Page 10 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 10

No Skin For You

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

H er skin.

The feel of it, the memory of touching her is a litany in my head that robbed me of sleep.

At dinner, we are worlds apart, separated by the long table and more ornate displays of decor and a generous spread of food. Yet I’m still in that corridor last night. The sight of her in that fuzzy robe was far more intoxicating than any lingerie. Maybe because it gives her an animal quality, like fur. Or because the item is drenched in her sweet scent, making me crazy with arousal.

It was all I could do to hold myself back, the animal side of me writhing, demanding I tear that cumbersome fabric from her body. My claws practically ached with the need, and even now, that pulse of heat lingers, waiting to flare if I let it.

But I won’t let it.

Her skin.

The words circle my mind like a swirl of haunting ghosts. The thought pulses through my mind like a heartbeat, a steady, maddening refrain .

Her skin, her skin. Her skin.

Is not for you , I sternly remind myself.

As soon as I devour the slabs of steak on my plate, I practically flee the dining room to my study. There are two large sitting chairs by a fire that Mrs. P has already lit. No other lamps are turned on. Isabelle has seen me many times now, but I still dislike being so exposed. In here, I feel more comfortable. It’s my business domain where I command my power. And I need all the power over my senses I can get right now.

So what if it's been an incredibly long time since I’ve had a woman? So what if it’s been nearly two years? Even before the. . .event that led to my unfortunate current state, I rarely made time to indulge in carnal desire.

That must explain why the temptation of her flesh is driving me to near madness with the need to possess and claim.

So what if the knowledge that my wife is wandering the house under the same roof, mine to do as I please, threatens to make a bigger monster out of me?

Marriage does not equal sex in our case. I need to keep it that way.

The objective is to keep in close proximity until I am able to shift again. That is all.

The door creaks open, jerking me from my inappropriate thoughts.

Isabelle nearly backs out as if rethinking our arrangement. I catch sight of her bare feet first, toes painted dark purple. That surprises me—such a moody choice for my demure bookkeeper. She's changed since dinner into what I assume is her evening attire—a cream-colored sweater that drapes perfectly over her generous curves. The soft knit material clings and flows in all the right places, making her look utterly touchable. Her dark hair, freed from its earlier severe bun, tumbles in loose waves past her shoulders, and my claws itch with the urge to run through those silken strands.

"Sit." I command it, trying to distract myself from how inviting she looks.

"Please."

"What?"

"Please sit. The ‘p’ word is a powerful one." She still lingers at the door, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. The gesture is oddly vulnerable, domestic in a way that makes my chest tight.

"Put," I emphasize the ‘p,’ "your butt in that chair across from me," I say, ignoring her request and the way the firelight warms her creamy skin.

She snorts with displeasure before doing what I ask. Isabelle sits on the edge of the seat, not anywhere close to making herself comfortable. She sets a thick paperback on the side table. I wish she had set it down with the cover up so I could catch the title or picture and guess at the contents.

The fire crackles in the hearth as the scent of her—vanilla and something uniquely feminine—mingles with the burning wood, making my head spin.

"Now what?" she asks, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture draws attention to the softness of her features. Her cheeks are flushed from the fire's warmth.

"Now we sit in the same room together."

A brow quirks over her glasses. I’m still not sure if the sexy librarian effect is from the shape of her frames or her eyes themselves.

"And do what? "

"Just sit," I say, settling back in my chair. "Together." I grab my tablet off the table next to me and open it up, ready to catch up on emails. Production of Thorns has to be increased to deal with the interference of shipments. A rival gang, the Wolves, keeps intercepting my product. Frankly, it’s pissing me off.

It's several minutes before I realize Isabelle is just watching me. Not glancing away when I shift or move like most do. Just. . .studying me with those warm brown eyes.

The way she's drawn her feet up beneath her, those purple toes peeking out beneath the hem of her black leggings, creates an image of casual intimacy that threatens to undo me.

"What?" The word comes out harsher than intended.

"Am I not allowed to look at you?"

"Not like that."

"Like what?" There's a hint of challenge in her voice.

"Like I'm a shifter specimen you are cataloging." My claws dig into the tablet's case. I continue on before she can respond. "Or is this morbid curiosity? Want to get a good look at the monster you married?"

She straightens in her chair. "I'm not going to avert my eyes like some blushing virgin every time—" She stops abruptly, color flooding her cheeks as the implications of her words sink in.

A surprised laugh rumbles out of me. "Blushing virgin? That's rich coming from the woman whose latest Instagram post recommended Claimed by the Alpha with the caption 'steamy enough to fog your reading glasses and ruin your panties.'"

