Page 11 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 11

A Chip of Misfortune

BELLE

T he next day begins with shouting.

Dominic’s roar tears through the house, shaking the very walls. I’m halfway down the stairs when the sound stops me in my tracks. The air feels heavy, vibrating with barely contained rage. I grip the banister as the floor trembles beneath my feet, my heart pounding. Thankfully my father is still asleep and can snore his way through a train hurtling through his bedroom. Otherwise I’d worry all the upset would agitate him.

I hear Tock and Lucien in the hall below. Their voices are sharp, rapid-fire, each trying to deflect the blame on the other.

"For fae lord’s sake, Lucien," Tock hisses, his clipped tone quivering with irritation. "If you’d followed the protocol, the Thorns and Petals wouldn’t have been separated."

Lucien leans against the wall with no sign of his usual lazy grin. But there’s the agitated flick of his lighter opening and closing in quick succession. "Protocol? That’s rich coming from you. Didn’t you swear up and down those crates were sealed tighter than a gator’s jaws? How’d that work out for you, mon cher ?"

"I’m not your ‘cher,’ and you’re deflecting," Tock snaps, his words brittle. "You’re security. It’s your job to make sure nothing gets tampered with at the checkpoints."

Lucien’s grin widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "And you’re logistics. L’homme with the eidetic memory. You’re supposed to know where everything is at all times. But now, half the shipment’s out there without antidotes, which means it’s just a bunch of dirty hexes, no better than what street dealers push."

Tock’s mouth flaps open and close. "It’s not like I personally packed them, you absolute cabbage." He pushes up his glasses with a trembling hand.

"Cabbage? That’s a new one." Lucien’s voice is mockingly light, though the clicks of metal double time. "You could write a manual on throwin’ folks under the bus. You’re like a cat. Always land on your feet, so nobody really trusts you."

"And you’re like a dog," Tock shoots back, pushing up his glasses again in a show of exasperation. "All bark, no brains."

Lucien’s grin widens. "Might be true, but who is he going to rip to shreds first? You, I think."

Tock’s face turns ashen. " You’re the one responsible for security, Lucien."

I edge past them carefully, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. Their bickering fades behind me as I near the dining room.

Dominic sits at the head of the table, his massive form dwarfing the chair beneath him. He doesn’t look up as I enter, his claws tapping a steady, ominous rhythm against the wood. Score marks from his claws mar the wooden surface around him. The sight sends a prickle of unease down my spine. His mismatched eyes are focused on a plate of untouched food, but the tension rolling off him is palpable. My husband is royally pissed.

I take my seat cautiously, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. The weight of his presence is suffocating, like the room is smaller with him in it.

"When are we going to Chapter Three today?" I ask, my voice steady despite the way my pulse hammers in my ears. I have to project for him to hear me all the way at the other end.

He doesn’t look up. "Today isn’t good."

I swallow the spark of irritation that flares in my chest. "I have responsibilities there. Chip is expecting me to show them how to run things. I’ve already lost a day and a half of business."

At last, he looks up, his expression sharp and unforgiving. "We’re not going today."

The air grows heavier, the same kind of pressure I felt on our wedding day right before he exploded in a violence that decimated the beautiful plant laden conservatory. Though Mrs. P must have magicked it back together since it looks perfect now. My stomach knots, but I force myself to hold his stare.

"If you don’t plan to honor the terms of our contract, perhaps I should consult someone who will ," I say, my tone measured. "I hear there’s a sea witch who is quite skilled with contracts."

His claws dig into the table, leaving more deep gouges in the polished surface. "You think threatening me is a wise move?"

"Not a threat," I say calmly, though my hands tighten on the napkin in my lap. "A logical measured action. You don’t want me to act outside the boundaries of our agreement, do you?"

For a moment, I think he might snap—his muscles coil, and his eyes darken, his jaw tight as a spring.

Will he jump onto the table? Tear the room apart? Would he hurt me?

The thought sends a flicker of fear through me, but I don’t let it show. I sit up straighter, my words firm. "Why did we sign the contract if you’re going to ignore it?"

His mismatched eyes narrow, studying me like a predator sizing up its prey.

That’s right husband. Call yourself a businessman. I’ll make you prove it.

This is business and his claim last night reminded me that’s all this is.

"You think I wanted to trap some bookshop owner in a loveless marriage just to survive?"

