away.

Lark’s head tilts. “How?”

“I’ll give you a bat signal.” I grin when Lark rolls her eyes, then nod toward the toolbox sitting at my feet. “That’s for you. See ya, duchess.”

With a swift kiss to Lark’s cheek, I give Conor a knowing look and then step inside Dr. Louis Campbell’s cabin.

The lights are low, the living room dim. There are shelves of old books. Oil paintings in heavy gold frames. Diplomas and awards. Photos with politicians, Campbell’s silver hair coiffed, his smile bleached, every suit finely tailored. Pictures of him with his wife, his nondescript children in school uniforms. I stop at a side table and glare down at a photo of his smiling face frozen in time. A whimper finds me from the dining room, and I meet the terrified eyes of the same man from the photograph, except this time he’s strapped to an ornate chair. The headmaster of Ashborne Collegiate Institute.

I’m genuinely feckin’ excited.

At first, I thought feelings like joy or hope or excitement had been dulled in me, worn down by the tides of an unforgiving world. But I was wrong. Since Lark came into my life, I’ve felt excited every day. It started when I followed Lark onto the balcony the night of Rowan’s restaurant opening, and though it had a vicious edge at first, it gradually transformed. I realize now that I’m excited every single time I see her. The need to push her away has become a desire to pull her closer. I don’t just want to hear her laugh, I need to earn it. Every time I gain a little ground, I want more. I want to break out of the shade and back into her light. Without even realizing it, I’ve become addicted to it. To her.

Lark’s needs are my priority. Even the ones she doesn’t know about.

Like the one bound before me now.

I close in on Dr. Campbell and tear the duct tape from his lips.

“W-what is this?” he sputters. His Cambridge-accented voice is tight with panic. He struggles, but Conor has bound even his head to the high back of the chair. All he can do is shift his eyes, and they flick in every direction with distress. “Who are you? What is this about?”

“What do you think it’s about?”

Campbell pauses, weighs the options, then picks the most disappointing one. “Money. If it’s money you want—”

“Wrong. Try again.”

A flicker of panic brightens in his eyes. His pulse surges above the sharp edge of his pressed shirt collar. “This has something to do with a political connection.”

“Pedestrian.” A smirk tips up one corner of my lips. “For a man who runs a school for excellence in arts, your guesses are pretty feckin’ uncreative, Dr. Campbell.”

He says nothing as I set the papers before me on the table. I pick up the top sheet and hold it up so he can read it.

“I’m here for something much more fun than money or connections,” I say.

Campbell’s cheeks brighten with crimson blotches as his eyes dart between me and the words on the printed email.

I lean closer and hold his focus as my smile stretches. “I’m here for vengeance.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he declares.

“Precisely. You didn’t do anything.” I pick up the next email and hold it up for him to read. “You didn’t do anything when Ms. Kincaid raised concerns about the deteriorating mental health of a student who was working privately with Artistic Director Laurent Verdon on her college preparations.” I toss the sheet aside and pick up the next one. “Ms. Kincaid again, raising questions about why Mr. Verdon was spending time with another girl outside of class. You didn’t do anything then either and brushed it off as extracurricular work toward auditions.” Another paper, another question, another girl. I force him to read one after the other until I get to the last two.

“I don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, steadying my aim to keep the muzzle of the gun pointed at Campbell’s sweating forehead. I hold up the penultimate paper close to his face. “Mr. Mehta this time. He brought you a concern about a student who seemed, what did he say again? Oh yes. ‘Exceedingly withdrawn.’ He had seen Mr. Verdon leave the art hall one evening as he was heading toward the staff room. On his way back to his office, Mr. Mehta heard someone crying. The withdrawn girl was there in the art room, alone in the dark. She was splashing black paint across a colorful canvas. When he asked her what happened, she wouldn’t tell him, but Mr. Mehta suspected Mr. Verdon had something to do with it. So he asked you to look into it. He was worried about the girl.” Panic drains the color from Campbell’s skin. “She’s my brother’s wife. Sloane Sutherland.”

Campbell tries to shake his head, but we both know his protest is futile. “I spoke to Miss Sutherland. She told me nothing. There was no reason to believe Laurent Verdon was involved in any inappropriate activities with her or any other student. There was no evidence to support those concerns.”

“There was no desire to even look for evidence, was there? Because Laurent Verdon had just as many connections as you do, and you needed to mine every last one of those opportunities to ensure Ashborne Collegiate Institute remained a top-rated, exclusive private school so that you could secure a sizable donation from a certain wealthy benefactor’s estate, a donation you intended to siphon from to line your pockets. Business is business, right?”

“That is categorically untrue.”

“Watch yourself, Dr. Campbell. If I got hold of these emails, what more do you think I found in my travels through your sordid private life? How’s your mistress, by the way?” I shake my head and tsk. “Fucking the nanny, how utterly unoriginal.”

The silence is so thick that it presses against my skin. Campbell swallows, his lips quivering. “Listen, whoever you are. While I understand you’re upset, the fact remains that allegations about inappropriate conduct are extremely serious and can have career-destroying implications, and they must not be pursued on rumor alone. Besides, Mr. Verdon is no longer with Ashborne.”

