I stare out the car window, gripping Marcus’s hand and watching as the streets we travel become broader, better cared for with bigger, more elaborate houses settled behind tall iron gates. He’s sitting on one side of me, and Lachlan on the other. He’s beentexting rapidly the entire trip. Most likely telling his minions where to hide a pile of dead bodies and which bank to rob next.
Kyle turns the Range Rover into a cobblestone driveway, parking in the back of a stately chapel as the black gates close behind us. The church must be centuries old, obvious from the worn stones and Gothic style architecture, and the huge stained-glass windows with their pointed arches. There is another connecting structure built to look the same, the architectural symmetry making one building flow into another, including a third building, still under completion. Ancient oak trees surround the church grounds and there’s a profusion of flower beds, looking ghostly under the midnight moon.
“That’s the new children’s school,” Lachlan says, laughing at something only he understands. He gently pulls me away from Marcus and helps me out of the car.
Angrily yanking my arm away, I turn in a circle, hoping there’s a break in the high stone walls. A little crack to slip through like the desperate rat that I am.
But, there’s Marcus. Who can never resist a mystery. “Why is that funny?” he asks.
Lachlan exchanges an amused glance with Gregor, who’s struggling to keep his look of stoic professionalism. “Because my brother Dougal is funding it.”
My brow furrows, though there’s no time for more questions because he’s hauling me along like I’m a suitcase with a broken wheel. When I nearly trip on the uneven cobblestones, he sweeps me up in his arms, never breaking stride.
“I can walk!” I hiss, and he ignores me, humming something under his breath as he strides into the chapel, his footsteps echoing through the empty pews. An elderly priest is standing bythe altar, wearing an expression that I can only describe as bleak resignation.
“Unlike your brothers, at least you bothered to come to the house of our Lord,” he says sourly to Lachlan.
“I’m thinkin’ I’m the last MacTavish you expected to do that aye, Father Barclay?”
The priest looks like a kind man, yet exhausted by whatever this family has been putting him through. There’s a big display of flowers next to the altar and candles everywhere, the honey scent of them blending with the roses and peonies in the arrangement.
It’s all too real. This is happening. I can’t-
With his preternatural awareness of all things me, Lachlan senses my panic and pulls me to him.
“Do you feel that?”
“What?”
“The gun under my jacket.”
Every joint in my body stiffens to concrete. His Glock was pressed hard against my ribcage. “I do.”
“Good girl,” he purrs into my ear, the wisp of his breath raising goosebumps on the thin skin of my throat. “I do have standards, and killing Marcus in front of our parish priest is low, even for me. However, it takes just a moment to escort your best friend out of the chapel to shoot him in the courtyard.” His low chuckle makes me shudder. “So, stay my sweet, well-behaved lass, aye? Everyone goes home happy, no blood to clean off the steps.”
“You sick bastard,” I’m whispering too. “This isn’t a marriage, it’s an abomination.” His grip tightens just enough to make me wheeze. “I’ll keep my word, unlikeyou.”
He’s silent, his other hand lightly stroking my hip. “You’ll see that I keep my word. Eventually. But for now, be my good girl and say ‘I do.’”
My fury is palpable, a living thing that saturates the air between us. While I can’t even draw in a full breath without feeling the rage poison me, Lachlan seems blissfully unaffected. Father Barclay eyes us dubiously as we walk closer. Looking down, I give a silent groan as I see the amount of cleavage and thigh this dress is displaying.
“Give me your jacket!” I hiss to Marcus. Lachlan stops him with a single look and shrugs off his own suit jacket, helping me slide my arms into the sleeves. What we’re doing here is sacrilegious enough without me flaunting my barely covered breasts in front of this poor priest.
“Are these two gentlemen your witnesses?” Father Barclay asks dryly.
“Aye,” Lachlan smiles cheerfully, “here to witness our joy.”
The priest looks at me closely. His blue eyes are a little milky, the right one has a cataract. Even so, his gaze is sharp. “Miss…” he looks down at a piece of paper, “Miss King, are you here under your own free will?”
Lachlan pulls me closer and I feel the gun press against me again.
“Yes, Father.” The words taste like bile. “I… am.”
He eyes Lachlan suspiciously and with a sigh, opens his Bible and begins.
There’s sweat trickling down my back and I’m spitefully hoping it stains his Tom Ford jacket. Father Barclay’s voice fades in and out like a bad phone connection as I stare at the altar.
If I wasn’t going to hell for commissioning my uncle’s murder, I would be for taking false vows in a church. Who knows? Lachlan and I might be waist-deep in boiling tar for eternity. Together forever. A weird little burst of laughter escapes me before I can stop it.