No matter that I find him attractive, or that I still shiver from the memory of his claw raking across my shoulder, this is a contractual agreement. That means I need to reap the benefits out of my side as much as possible.

Though my husband may blow his top and show me the true violent streak he continually warns me of. . .

Slowly, the tension eases from Dominic’s frame. He settles in his chair, his claws withdrawing from the table. The shift is almost imperceptible, but I sense it—a small concession, a step back from the brink.

"We leave in an hour," he says tightly. "Be ready, or we won’t be going today."

I’m not sure if the thrill that zips through me is from winning the battle or the anticipation of going to my favorite place in the world. Either way, I make sure I’m dressed in my Vamp in the Sheets, Bloodsucker in the Streets book quote shirt from the series I’m reading, waiting by the front door ten minutes early so Dominic doesn’t have any excuse to renege on the plan.

The only thing that holds us up is the coat he insists I wear. I’m forced to trade out my purple puff jacket, which admittedly has gotten a bit thin through the years, for a long black trench coat with a hood. The fabric is decorated with ornate, embroidered pink roses and their thorny stems. It reminds me of my ring and of the carvings throughout this big house. It’s another status symbol that shows I belong to the Beast of Boston.

As if I could forget.

Only when we are in the back of the black limousine and on the road do I allow myself to examine my husband a little closer. Dominic stares out the tinted car window, his massive frame dominating the space, his clawed hand tapping restlessly against his knee.

His scent fills the small space—dark, woodsy, with an undertone of something smoky. Warm, strangely comforting, and entirely unfair for someone who spends so much time trying to intimidate me.

"What was all that yelling about this morning?" I ask, keeping my tone light.

His gaze flicks to me, then to the window. "Just business."

"Business sounds. . .intense."

"It is."

His tone is clipped, a clear warning to drop it, but I press on.

"Someone is stealing from you?"

The air between us tightens as his head snaps toward me, suspicion flashing across his face. "How do you know about that?"

"We live in the same house. I overhear things."

"Well, stop it."

"You want me to stick my fingers in my ears whenever I think I might potentially hear something I shouldn’t?"

"Yes," he huffs. Unreasonable man. "Also blindfold yourself if you think you might see anything as well."

I roll my eyes at his ridiculous yet serious suggestion.

"Well, that’s not going to happen, so all your cloak-and-dagger attitudes are unnecessary."

For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out again, but then he exhales sharply and looks away. "Some. . .rabid dogs have been causing trouble. That’s all you need to know."

His words are vague, but the way his claws dig into the upholstery tells me there’s more to the story.

Why am I even asking? I don’t want anything to do with Thorns. I never have. Not that anyone cared about that when I was growing up. The bitter irony of ending up with someone just as obsessed with them as my father does not escape me.

Sometimes I wonder if my father really was as out of his mind as I believed when he broke into Dominic’s. . .

Remembering I don’t care about Dominic’s personal ongoings—or I’m not supposed to anyway—I let it go. Afterall, I get to go to work for myself in my safe haven, which is all I’ve ever wanted.

When we pull up to Chapter Three, a wave of comfort washes over me. My shop stands as a beacon of normalcy, its vibrant window displays filled with romance novels. Fairy lights twinkle along the awning and wrap around the doorframe, casting a soft, inviting glow. Even the cold gray frosting of snow on the building and streets only enhances its charm, making the warm interior stand out even more. Everything about it beckons—an unspoken invitation to step inside, sip a cup of tea, and snuggle up with a good book.

Lucien opens the limo door as I step out, his smirk as lazy as ever. "I’ll be hanging around like a June bug in the heat today, mon cher . Keeping an eye on things."

"June bug in the heat?" I ask, even as my nose starts running from the bitter cold of the air.

Lucien simply winks.

I glance back at Dominic, who hasn’t moved from his seat. He stares out the tinted window, his features unreadable.

"Aren’t you coming in?" I ask.

"No." His voice is flat. "I’ll wait here."

"Okay then," I say, wondering if he really plans to be in the car for the next three hours. Not that it isn’t comfy and spacious. And maybe the intrigue of a limousine parked outside my shop will spike more foot traffic from sheer curiosity.

He’ll be fine. I bet brooding in his limousine is his favorite pastime right after yelling at his staff, menacing old ladies, and sucking lemons for fun.