“Oh, I know he’s not,” I say.

My hand trembles. My heart climbs up my throat with every beat. Rage paints my vision red the moment I hold the final message up between us.

“This one is about a happy girl. One who was well-liked. Talented. Effervescent. One who Mr. Aoki alerted you about when he found her shaking in a corner of the music room with her uniform stained and askew. He was sure something serious had happened, but she wouldn’t tell him what it was. He was worried for her well-being. And just a day later, Verdon mysteriously disappeared.”

Campbell goes rigid beneath his bonds as I take slow, predatory steps around the edge of the table until I’m standing next to him, my eyes fixed to the words on the page. To the name. To the image of the person it evokes, and all that must be hidden beneath what I can see.

“Her name was Lark Montague.” The gun clicks as I release the safety. “And she is my wife.”

“No, please—”

“You were meant to keep her safe. But you failed.”

“Please, please—” Campbell begs as I press my weapon to his temple. “If you love her, you won’t hurt me. I made a deal with the Montagues to help them cover up Laurent’s disappearance. I recorded those discussions. If anything happens to me, the information will go straight to the FBI.”

“You mean the information you stored in the safe of your home office and the copies you kept here at Bantam Lake?” A deep sense of satisfaction blooms in my chest when Campbell whimpers as I press the suppressor harder against his skin. “Since you have such a good streak of not doing anything, I didn’t want you to start now by fucking up her life from beyond the grave. I have it all.”

“I-I’m b-begging,” Campbell says. “I’ll g-give you anything, just please d-don’t hurt me.”

“That’s not up to me.”

I lower my gun and take a single step back.

The door opens. Campbell whimpers as slow footsteps approach.

Lark’s voice is low and quiet when she says, “Hello, Dr. Campbell.”

I see the exact moment he realizes who Lark is, and a misguided hope floods his watery eyes. “Miss Montague, please—”

“Kane,” Lark says. “Mrs. Kane.”

“Mrs. Kane, I’m s-sorry. Please, help me.”

Lark sets the toolbox down on the table and rests a hand on the lid as she turns to pin her glare to the trembling man at the end of my gun. My beautiful wife. An angelic devil, so wickedly innocent, her sweet and welcoming features contrasted by the lethal coldness in her crystalline eyes.

“My husband brought me a present,” she says as she snaps open the clasps on the box. “I’m dying to know what’s inside. What about you?”

Campbell sobs as Lark flicks the lid open.

A murderous squeak leaves Lark’s lips as she claps her hands. She beams her smile at me and I can’t help but grin as she pulls out a small glass pot. “You brought me glitter,” she says, shaking the jar. I shrug and try to look nonchalant, but I can feel my cheeks heat with a shy blush. Lark has mercy on me and turns her attention back to the contents, taking her time to examine and announce each item, everything from gold star stickers to a brand-new set of polished knives.

Lark pulls a needle and gold thread from the box.

“You know, it was my aunt who taught me how to sew,” she says as she threads the needle and knots one end. Campbell bucks against his bonds and whimpers when she sits on his lap. “I’m quite good at it.”

With a steady hand, Lark pierces Campbell’s lower lip. He wails in pain, but there’s no one in the distance to hear his pleas for help as Lark slowly pulls the thread through his flesh.

“Did you know that’s how I finally told Sloane what Mr. Verdon was doing to me?” Lark pushes the needle through his top lip and pulls the thread taut, closing the first suture. “He’d torn my uniform. I wanted to fix it. But I was shaking too much to thread the needle, so she did it for me.”

Blood beads around the hole as Lark slides the needle through his lower lip for the second stitch.

“I told Sloane everything as she fixed my uniform,” she says as she tugs the thread. “And the next day was the last time I ever had to wear it. Because she did what I wanted to but wasn’t ready for. She made me realize it was possible to slay demons.”

Tears stream down Campbell’s face and I feel no pity. No remorse. Only pain for the suffering my wife has endured. Only admiration for her resilience as she makes another stitch. And another. And another, until his lips are sewn shut with gold thread.

“There.” With a few vicious tugs, Lark pulls the thread taut and knots the tail before clipping the excess free. Then she pats him on the shoulder and stands back to admire her work. Campbell’s lips are already swelling around the tight thread, blood smeared across his chin. His eyes beg when his mouth can’t. “Now you can’t say a word. Just like you always wanted.”

Lark comes to my side, her palm held aloft. I lay the weapon onto her waiting hand.

She doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t waver. There’s no fear in her voice when she says, “Enjoy hell, Dr. Campbell. Tell the devil that the Kanes send their regards.”

There’s a quiet pop. A crimson spray of blood. The room falls into silence. She passes me the gun, but says nothing. The only sound is Lark’s steady sigh. And then, finally, I feel her hand on mine, a gentle squeeze, and the relief she feels finds its way into my veins.

“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 …

Christ Jesus.

I take my glasses off and drag a hand down my face. “That’s … awesome.”

