Page 114 of Freeing Lark

It was the people.

They’d barely crossed the threshold before Lark’s mother descended on them. “Lark, you’re late.”

“We’re fifteen minutes early.”

Her mother smiled without warmth. “Yes, but everyone else has already arrived.”

Then Hildi’s attention turned to him, her gaze dropping almost immediately to the tattoos visible beneath the sleeves of Hoot’s shirt. Her eyes lingered on the ink winding across his forearms before slowly traveling back up to his face. The disapproval was immediate—and barely concealed.

“So,” she said, offering her hand with all the enthusiasm of someone accepting a package she hadn’t ordered. “You’re Cormac,” she said, her eyes making another pointed sweep over his tattoos. “You’re the man Lark has been seeing.”

There was nothing welcoming in her tone. Hoot kept his expression neutral. “Ma’am.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I see.” He had a feeling she didn’t see anything she particularly liked. Then she turned her condescending glare to her daughter. “I hope you’re not rushing into this relationship simply because you’re trying to prove a point.”

“I have no point to prove, Mother,” Lark replied. The change in her voice was subtle, but Hoot caught it immediately. The warmth he’d come to associate with Lark vanished, replaced by a cool, measured tone that sounded almost rehearsed. Her words became more precise, her cadence flatter, every syllable carefully controlled.

He’d seen that kind of transformation before, only usually in the field when someone was preparing for a battle. Except Lark wasn’t preparing to fight. She was preparing to survive.

It was as if stepping into the Meadows required her to change everything about herself—not just the way she dressed or stood, but even the sound of her voice. The real Lark, the woman who laughed easily and teased him mercilessly, disappeared behind a polished version her family might find acceptable.

Hoot hated watching it happen. And he hated even more knowing she’d apparently been doing it for years.

Hoot glanced at his watch. That was apparently how this family worked. Lark introduced him to one relative after another, and Hoot quickly learned there were several different varieties of Meadows.

There were the ones who looked him up and down like he was a questionable purchase. The ones who asked about his military career with carefully concealed curiosity. And the ones who smiled at him while clearly wondering how long this particular relationship was going to last.

He could handle being judged. What he couldn’t handle was watching them judge Lark.

“Your hair is a little wild,” her mother remarked at one point.

Lark’s hand instinctively went to the ends of her hair. “I didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“It isn’t a problem. It’s simply... casual.”

Hoot saw the flash of hurt cross Lark’s face. He wanted to tell her mother exactly what he thought about that. Instead, he put a hand at the small of Lark’s back. “She looks great.”

Her mother looked at him. The smile tightened. “I’m sure you think so.”

Oh, I definitely do. He kept that one to himself.

Lark’s brother, Alex, arrived with the unmistakable confidence of a man who had never been told no and had never considered that he might deserve it. He barely acknowledged Hoot before giving him a slow, assessing look, as though deciding whether he was worthy of standing in the same room. Then his attention shifted to Lark, and the condescension in his expression sharpened.

“Still playing with that little art business?” Alex asked, as if her career were an amusing childhood phase she’d stubbornly refused to outgrow.

Hoot’s jaw tightened. Lark’s smile was painfully polite. “It’s doing quite well, actually.”

Alex shrugged. “I’m sure. You’ve always been content playing with your little art projects while the rest of us were busy building lives that actually mattered.”

Hoot felt his temper spike. He’d met plenty of arrogant men during his years in the military. Alex Meadows somehow managed to make most of them seem humble.

When Bradley Whitmore arrived dressed to the nines, things didn’t improve. Hoot knew him immediately. He’d seen the man in photographs. Had heard enough about him to recognize the particular brand of entitlement rolling off him.

Bradley’s gaze landed on Lark. Then shifted to Hoot. For several seconds, the two men simply stared at one another. Hoot didn’t blink. Bradley smiled. It wasn’t friendly.

“So you’re Cormac Shibley.”

“Yes.”