Chapter 17
By the time the last of the Condor’s Overwatch team left, Lark’s storefront looked less like a disaster zone and more like a particularly chaotic art studio. Which, considering what it had looked like a few hours earlier, was an improvement.
Boxes sat against one wall, filled with broken pottery, cracked frames, dented metalwork, and pieces of artwork that might be salvageable if the artists so desired.
That was the part that hurt the most. Not the money. She could compensate the artists. She would. If something couldn’t be repaired, she’d offset the cost.
But money couldn’t replace hours, days, or weeks of hard work. She knew from her own experience that sometimes months of someone’s life could be poured into a single creation. Someone had destroyed all that in minutes.
Lark crouched beside one of the boxes and carefully lifted a cracked ceramic sculpture. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. It felt ridiculous to apologize to an object. But she’d always believed art deserved respect.
Footsteps approached, and she looked up. Marilyn was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “That’s enough for tonight, sweetheart.”
Lark glanced toward the clock. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. “You should go home.”
“So should you.”
Marilyn’s expression softened. “I would offer you my couch, but you know the situation.”
Lark nodded. Her aunt’s house was undergoing renovations. Marilyn’s bedroom was currently the only usable bedroom, and the rest of the place was filled with construction materials.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be brave all the time.”
“I’m not being brave.” Marilyn gave her a knowing look. “I’m being stubborn.”
Marilyn laughed. “That too.”
Lark smiled faintly. She was scared. She couldn’t pretend otherwise.
But she refused to let whoever had broken into her store chase her away.
She’d worked too hard for this place. It was hers.
She’d built it from nothing. And she wasn’t going to surrender it because some faceless person wanted her frightened.
“The security system goes in tomorrow,” she reminded herself.
“Condor’s Overwatch will have it done before you know it.”
Lark nodded. “I just have to get through tonight.”
“You don’t have to get through it alone.”
Lark looked toward the door. Cormac stood there, having just returned from “securing the perimeter.” She didn’t know exactly what he’d meant by that but she was grateful all the same. For some reason, his military-like speaking habits calmed some of the fear that still gripped her.
He’d been unusually quiet while everyone cleaned. Now those startling blue eyes were fixed on her, and she found it increasingly hard to pull her own gaze away from him.
Cormac had the rugged, almost lumberjack look of a man who belonged in the wilderness rather than a tuxedo.
His brown hair was buzzed short, emphasizing the hard angles of his face and the strength in his jaw.
A thick, neatly kept beard covered his jaw and chin, more rugged than polished, giving him a distinctly masculine, outdoorsman quality that Lark found ridiculously attractive.
But it was his eyes that always caught her off guard.
They were a shocking, vivid blue, standing out against his dark beard and sun-browned skin.
They weren’t soft eyes; they were sharp, watchful, and intensely observant.
The kind that seemed to notice everything.
Yet whenever his gaze settled on her, something in those startling blue depths softened, which in turn made her melt.
“I’m staying,” he stated. Not a question or request. Just a statement. As if the issue had already been settled.
Lark blinked. “Stay?”
“Overnight.”
She glanced at the couch. Then back at him. The couch was tiny. Cormac was not. He was big without seeming bulky, all broad shoulders, solid muscle, and quiet strength.
She nearly laughed. “Have you seen my couch?”
“Yeah.”
“Your shoulders are wider than the seat.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Of course you have.” Something about the way he said it made her wonder what worse actually meant. She’d seen enough glimpses of the man beneath the quiet exterior to know there were pieces of his life he didn’t talk about.
His SEAL days. His missions. The people he’d lost aside from what he’d shared about Bullet. She didn’t ask. Not yet.
“If it’ll make you feel safer,” he added.
Lark hesitated. It would. That was the problem. She shouldn’t want him there. But she did. “Okay.”
Marilyn smiled. “I’ll leave you two to it.”
Lark rolled her eyes. “Aunt Marilyn.”
“What?” she asked, all feigned innocence.
“Nothing.”
Her aunt kissed her cheek and headed for the door. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you. For everything.”
The door closed behind her. Silence settled over the space. Lark glanced at Cormac. “This is awkward.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re enormous and my couch is the size of a postage stamp.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ll survive.”
She smiled. “That’s what worries me.”
He followed her upstairs to the small apartment. Most of the living space had been sacrificed to her art. Boxes of supplies occupied one corner. Canvases leaned against another wall. Tools sat on a worktable. The little couch had clearly been an afterthought.
Cormac lowered himself onto it. His knees nearly brushed the coffee table. Lark laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Lark opened her mouth in a yawn belatedly thinking to cover it with her hand. “I’m tired but too wired to sleep.”
