“Doctor Doily.” I smirk when he shoots me a side-eye that’s equal parts menacing and pleading. I give a nod toward the small crowd. “Nice craic this, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Though you might have more fun if you weren’t such a dick and asked the maid of honor for a little spin on the dance floor.”

“Ahh. The bride put you up to this?”

Fionn scoffs. Rolls his eyes. “I’m a doctor, you wanker. Observational skills are kind of my thing.”

“So are crochet and a shocking inability to say no to dumb shit.”

“Stop deflecting from the issue at hand.”

“Oh, so you mean there’s a point to this conversation?”

“Damn straight there is. And the point is this: What the fuck is your problem with Lark Montague?”

Something unnamed and unexpected tightens in my chest. “What do you mean?”

Fionn grins and lets my question linger as he pulls a long sip of his beer. It takes more concentration than it should to not look to where I last saw Lark talking to the DJ and flipping through his music options. She was splashing her sunlit smile all over him, and the fucker was basking in it like he was trying to catch a feckin’ tan. Not that I was paying that much attention.

“You think you’d have learned how to be a bit smoother, seeing as how you’ve spent the last decade going through the women of Boston faster than you change your fucking socks,” Fionn finally says.

My blood heats and I tap one of my rings on my glass as I take a drink, resisting the urge to swallow the whole lot, ice and all. “I don’t know what you’re feckin’ on about.”

“I’ve been watching you look at her all day. One minute you’re glowering, the next you’re staring at her like a lost kitten, then you’re glaring at her like she ripped the head off your teddy bear.”

“Fuck you,” I snarl. “And leave Mr. Buttons out of it.”

Fionn chuckles, nonplussed. We turn our attention back to the dance floor and though I don’t look over, I can feel the amusement fade from my youngest brother. Honestly, I’d rather it stay, because the jabs I can take and give back tenfold. It’s what comes after that I can’t navigate.

“Seriously though. You all right, brother?” Fionn finally asks. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine focused on the dancers. “It’s not like you to be so miserable about a woman. Or to a woman, for that matter.”

“I’m not feckin’ miserable, you bellend.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Then why are you being an arse? Like, more of an arse than usual?”

“I’m not being an arse.”

“No. You’re right, you seem perfectly charming. I’m sure she finds it endearing.”

I growl and turn enough to pin Fionn with a menacing frown. He looks straight back at me but his eyebrows knit together with worry. “I’m just standing here, having a drink, trying to survive my overanalyzing little brother, minding my own business. I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Right. Well you’d better figure it out soon, because I have a feeling the bride noticed you trying your best to avoid Lark all day. Kinda hard to miss your shittier-than-usual attitude, brother. And if there’s anyone in this room scarier than you,” Fionn says as he claps me on the shoulder, “it’s her.”

He gives me a gruff laugh and walks away.

Fuck.

Though I try to keep my attention on his back, I can feel it, the weight of Sloane’s murderous stare on the side of my face.

With a heavy sigh, I finally meet her eyes across the dance floor.

Sloane jabs a pointed finger in my direction.

Me? I mouth, my palm pressed to my chest, my expression one of sweet innocence even though my guts twist in my belly.

Sloane points at me again and nods her head in Lark’s direction, though I don’t dare look that way. Dance, she mouths in a silent command.

I pretend to be confused.

She does not pretend to be infuriated.

Sloane mimes the saddest little choreography I’ve ever seen as she makes another voiceless demand. Dance with Lark. Right the fuck now.

I point to my ear and shake my head. Can’t hear you.

Sloane rolls her eyes, then pivots on her heel and marches away, her glare not breaking from mine until she arrives at the bar. When the bartender leans across the polished wood to take her order, a sense of dread sneaks into my veins.

“Ah shit,” I whisper as he passes her a full bottle of Teeling whiskey. She tosses me a dark and devious grin. My hands raise in a truce. “Okay, okay.”

Sloane shakes her head and points to her ear before her expression shifts into a sarcastic pout. Can’t hear you, she mouths.

“Feckin’ pain in the arse.” I’m about to stride across the dance floor and beg her not to give the bottle to Rowan when Sloane’s face transforms. A slow smile plays on her lips and her eyes move to something just over my shoulder.

Tap, tap, tap.

Three gentle taps land on my shoulder and I turn just enough to find Lark’s crystalline eyes latched to mine. They’re still beautiful and bright. But cutting.

“Dance with me.”

Whatever she feels about this demand she’s just made, I have no feckin’ clue. Her voice is nearly monotone, her expression a neutral patina. It’s unnerving. This isn’t the vibrant woman I kissed on Rowan’s balcony, nor is it the fiery one I argued with moments later. It’s not the one I’ve met a handful of times since, who might have been displeased to see me, but who still held warmth within her, as though she can’t stop its radiant heat. This version of Lark is none of those things. This woman before me is cold, her edges jagged.

I glance toward Sloane as though she might be able to shed some light on the situation, but I don’t think she’s even blinked.

“Sloane will just stand there staring until you dance with me,” Lark says.

“Christ. You’re probably right.” A heavy sigh passes my lips as I continue waiting for Sloane to at least blink, but she doesn’t. “I guess we might as well.”

“That’s the spirit. Just the enthusiasm every woman is dying for.”

I hold out my hand. “Ready, duchess?” I ask. She doesn’t answer, just stares at my palm like she has to work herself up to touch me. Maybe it’s my missing fingertip? Does it freak her out? Maybe she never noticed the first time we met and shook hands. She doesn’t seem like the type of person that would be put off, but the longer she hesitates, the more I grow unsure. “It’s not that bad,” I grumble.

She cocks her head to the side. “What isn’t? Dancing with someone who hates you?”

Lark watches as I swallow and try to smooth my surprise beneath an apathetic mask. “I … I meant the finger.”

Confusion deepens the crease between Lark’s brows until I change the angle of my hand so she can better see the missing end of the digit. Now she just looks … insulted. She scoffs and slides her palm onto mine, not taking her attention from my face when I curl my inked fingers around her hand. “I’m sorry for whatever happened to you,” she says as we face each other, “but you really are a dumbass.”

“Just the compliment every man is dying for.”

With a wink that earns me an eye roll, we start dancing, just a slow sway of movement in a gentle arc across the polished parquet floor. Though we don’t talk, I sense there’s something Lark is eager to say. It’s as though she doesn’t know how to start, so she presses her lips together and hums instead. At first, it’s so quiet that I’m not sure if I’ve imagined it, but then it grows louder. Soon she can’t seem to help but sing the occasional word, her gaze trapped somewhere beyond my shoulder as she loses her focus to the melody.

“I don’t hate you,” I finally say in the hope the tension between us will break, my tone low and quiet, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes snap to mine and her cold edge is back.