Inside Chapter Three, the heady scent of paper and ink envelops me, a warm, familiar embrace. I breathe it in deeply, like a junkie desperate for a fix, the nostalgic aroma settling something restless inside me.

My gaze sweeps over the packed shelves, each one a love letter to the genre—sweet small-town romances cozied up beside dark, steamy shifter tales. My fingers trail along a few spines as I move through the space, drawn to the carefully curated corners, each offering a sanctuary for readers looking to lose themselves in a story.

Chip greets me minutes later with bright energy, their lavender hair a perfect complement to the pastel tones of the shop. I texted them once I knew I would be coming here today.

"Morning, boss," they say with a grin. "Ready to put me to work?"

"Let’s do it."

We spend the next few hours going over the basics—handling the register, managing inventory, and, most importantly, recommending books. Chip catches on quickly, their enthusiasm infectious. Lucien aimlessly wanders the store. He goes back and forth between his lazy pacing and picking up books to read their back matter.

When he starts to hit on some of my female customers, I move to stop him. I hold off when he flirts two women into buying twice the amount of books they intended to get by telling them they’re “worth it.” I get extra sales, and he gets some new phone numbers.

As long as he’s not making anyone uncomfortable, it’s a win-win situation. Though the second he’s intrusive, I plan to kick his butt out into the cold, secret guard or not. Though, why I need a babysitter with Dominic just outside, I can’t fathom. It’s not like there was a marriage announcement on social media. No one likely knows the Beast of Boston has taken a bride. I vaguely wonder if anyone will.

Chip and I settle into a rhythm, and the knot of tension in my chest begins to unwind. This is where I belong—surrounded by stories, helping others find escape in the pages of a book. For the first time since Lucien and Tock walked through those doors, I feel that familiar glimmer of purpose .

Chip darts ahead of me, rearranging the book displays with an efficiency that borders on supernatural. I heft a stack of hardcovers onto the counter, watching them move like they’re auditioning for the speed round of a game show.

"How do you do that so fast?" I ask, half-joking, half-amazed, as I set the books down with a huff.

Chip glances over their shoulder, grinning. "Years of practice."

I snort. "What did you do before all this? Before the Beast of Boston swept you up into his kingdom?" Chip mentioned selling hexes, but they made it seem like it was a long time ago.

The grin falters for a second, a flash of hesitation crossing their face. "Before this? I was. . .not much of anything. Just surviving."

The way they say it—casual, but not casual—makes me tread carefully. "Surviving where?"

Chip flips through a book, not looking at me. "On the streets. Boston’s not exactly kind to people without a place to go, you know? Especially when you’re carrying extra baggage."

"Baggage?" I press gently.

They tap their front tooth—the one with a sizable chip—and shrug. "Yeah. This bad boy earned me the nickname for a reason. For six years, I had a Thorn on me."

I freeze, the weight of their words hitting me like a freight train. "A Thorn? Like. . .like one of Dominic’s?"

"No," Chip cuts me off, sharp and decisive. "Not Dominic’s. I. . ." Their eyes dart off nervously. "When I was a kid, I took a job for some bad dudes selling dirty hexes. One day, when I went to pick up a package, those idiots decided I looked like a good test subject for their product. They forced me to drink one to test it. A Thorn of Misfortune."

Oh.

Oh fae lords. I can’t even imagine the pain and suffering?—

My chest tightens, the parallel to my dad slicing through me like a blade. He was used too, a test subject for the Wolves’ experiments. My nails bite into my palms, and I have to force myself to breathe.

"You ever feel like your body doesn’t belong to you?" Chip asks with more than a little bit of self-consciousness. Their eyes flit over in Lucien’s direction. One long leg is bent over the other as he turns another page of a dark mafia romance book called Light Me Up . He seems completely engrossed. If he’s listening in, he doesn’t show it.

Chip’s question lands like a gut punch, and I can’t stop my fingers from brushing against the edge of the counter, grounding myself. I nod slowly, swallowing hard. Not only because I relate on my father’s behalf, but I also had the same sensation for most of my youth. I know what it’s like to be forced to be someone you’re not. Dissociation was such a regular habit, I made it into a business.

