Page 15 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 15

Hey, Wanna Have Sex?

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I ’m going to ask my wife to have sex with me. The Beast of Boston—who’s bribed foreign diplomats with diamonds the size of walnuts, controlled entire supply chains with a single whisper, and fucked countless women, sometimes two at a time in his reckless youth—is absolutely scared shitless at the prospect of sharing a bed with his wife.

And I’ve been trying. Fae help me , I’ve been trying.

At breakfast, I sat across from her, the silence stretching as she read a book and drank her morning coffee. I opened my mouth twice, only to stuff another hunk of steak in instead. Who proposes adding sex to their marriage contract over eggs?

Later, I called Isabelle into my office—twice. The first time, I ended up asking if she had any preferences for dinner, which earned me a puzzled look and a shrug. The second time, I asked if the house was warm enough for her liking and sternly reminded her she has full control of the thermostat. She tilted her head like I’d grown a second one but didn’t press me .

She knows. Fae lords, she knows I want to say something, but she’s giving me the infuriating gift of patience and space. Space to hang myself on.

By the time I drove with her to Chapter Three, my brain was buzzing with idiotic ideas.

Should I text her? Write a note? How does one properly invite their wife to bed?

Dearest wife, fancy a shag tonight?

No. Absolutely not.

Isabelle had slid out of the car, her usual bag slung over her shoulder, and gave me a polite but pointed smile as if she didn’t notice I was losing my mind.

Later at the house, the pending task fries my brain when I ask about the same shipment for the third time in fifteen minutes. Tock politely asks me if I’d like to take some Ginko Biloba, a helpful brain-boosting supplement.

Lucien interrupts my attempt to re-prioritize shipments for the third time. "Uh, boss, we handled that this morning," he says.

I scowl at him. "And we’ll handle it again, won’t we?" I fall back on a rather crude management technique of lashing out to cover my repeated mistakes.

Lucien raises his hands in surrender, whispering to Tock as he passes, "What’s his deal today? He seems as nervous as a cat dangling over a pond."

"Female troubles, I’m guessing," Tock whispers back somewhat flatly.

"Man needs to get laid."

"Desperately."

I yell at them to get out. But they’re not wrong.

Since Isabelle’s arrival, my staff has been less on edge around me. It’s infuriating. Like she’s softened something in them—and maybe, fae curse it , in me .

By the time Isabelle and I retire to my office after dinner, my nerves are strung tighter than a bowstring. She sits across the room, reading a different book from this morning. She keeps pushing up those impossibly sexy librarian glasses perched on her nose, and I can’t take it anymore.

"This isn’t working," I blurt.

She looks up from her book. "What isn’t working?"

"Us, spending time together."

A brow quirks over those impossibly sexy glasses. Then with a quiet sigh, she gets up and gathers her things—her book, blanket, and mug.

In the span of a second, I’m across the room. I rip the mug and blanket from her hands, the book hitting the ground with a thud. "Where are you going?" The question comes out harsh and guttural.

The line of befuddlement draws between Isabelle’s eyebrows. "You said this isn’t working, so I’m leaving."

"You will not be leaving me. Not ever ." The snarl erupts from a primal place, one that overflows with outrage at the notion that Isabelle could ever leave me.

She can’t. Isabelle is mine . Mine to take care of. Mine to keep.

Some part of my brain logically wonders, with such strong emotions, how a pack bond has not been formed already?

Because you are a monster. She may tolerate you, but she can’t love you. You are unlovable.

"Okay," Isabelle says softly, setting a hand on my arm. "I won’t leave."

Her touch instantly soothes me, and my hackles fall. Keeping one hand on me, Isabelle sets the blanket and mug down to the side .

She pets and caresses my human arm in soothing strokes. In mere moments, I feel calmed by her touch.

"There. Now that you are calmer, use your big boy words and tell me what you mean."

I rear back as if she’s slapped me. Despite my evident outrage, Isabelle doesn’t seem to fear another outburst from me. She just continues to stroke my arm.

"My big boy words?" I repeat after her.

She gives a little shrug.

How can this woman insult me while endearing herself to me at the same time? Fae lords help me, I actually adore the mischievous little smirk that plays with the corners of her mouth. She knows exactly how to push and pull me in equal measure, so I am under her complete control.

I step back, untethering myself from the influence of her touch as I prepare to tell her what I require in “my big boy words.”

"We haven’t created a pack bond. Therefore, we must take things to the next level."

Isabelle settles into the reading chair again, gathering the blanket around her again as if preparing to digest my every word in earnest.

"And what exactly is ‘the next level?’" she asks, that amused smile still pulling at her lips.

"Sex."

Poof. The smile and her mirth disappear in a magic puff of smoke.

Of course, she isn’t happy about it. Who would be?

