Lark stares up at me, giving nothing away. It feels like a challenge. A little shove, to see if I’ll retreat. But I’m not going anywhere.

“I want to make this marriage into one you can be proud of, no matter what it looks like or how long it’s meant to last. I don’t want it to be something you regret.”

A heavy tension fills the space between us. The air feels thick with the weight of all the thoughts I’ve let loose into the world. Then Lark’s lips form a smile and the knot in my chest uncoils.

“What about this one?” she whispers as she points to the next star in the row without breaking her gaze from mine.

I run my hand over the back of my neck and give her the faint echo of a rakish grin. “Nah, you don’t want to know what I was thinking about for the rest of them.”

“I don’t?”

“Can’t imagine so, no.” I hold up both hands when she gives me a teasing, skeptical grin. “This piece is pretty close to a corset, so feathers were obviously involved.”

Lark laughs and I think I see her cheeks blush in the dim light. “It’s beautiful, Lachlan. I’m going to wear it tonight.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, trying not to let my chest swell with pride.

“I know I don’t. But I want to. And I got you something too. Wait here.”

Her legs unfold from beneath her and she rises from the couch. She pads to her bedroom, the door closing behind her with a quiet click. I wait in silence, hands shoved in my pockets, my thumb pressed against my wedding ring as I try to remember all the shit that used to come so naturally for me when I wanted a woman. Give her a lopsided smile. Maybe tease her a little bit, but only enough to make her laugh. Be confident, but not cocky—I’m not sure I ever mastered that one. Definitely don’t be an asshat.

But when Lark walks out of the bedroom a few minutes later, all those thoughts of how I’m supposed to act suddenly evaporate.

“You, um … look … uh …”

Fan-feckin’-tastic. Now I have neither confidence nor cockiness. I’ve somehow regressed into some teenage version of myself, and even that guy had more game than me.

And Lark revels in it. Of course.

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she says with a shimmering laugh. With a small box clutched in her hand, she gestures down to the gauzy layer of the sheer black dress that flows over the bralette and opaque skirt beneath it. The harness fits tight across her upper body over the layers of fabric, looping over her shoulders and crisscrossing her torso to hug the contours of her breasts. “Imagine if I didn’t have the bottom layer on and it was just the tulle.”

My heart roars in my ears.

“The compliments would be rolling in,” she continues. “Just one long ‘uhhhhhhh.’ That’s some real Irish charm.”

“Duchess,” I growl, and she beams at me like she’s walked right into my brain to shine a light into every hidden corner, even the one where I keep my need for her stored in darkness. Especially that corner. No matter how much shit I pile up around it, she finds that feral desire and feeds it.

I swallow and try my best to stack the blocks of my crumbling walls back into place. “You look great. Really great.”

Lark smirks. “‘Great.’”

“Yep.”

“Cool. Thanks. You also look fine. Just fine.”

I snort.

Lark bites down on her grin. “I must admit, I was expecting maybe stunning, or beautiful. Or, God forbid, feckin’ sexy.”

Chrissakes. Lark is all those things and more. She’s everything. She’s fierce and unique and surprising and so goddamn gorgeous it sometimes feels like my heart is trapped in a vise when I just look at her. There isn’t a single word I can think of that captures what Lark has become to me. And when I try to open my mouth to say any of them, they dissolve on my tongue. So the only thing I can do is tell her the truth. At least, maybe a little bit of it.

I step closer to where she stands next to the couch, her hand resting on Bentley’s enormous head as she strokes his ear. When I stop, I’m just within her reach, but I don’t touch her despite how badly I want to feel the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips.

“You’re always stunning, Lark. Always beautiful. Always feckin’ sexy.” My voice is a husky rasp that coaxes a fleeting blush into her cheeks. “But I don’t want you to feel as though I’m trying to compliment my way into forgiveness. I know it won’t fix us.”

Lark’s smile fades. “What do you think will?”

“Time.”

“How much time?”

“That’s not up to me.” Before I truly realize what I’m doing, my hand is out of my pocket. Lark doesn’t break her gaze away from mine when I let my knuckles graze her bare arm, a slow sweep that goes from her shoulder, past her elbow, all the way to the edge of her hand, where it’s wrapped tight around the box. “It’s up to you. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m pushing you into it because of the way I feel.”

Lark swallows, her pulse a steady hum in her neck. “And how do you feel?”

“You don’t know?” I let my hand fall away from hers. She shakes her head. “Probably not the same as you. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You sure about that?” Lark holds my gaze for a long moment before she drops her attention to the box in her hand. When she extends it in my direction, there’s very little I can tease from her expression. Her voice comes out quiet and a bit breathless when she says, “This is for you. But you can’t open it until I’m on stage, not until I give you a signal.”

“What kind of signal?”

Lark rolls her eyes and grins. “The bat signal. Duh.”

“Christ Jesus.”

“But the budget version. I’ll use a cheap flashlight with a half-dead battery.”

“You’re almost as big of a pain in the arse as Fionn, you know.”

“Oh stop. You love him and his teasing.”

I bite down on my tongue and taste blood.

When Lark rattles the box, I finally take it from her hands. There’s a small envelope fixed to the glittery black ribbon that secures the lid. The moment my fingers begin to tug the card free, she lays a hand over mine to stop me, just like I hoped she would. “I said no. Not until the gig.” She might appear annoyed, but I notice it takes her a moment longer than necessary to pull her hand away from mine.

“All right, I promise,” I say as I slide the box into my jacket pocket and raise my hands in surrender. “Whatever my duchess wants.”

Lark turns away to gather her coat, bag, guitar, and cello, but I pick up the instruments before she can sling the cases over her shoulders.

And then we’re off, leaving Bentley on the couch, where he faces the door to guard this space, one that feels more like ours with every day that passes.

When we pull up to the venue, there’s already a line out the door despite the shitty weather. People in the queue burrow into their coats and bounce on their heels to keep warm. A sense of pride floods my chest when I steal a glance at Lark. She looks out at the crowd with no evidence of worry or stage fright.

“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off while I find a place to park?” I ask as I slow the old Charger to a crawl, earning some appreciative glances as we roll down the street.

“No, you might have trouble getting in. I’ll take you in the back.”

My mind immediately empties of rational thoughts and refills with vivid images. “Take me in the back …”

“Yeah,” Lark says, giving me a confused, sidelong glance before I resolve to keep my eyes glued to the road. “The back entrance.”

I swallow.

“You know …? The back door …?”

I nod and shift in my seat.

“Are you okay? Do you have a thing about back doors?” Her hand shifts in my periphery and I snatch my arm away, narrowly avoiding her attempt at a reassuring squeeze. If she touches me, I’m damn well sure I’ll feckin’ combust. “Are they like, triggering for you or something?”