Isabelle’s flush deepens, but her chin lifts. "You've been stalking my social media?"

"Research," I correct, though the word sounds weak even to my ears. "Had to make sure you were. . .suitable."

"Suitable." She tests the word like she's tasting it. "Yesterday I was perfect, now I’m merely suitable. What do either of those mean?"

"We're not discussing this."

"No, of course not." She finally looks away to the fire, and I tell myself the relief I feel isn't tinged with disappointment. "You know so much about me. I don’t know anything about you."

"We live together. What’s left to know?"

"What you do for a living?" she suggests in a falsely light tone.

My scowl deepens. "That’s irrelevant."

"Is it?"

"We’re done talking about this, Isabelle," I say with a warning snarl, even as I put my tablet down on the table next to me so hard it cracks against the table.

Dammit.

The silence that follows is far from peaceful. She still doesn’t pick up her book and I’ve just ruined my means to work and occupy my thoughts. I could send for another but it’s late and my mind is fractured by the distraction Isabelle presents.

"What?" I demand again when I can't take her steady, judgmental gaze anymore.

"You can call me Belle," she says quietly.

Her change in subject takes me by surprise. Every time I think I know what she’s going to say next, I’m proven wrong.

"I can, but I won’t." I need to keep some amount of formality between us. Her full name is a reminder of the kind of arrangement we have .

"We're married now. . ." she begins hesitantly, and I get the sense her slow start is on my account, not hers.

"I know. I was there. Remember the doves?" I say flatly.

"That was the proposal," she corrects.

"Ah, yes." The banter bounces back and forth almost effortlessly. I try not to think too hard on it.

"You want me to be in the same room as you. You want me to spend time with you."

"Didn’t I say that? It was in the contract."

She shifts in her seat. "Yes, but I think I’m only just now realizing why."

I hadn’t planned on us talking. I don’t like it. She’s getting under my skin. "Don’t you want to read a book? Do you not like the one you brought? We could send Mrs. Potts to get you another if you like. Then we can sit here in blissful silence." The last part comes out a growl.

"You’re a Were."

"I’m aware." Annoyance flares, but I’m not sure if it’s because I unintentionally rhymed or because she is still talking.

"Weres need a Pack to survive."

Uneasiness swirls in my chest. Pain begins to shift and stretch inside me. Fae fucking hell. If she keeps pushing, I’m going to end up exploding like I did yesterday. And I like this room.

"Don’t ask me personal questions, Isabelle." There is a dark warning underlying my words.

Don’t ask me what happened to my Pack.

Don’t you fucking dare.

Pain of a different kind slices through me. One that will never heal no matter how much time has passed, no matter who or how many times I marry. The perpetual sword of anguish will forever be lodged in my chest .

"I’m not asking personal questions. I’m clarifying our. . .situation."

"Marriage?" I correct drolly.

Her pretty mouth flattens with open irritation. Good. If I should feel put out, so should she.

"You are trying to make me your Pack," she says flatly. "I’m assuming so you can shift again since you are stuck between two forms."

I sit back in my chair, a little gobsmacked, if I’m being honest. She keyed in on exactly what I was doing.

"You thought if we were married, it would count as Pack, but it didn’t. So now we have to spend all of our time together because you think that’s how it works." She adjusts her glasses. "Is it? Is that how it works?"

"I don’t know," I confess. The words come out as a low rumble that emits from my chest even as I run a hand through my hair. The laws of Weres and their packs aren’t so much a science as they are phenomena of nature.

Isabelle relaxes a fraction in her seat. "I think it makes sense. Time together creates bonds, and everyone knows Weres have to spend a lot of time with their Packs, because without them they could literally—" She stops speaking abruptly.

Die. Without a Pack, Weres literally die.

Her brown eyes flit to mine before looking away nervously.

"Not everyone knows that," I point out. "Just little bookshop keepers who read shifter romance."

An unladylike snort comes out of her. "I don’t think anyone has ever called me little." Her fingers brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through her usual composure. "But I think it may take more than time and proximity to create a Pack. "

"Pray tell," I say, both wanting and not wanting her opinion.

Isabelle shrugs. "Well, it’s about a connection, right? So to form connections, there also has to be communication."

"Nope." I’m off the chair like a shot.

"We can just start by sharing a couple small things each day," she rushes to say. "Like what our favorite color is, or our favorite songs, what you do for a living."

"Absolutely not."

"Right," she snorts, "because I’m supposed to pretend I didn’t marry a mob boss who runs the largest criminal empire this side of the fae realms."