The memory of her arousal curling around me as I had her pinned against the desk beats into me. But that only happened because of what she was reading. I simply took advantage of her wound-up state. It wasn’t for me or because of me .

Isabelle’s smile vanishes, her face paling as she processes my blunt declaration. I can feel her hesitation radiating through the room, and it strikes a sour note in my gut, reinforcing the dark mantra that’s been haunting me. The same one that reminds me, ceaselessly, that I am hideous—a monster she’s forced to endure. But this isn’t about indulgence or pleasure; this is about survival. This is what needs to happen.

I swallow the frustration and try to keep my tone steady, logical. "Isabelle, this. . . It’s necessary." I force myself to keep my gaze on her, even though every instinct in me wants to look away, to avoid the disgust I’m sure I’ll see.

"Necessary," she echoes, her voice faint.

I nod, folding my hands tightly behind my back. "It’s clear proximity and shared meals have not created enough of a bond to merit pack, otherwise I would have been able to shift by now. So we are going to try the next step. Your idea, in fact."

Good gods man, way to put it on her, you worthless son of a bitch. Like this is really her idea.

Still, I barrel on. "A physical connection—intimacy—is essential to create the pack. Without it, the effect won’t take hold. This was outlined in the contract, Isabelle. The clause about doing whatever is necessary for the success of this marriage? This is what it meant."

She blinks at me, her lips parting slightly in shock. For a moment, she looks almost dazed, as if trying to reconcile my words with the reality before her. Her hands grip the blanket so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

"So this is. . .a transactional requirement," she says softly, almost to herself. Her voice is carefully neutral.

"Yes," I reply, my tone clipped. Better to keep it clinical, detached. "It’s not about desire or emotion. It’s about fulfilling the terms of our arrangement."

She exhales sharply, steadying herself. Have you had the birth control shot?

My pause goes on too long. There hasn’t been a need for so long. . . My words trail off as the heat of shame builds. She looks away at that as if going inward to process my words. I wait for her to reject my proposal, bracing for her anger or scorn. I wait for her to say she would rather die than have my baby. And then I’ll have to bring up the clause again. I’ll have to remind her of the promises she made. She’ll despise me for it. And I’ll have to live with the knowledge that I am, in fact, the kind of beast she sees me as.

When she studies me again, her expression flickers between calm resolve and something I can’t quite place. Trepidation? Or is it fear? My stomach twists as I try to parse her reaction, but she doesn’t look away.

"All right," she says at last, her voice barely more than a whisper.

All right? I echo, not sure I’m hearing her correctly.

I suppose having a baby could increase the chances of forming a pack bond, and I always wanted children.

Fae fucking hell. I hadn’t been expecting this.

She begins to stand, letting the blanket slide from her lap as her hands move toward the buttons at the front of her blouse, fingers trembling.

The sight of her quiet willingness sets fire to something inside my chest. The thought of her undressing under my gaze, willingly making herself bare for me, fills me with a fierce, nearly overwhelming desire.

I want her.

I want to possess her, to claim her as my own, to run my hands over every inch of her soft, perfect skin. The beast in me surges, hungry and aching.

But as her fingers fumble with the first button, something shifts inside me—a crack in the carefully controlled logic I’ve forced myself to maintain. Her hands shake as she works the fabric open, and in that trembling, I see more than hesitation. I see fear, not of me but of. . . something else. And it guts me.

"No." The word comes out harsher than I intend, and her hands freeze, her eyes wide as she looks up at me.

I rake a clawed hand through my hair, my breathing uneven. "Stop. This isn’t. . . I didn’t mean…" I trail off, searching for words that don’t exist.

I step forward, reaching out with hands that tremble as much as hers. Gently, I close my fingers over hers, stopping her from continuing. "Not now.” The words scrape out, raw and uneven. I can barely get the words out; every inch of me aches with the desire to touch her, to hold her, to make her mine in the way instinct screams I should. But it’s too much. It’s too soon, and I know if I give in now, I won’t be able to stop.

"Dominic…" she breathes.

I release her hands and step back, clenching my fists to steady myself before turning to go.

"Relax for now," I say over my shoulder, voice rough. "Tonight. I’ll come to your room later tonight."

With one last look at her—at the beautiful, infuriating, and surprisingly brave woman who is my wife—I turn and leave, retreating down the hall, my heart pounding and body thrumming with an energy I can barely contain. The beast roars within, angry at being denied, but I shove it down, forcing myself to breathe. This isn’t the time to lose control .

Her gaze drills into my back as I leave, but I don’t turn around. If I do, I’ll stay. I’ll either call the whole thing off or fall upon her like a starving wild beast.

This is a transaction—nothing more. Duty demands it, and I will keep it that way.

But the beast inside me is far too hungry. Worse still, the man is just as eager.