He patted the empty cushion beside him. She sat. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved.
For a while they simply talked. Lark told him about growing up in a family where everything had to look perfect. Where the “right” accomplishments mattered more than happiness. To them, art was considered a hobby instead of something worthy of a life.
She told him how often she’d been compared to her siblings. How she’d always been the odd one. They called her the “difficult one.” The daughter who couldn't seem to fit the mold.
“I spent years thinking something was wrong with me,” she admitted.
Lark gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “One of the first times they really decided I was the ‘difficult one’ was when I was sixteen. My parents had this huge dinner party with all these important people, and I was supposed to sit there, smile, and pretend I cared about whatever they were talking about. Then one of my dad’s business associates started bragging about how he’d bought a struggling artist’s work for practically nothing.
He thought it was hilarious. I didn’t.” She shook her head.
“So I told him exactly what I thought about taking advantage of someone who was desperate. In front of everyone.”
Cormac’s mouth twitched. “I’m guessing that went over well.”
“Oh, beautifully.” She rolled her eyes. “My parents were mortified. I got sent upstairs, and Mother followed me a few minutes later to tell me I needed to learn when to keep my opinions to myself. I tried explaining that I just thought someone should say something. She told me that was exactly what made me difficult. I was too emotional, too opinionated, too stubborn, and apparently incapable of understanding how the world worked.” Lark shrugged, though the memory still stung.
“After that, whenever I didn’t do what they expected, I was being difficult again.
Eventually, I started wondering if maybe they were right.
” She glanced at him. “Funny thing is, the older I get, the more I think maybe being difficult wasn’t such a bad thing after all. ”
Cormac’s jaw tightened. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”
She looked at him. He didn't say it like a platitude. He said it like a fact. She swallowed. “I know that now.”
“Good.”
A smile touched her lips, only to fade as the image of her sister’s former vibrancy, now slowly ebbing away, came to mind. “But now I can see it happening to my sister. What’s worse is that she isn’t fighting it like I did.”
Then she told him about Wren. About the girl who had once followed her everywhere. The little sister who’d adored her. And the woman she’d become.
“I don’t know if she’s happy,” Lark whispered. “I don’t think she is.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I think she’s still so young and she’s afraid.”
Cormac was quiet for a moment. “Then maybe she needs someone who won’t stop asking.”
Lark looked at him. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“No.”
“You don’t think I’m interfering?”
“No.”
“But don’t you think I’m a little crazy for caring about someone who hadn’t given a shit about me for years?”
His eyes met hers. “No.”
Something in her chest loosened. He listened. Really listened. He didn’t interrupt or tell her what she should do. Didn’t tell her she was overreacting. He simply listened.
No one had ever done that for her, except Marilyn.
The realization made her eyes sting. She blinked quickly.
Cormac noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t mention it.
Just quietly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.
And before she could second guess herself, she let out a sigh and snuggled in.
Being in Cormac’s arms felt like stepping behind a locked door and knowing nothing could get through it.
His body was warm and solid around her, his arms strong enough to make her feel completely sheltered without ever making her feel trapped.
She could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek and feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, and somehow her own frantic heartbeat began to settle against his rhythm.
The scent of him—soap, coffee, and something distinctly Cormac wrapped around her almost as securely as his arms. Lark had spent most of her life feeling as though she had to protect herself, explain herself, or brace herself for someone else’s disappointment.
But in his embrace, she didn’t have to do anything.
She could simply breathe. And for reasons she didn’t quite understand yet, being held by Hoot felt dangerously close to what she’d always imagined home should feel like.
The apartment grew quieter, but they kept talking. When the conversation slowed, Lark became aware of how warm he was beside her. How solid. How safe. The tension she'd carried all evening slowly melted away.
“You seem comfortable,” he murmured.
“Don’t get used to it.”
His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her eyes grew heavy, and she fought sleep. She wanted to stay awake. Wanted to remember this moment. But exhaustion won. The last thing Lark remembered was the steady warmth of Cormac beneath her cheek.
Then she felt herself moving. Strong arms slipped beneath her. She barely stirred as he lifted her from the couch. She was vaguely aware of being carried, his heartbeat beneath her ear. The familiar scent of him cocooning her.
He laid her gently on her bed. Something soft brushed her forehead. A kiss. Then his voice, low and quiet. “I’ve got you.”
Lark smiled sleepily. “I like that.”
His hand lingered against her hair. “Rest. I’ll keep you safe.”
She didn't know if she’d dreamed the words. But somehow, she believed them. And for the first time since she’d opened her door to find her life torn apart, Lark fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.