The audacity of her words strikes me silent for a moment, and then I laugh—a humorless sound that rumbles through the room. "A mob boss?" I repeat, letting the insult hang between us. Not that it’s the first time I’ve been called that. "I’m a businessman."

Her brow lifts. "You sell Thorns—hexes and curses that wreck lives. How is that not?—"

"Tools," I interrupt, my voice slicing through her words. "They’re tools, not toys. And unlike the vermin scrambling in the gutters, I ensure those tools don’t spiral out of control."

"Tools?" she says flatly. "You make it sound like a hammer or a wrench. A curse is a weapon, Dominic. A curse that can strip someone’s voice, trap them in a mirror, or transform them into a lowly creature isn’t a tool. Dress it up however you want, but at the end of the day, people use them to destroy."

It’s the first time she’s said my name apart from the vows. I like it too much. The way it slides off her tongue with familiarity. As if she knows me.

But she doesn’t .

"It’s not that simple," I snap, my agitation rising at my own insipidness over a name. "A Thorn is only a weapon if it’s in the wrong hands. In the right hands, it’s leverage. It’s power. And at the end of the day, I am the equalizing force."

"How so?"

"Petals," I say with lofty knowing. "No Thorn is created without the antidote, a Petal. Thorns are not to be put out into the world without a means to reverse it. That’s my rule."

Her brows knit together, her skepticism palpable. "So you sell destruction with a side of redemption?"

I lean forward now, letting her feel the weight of my presence. "I sell power, Isabelle. The power to take and the power to give back. Without control, without balance, it all falls apart."

"And you’re the balance," she says, her voice laced with bitter irony.

"I’m the one who ensures the world doesn’t go up in flames," I bite out. "My competitors? They deal in chaos. They sell irreversible hexes like candy, scorching the ground in their wake. That’s not power—it’s recklessness. And it’s why they’ll never be more than parasites." I rub my temples and add, muttering to myself, "They think brute force is all that matters."

Isabelle quirks a brow. "I mean, you’re not exactly subtle either."

I shoot her a flat look. Subtlety and stupidity aren’t the same thing.

She hums. "Oh, do go on. Enlighten me. "

I lean back, folding my arms. "Surely you know what happened to Senator Ryan Bicksbee. He got hit by a Thorn that wiped his mouth clean off his face. "

Her brows draw together, mouth tugging down in a frown. "I remember. No lips, no teeth, just smooth skin where his mouth used to be." She shudders.

"And no Petal to fix it because my reckless rivals don’t know how to garner true power. " I shake my head, jaw tightening. "They burned an opportunity. If I had done such a thing, I’d have had the Petal ready. It would have been an intimidation maneuver by which I would have fixed him up to put him entirely in my debt."

Isabelle tilts her head, watching me. "You think that’s better?"

"I think it’s smart," I correct. "Some take and destroy. I take and own."

She exhales, tapping her fingers against the armrest. "You know, I should probably be horrified by that."

I smirk. "And yet."

She shakes her head. "No wonder you thought you could buy me."

I shrug. "Everyone has a price, Isabelle."

She holds my gaze, her expression unreadable. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I caught a glimmer of respect in her eye. "And this makes you noble because you include an antidote to the poison you sell?"

Based on her critical question, I must have imagined the respect. Still, she debates without wrath or yelling.

"It makes me necessary," I growl. "People want Thorns, Isabelle. They’ll find them one way or another. Better they find them through me than through someone who doesn’t give a damn about what happens next."

The silence that follows is heavy, the crackling fire the only sound in the room.

"Necessary evil," she says finally, her tone quieter now, as if she’s trying to make sense of it all.

Agitation rips through me. My muscles swell with pain, a stretch that can never be fully realized. A permanent cramp grips my half-shifted body. It’s not my wife’s doing, though the tense discussion isn’t helping. The physical stress ebbs and flows throughout the day.

The episodes are getting worse, lasting longer, the pain digging deeper into my bones. I push the thought away. I can't dwell on what it means. Not yet.

"Remember when I said I chose you because you were perfect?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Yes," she responds slowly. There is an earnest gleam in her eye she tries and fails to hide. She still wants to know why I view her as perfect. And I’m about to give her the reason.

"I need someone who knows how to keep their own company in my presence. I know you are happiest reading in solitude. Isabelle Lockhart, owner of Chapter Three believes every problem in life can be softened by a cozy chair, a steaming cup of something warm, and a really good book. " I quote her bio from her website, not adding that I memorized the rest as well.

As the owner of a romance-only bookstore in Boston, Belle spends her days surrounded by shelves of happily-ever-afters and the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee and old pages.