Chip nods back, like that’s answer enough. "That’s what it felt like. Every inch of me was wrong. My skin? Not mine. My hands? Not mine. It was like being a marionette on strings I couldn’t see. And wherever I went, bad luck was glued to my ass. Losing my wallet from a hole in my pants, breaking bones every couple of months, always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You ever get hit by a car and then mugged while you’re trying to crawl off the street? Because I have. I barely ever had a place to sleep or anything to eat. There was no safety, just uncertainty every single day on a level I never knew was even possible. "

They pause, staring down at the book in their hands as if it holds answers. "I lasted six years with that curse. Six years of trying to find someone who had a Petal even though I knew street Thorns didn’t usually have antidotes. Somehow, I managed to keep this tiny little sliver of hope alive." Chip shrugs. "Or maybe it’s just my body's stubborn refusal to ever give up."

"How did you…?" The words catch in my throat, but I push them out. "How did you get rid of it?"

Chip’s grin returns as they lift a finger. "My one moment of good luck. Six months ago, after a particularly rough bout of bad luck and too many days without food, I collapsed outside one of Dominic’s warehouses. I was half-dead and ready to be all-dead when they found me. They could’ve left me there. Would’ve been easier."

"But they didn’t." Why is my heart beating so hard and heavy?

"No. I was hauled inside and asked what my deal was. I got the words out, not even realizing it was the Beast of Boston himself asking me the questions." Chip speaks of my husband with overt reverence. "Turns out, the Thorn I took had been from one of his stolen shipments. Which meant?—"

"He had the Petal," I whisper.

"I didn’t even know one existed, but he gave it to me. Woke up in a fancy bed with food at my side and a new lease on life. That day, Dominic earned my fealty for life. He asks me to jump? I’d go over the edge of a cliff." Chip’s eyes glaze over with open worship at the mention of their savior. They mean every word of what they say.

Guess there is someone else who isn’t afraid of him.

A strange pressure builds behind my sternum, a tangle of feelings I can’t quite unravel. "He saved you. "

Chip shrugs one shoulder, their expression unreadable. "Saved me, yeah. But more than that, he reminded me what it feels like to be taken care of." Chip’s voice thickens with emotion. "Nobody gave a damn about me before that damn Thorn, and no one cared for those long six years. But Dominic, he actually gives a witchtit about me. Maybe even two."

That hits me in the chest with far too much weight. The idea of someone caring about me, taking care of me, holds some appeal if I’m being honest. In the last few days, I’d been waited on hand and foot with everything I could want by Mrs. P and the luxury of it still sends a delicious thrill through me.

I’d been on my own for a long time. Sure, I had my dad but he was out of his gourd most of the time. And my friend Rap, she helped me get set up in my new life and break ties cleanly with the old. But the idea of Dominic caring about this kid almost makes me. . .dear fae lords. . .jealous?

"Since then he’s made sure I got a job, a place to stay, goals and shit." A wry explosive laugh escapes Chip. "There’s like this whole thing about planning goals and setting your sights on something better. I remember when I only strove to see the next day. But Dom says I need to focus on my future. He checks in on me regularly, intent to help me figure out a way to build it. The guy is my hero."

I stare at them, their words ricocheting in my head. Dominic saved Chip. He used something priceless to help someone who had nothing to offer in return. And for what? Compassion? A sense of justice?

A necessary evil .

The realization slices through me. Dominic was a lot of things—Beast. Businessman. Dangerous. But this? This complicates things. And the parallels to my dad make my stomach churn. My family used my father just like some thugs on the street used Chip. Except there is no Petal for my father.

Only fractured pieces of him are left, but I’ll care for those until one of us expires.

Chip moves on, rearranging another shelf like they didn’t just crack my perception of my husband wide open. I grip on the counter, trying to push away the riotous emotions brewing inside me.

Dominic saved Chip to use them. My husband is methodical in tit for tat. Don’t romanticize him. Though something niggles under my breastbone all the same.

Three hours come and go all too soon, and I climb back into the limo to join a dour, unresponsive Dominic.

"Thank you," I say with sincere gratitude.

He doesn’t look up from his phone, just grunts.

"Seriously," I press.

Dominic finally lifts his head to meet my gaze.

I’m thanking him for more than allowing me to be at my shop. I’m thanking him for saving Chip, though I won’t articulate that out loud.

"You’re thanking me for something you already negotiated?" His brows rise with boredom, and it feels like a slap. "I keep my word. Don’t expect more." His eyes flick downward. "Also you spilled coffee on yourself." Then he goes back to his phone.

Whatever flicker of warmth I felt earlier extinguishes.

Forget calling him a beast. My husband is a dick.