Lark giggles, and I wonder if she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I’ll need to wank off for the third time today to yet another yoga-inspired fantasy of Lark if I have any hope of falling asleep myself.

“You should be asleep now yourself. It’s super late. What are you up to?” she asks, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath before I slide my glasses back on.

Trying not to die of the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever had in my feckin’ life.

“Nothing really,” I say as I pull my fist free of a spiral cage of wire. “Just having a drink, listening to a book.” Waiting for you to call, some hidden inner voice declares.

Fucksakes, no I was not. That would make me worse than Fionn.

Lark gifts me with an unsure breath of a laugh. “I feel like I should ask what you’re reading.”

“Please don’t.”

She laughs again, and this time I know it’s for real. “Okay, Budget Batman. You keep your secrets stuffed in your neoprene suit, then.”

“That suit is top-of-the-line, I’ll have you know. Premium synthetic rubber. Hidden storage compartments. Very high tech.” When Lark is done giggling and my smile slowly fades, I ask a question that’s been worrying me, poking holes in my thoughts since we parted. “Do you think you’re going to manage to get some rest before the sun comes up?”

“I hope so, yeah …” Lark trails off, and I catch the faint sound of her steadying breath. “But … I was wondering …”

I don’t press her. I just let her come around to it, and it takes a moment of waiting that feels eternal.

“Can you maybe read something to me …? I know that probably sounds stupid, but it can be anything you want. A gun manual, maybe, or so-you-wanna-be-a-leatherworker, or like, the history of dryer lint, or just … anything. I feel like maybe it would help to hear a familiar voice. Unless it’s a pain in the ass, I know it’s late, or I guess so late it’s early, and you’re busy and—”

“Lark.” I sit back in my chair and let my hands rest on the counter, my project momentarily forgotten. “It’s not a pain in the arse. Okay?”

“Okay,” Lark says on a long exhale.

“Just hold on, yeah?” I bring up the reading app on my phone and search for something I’m not sure the online store will have, but it does, and I grin like a feckin’ fool when I find it. “You might like this. I hear the history of dryer lint is a riveting tale.”

“I can’t wait to fall asleep in record time.”

At first it feels a little strange to read aloud to someone, but I quickly fall into the rhythm of a story that opens with an ancient city and a prisoner who finds a strange relic during a daring escape from his cell. I describe how the artifact seems to affect him. My tone is hushed and sinister when I tell her the prisoner hears voices when he holds it, and though he looks everywhere for the source, there’s no one nearby. He breaks out in a feverish sweat. He seems compelled by a hidden force, driven to run. When the prison guards discover he’s missing and chase him through the city, he’s hit by a car, the metal crumpling around him, and yet he stands uninjured, the relic still clutched in his hand. The man looks down at his forearm where a symbol burns through his flesh.

“Is this Constantine?” Lark asks, her voice colored with awe. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the rare blush that must be sweeping through her skin. “You’re reading me the script from Constantine?”

“Hmm. Is that what this is?”

Silence permeates the line.

“Seems like you might be right,” I continue, and I wait for a beat for Lark to reply, but she doesn’t. “I know it’s not exactly the same as what ended up on screen, but I’ve gotta say, I kind of prefer the opening they went with for the movie. Makes it more unexpected when the bloke gets smoked by that car.”

“You watched it …?”

I lift one shoulder, though of course Lark can’t see it. “Yeah.”

“When?”

With another invisible shrug, I place the spiral wire into the box and start shaping the two ends so it will stand upright on a smaller spiral frame. “The first time would have been about two weeks ago.”

“How many times have you watched it?”

“I dunno, duchess. Maybe one or two.”

“Liar,” Lark says with a laugh that dissolves into a soft melody of words when she adds, “Tell me the truth.”

“Twelve, I reckon.”

“Twelve,” she whispers.

I grin as I lift my prize from the damp and bloody tea towel and place it in the wire cage within the box. With a few minor tweaks, the golden spiral will be a perfect fit. “I thought you were supposed to be falling asleep. You gonna let me keep reading or what? I haven’t even gotten to the Keanu bit yet.”

“Umm … yeah.”

“You know, I’ve been told I’m like a tougher, buffer, generally better-looking version of Constantine-era Keanu—”

“Stop right there, Lachlan Kane. You will not Keanumatize me into forgiveness. That is fucking blasphemous.”

“Worth a shot.”

Lark laughs and I make a few digs at Keanu, which of course get her fired up. But then we get back to the story. I tell her about Father Hennessy and the holy water and the possession that he can’t exorcise. I introduce Constantine, John Constantine, in my best Keanu impression, which she says reminds her too much of my “whisper growl” from the night we met. “Less whispering, more growling, but make it sound morose like you’re so over this bullshit—so basically be you on a normal day but with demons,” she declares, and soon enough I get her stamp of approval. And eventually, Lark goes quiet, staying that way even after I taper off into silence. When I take the time to wait and listen, I hear it. The muffled, steady cadence of her breath as she sleeps.

With a faint smile, I set my phone on mute and place it off to the side as I continue my work.

Just in case she wakes up.