I devoured every piece of information I could get on her after her father fell into my lap.

"And based on the stock of shifter romance you carry in your little store, I gambled that my grotesque form wouldn't be so. . .offensive to you. Therefore, we could sit in silence in close proximity for the rest of our days, not talking."

"Oh."

"Oh," I echo mockingly. "I did not pick you to be a conversationalist, Isabelle. We can live separately but together."

A line forms between her brows as her lips pull in a downturn.

"What now?" I ask with open exasperation.

She gives a small shrug, her expression carefully neutral. "Nothing."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar tension of a headache beginning. When a female says “nothing,” she never means it.

Sinking into my wing-back chair, my sigh morphs into a little grumble. "Isabelle."

"No, really, you've got it all figured out," she says in that same unconvincing tone. Then she opens a book on her lap and stares down at the pages.

If a woman insists on pretending everything is alright, the gentlemanly thing to do is let her continue the farce. And, of course, allow the hundred tiny pinpricks of guilt and annoyance to torment him over what he’s not even sure is wrong.

" Isabelle ," I growl.

I'm no gentleman.

"Won't you please do me a kindness and let me know what is bouncing around that brain of yours?" The words are said through clenched teeth as I try to control my temper.

She stares at the pages on her lap a beat longer before she closes the book. "You're right about me. But. . ."

"What?"

"I still want more." Her warm brown eyes lift to meet mine.

"More?" I quirk a brow .

"There’s more to me than just my being an introvert. There’s my bookshop."

"What about it?" The words come out rougher than intended.

"You may have memorized my website bio." Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. "But it doesn’t say how important it was for me to build something of my own. I want to get books into the hands of readers. I want to promote my favorite authors. I want to create a safe haven for readers where they can escape into fantasy and romance. Making that kind of sanctuary is important."

I lean back, lips curling. "Quite the ambitious little bookseller, aren't you?"

"That's not why you picked me, though. Not because I have dreams, but because you thought I'd be content to sit quietly in your haunted mansion forever, reading my little romance novels." She doesn't raise her voice, but there's steel in it.

I start at her use of the word haunted .

Does she know? Feel the presence of all those who used to live here? My skin itches at the thought. Thankfully she doesn’t notice my reaction, but continues on.

"Because obviously, someone who reads shifter romance must be desperate enough to accept a life with a monster." Her face tenses. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to refer to you as a monster."

I barely register the slight or her apology. I’ve been called worse, and I am a monster. I have no doubt about that.

But that’s also the second time she’s expressed the idea I view her as desperate. I don’t like hearing it, but there’s no use dispelling her of the idea, even if it’s wrong. Especially since I did put her in a desperate situation, though it’s not the kind of desperation she is referring to.

She’s alluding to the idea she is seen as some kind of old maid who would take any husband. This isn’t the 19 th century, and for anyone to think the creature across from me is incomplete or wanting in any way is ridiculous.

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" I surge to my feet, my claws scraping against the arms of the chair. "You signed the contract. You took the deal."

She doesn't flinch at my movement. She just watches me with those steady brown eyes.

"I took the deal to save my dad. He's my only family left. Or he was. . .until yesterday."

Because we are married now. Family by law. But not pack.

"You're right—" she goes on. "I do love my quiet moments with books. But that's not all I am."

"So what?" I pace the room, my partially shifted form casting monstrous shadows in the dim light. "We can't all get what we want, Isabelle. You think I wanted this?" I gesture to my grotesque form. "You think I wanted to trap some bookshop owner in a loveless marriage just to survive?"

"No," she says simply. "But you're not the only one who’s paying a price here."

The truth of her quiet words hits like a physical blow. I've robbed her of her future—of whatever dreams she had for herself and that little shop of hers. A chance at real love with a man who would adore her and romance her every day of her life.

"I don't—" I cut myself off, the rage and guilt warring inside me. "I can't?—"

I storm toward the door, needing to get out before I lose control completely. The wood splinters under my grip as I wrench it open.

"We still have three hours left," she calls after me, her voice steady despite everything. The firelight catches in her hair, turning the edges to molten copper, and I have to force myself to tear my gaze away.

"Consider yourself relieved of duty for the night," I growl, not daring to glance back at her curled in that armchair, looking so damnably perfect. "Consider it a honeymoon gift."

The door crashes shut behind me, the sound echoing through the mansion like thunder. But even as I stalk away, her presence lingers—the scent of her, the way she appeared in the firelight, the quiet strength in her words. Along with the uncomfortable knowledge that I've trapped us both—her in a cage of my making, and myself in the prison of what I've become.

And the worst part? She isn't wrong. About any of it.