Page 16 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 16

A Ten-Course Meal for a Starving Shifter

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I ’m not nervous.

Argh. Who am I trying to fool?

Of course I’m nervous. For the first time in years, someone is going to see me—not the carefully curated shadows I live in, not the beastly exterior I allow when intimidation is required, but me.

Half-shifted. Half-human. All monstrous.

My claws flex involuntarily as I pace the length of my room, the candlelight flickering with each pass. The shadows comfort me, but they also remind me of what I can no longer hide. If this doesn’t work, if this doesn’t create the bond I so desperately need. . .

My wife will become a widow, freed by circumstance.

Unless a child seals the bond.

The thought is clinical at first—pack structure, legacy, survival. But it slams into something deeper, something primal.

I haven’t bothered to get a birth control shot for longer than is necessary. There had been no reason to get it. But the idea of Isabelle, swollen with my child, curled by the fire evokes a fierce protective want I didn’t even know I possessed.

Like she said, it might be the key to creating a pack bond.

Yes, Dominic because the smartest people fix tenuous relationships by having babies.

The resonant dongs of the grandfather clock filter up from downstairs.

It’s time.

Breathing in deep, I exit my room and take the two steps to my wife’s bedroom door. Isabelle’s door. Using the connecting door seems too familiar, too intimate. I need formality and a little distance to keep my head about me.

For a moment, I stand outside, fists clenched at my sides, debating if I should run. But then her scent filters through the cracks—sweet, utterly tempting—and it grounds me. I lift my hand and knock.

Her door creaks open, and for a moment, all I see is her silhouette framed in the soft glow of her room. My gaze falls to the infernal fuzzy robe she’s clutching tightly around herself, her knuckles white against the fabric. Her voice wavers slightly when she speaks. Did she change her hair? It falls in loose curls around her shoulders, reminding me of a classic movie star. Like on our wedding day.

"Would you like to come in?"

I should say yes. Step inside her room and take control of the situation. But I can’t. Not here. Not where the light will strip me bare.

"I would prefer if we. . .continued this in my room." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, and her eyes glimmer with something I can’t quite place. Hesitation? Annoyance? Disgust ?

She nods and follows me without a word, the silence stretching taut between us. When we reach my room, I step aside to let her in first, keeping to the shadows like the coward I am.

Isabelle stops just inside the doorway, her gaze darting around the space.

It’s not like her room, bright and airy with the scent of lavender and sunlight. My bedroom is dark, lined with heavy furniture and the faint smell of woodsmoke and leather. A place where power is commanded, not shared.

"You really don’t like light, do you?" she says softly, almost to herself. The only illumination emanates from a candelabra on the farthest side of the room, keeping everything mostly dim or cloaked in shadow. Including me.

I grunt in response, my eyes following her as she takes tentative steps into my territory. Of course, I can see her near perfectly. Even when I was fully in my human form, my ability to see in the dark remained exceptional.

She hesitates near the bed, her fingers fiddling with the tie of her robe. Something about the motion stirs both longing and dread deep in my chest.

"You look beautiful," I say gruffly, the words scraping out before I can stop them. And she does. She glances up, startled, and for a moment, her expression cracks open just enough for me to catch something raw and vulnerable.

"I wasn’t sure. . .what you wanted," she murmurs, her cheeks flushing. Her voice is steady, but there’s uncertainty in her eyes.

What I want? I want to touch her, taste her, mark her until there’s no question of who she belongs to. But I also want to turn away, to keep her from seeing what I am. To spare her this. But I can’t.

I approach her slowly, my steps heavy on the floor. Her scent grows stronger, intoxicating, but when I reach out to brush my fingers against her arm, she flinches.

The motion is small, almost imperceptible, but it guts me.

"You don’t have to do this," I rasp, pulling back. "This is a bad idea?—"

What was I thinking, making her have sex with me? I’m no better than a slaver if I force her, even if she is my wife.

"No." The word bursts out of her, sharp and quick, and she shakes her head. "That’s not. . .I mean, it’s not you. It’s me. I’m just. . ." She gestures vaguely at herself, her cheeks flushing darker.

"Isabelle," I start, but she cuts me off.

"I’m not exactly in peak condition, okay? It’s been years since I’ve done this and I’ve put on weight. And now here I am, standing in lingerie that looks like a cat’s cradle, about to. . .I don’t know. . .have business sex?" She waves her hands wildly, her voice rising with each word until she’s practically vibrating with nervous energy.

For a moment, I just stare at her, her words sinking in. She’s insecure. Self-conscious. The realization hits me like a freight train, and the tension in my chest loosens ever so slightly.

And what about lingerie and cat’s cradle?

"Business sex?" I echo, and to my surprise, the corners of my mouth twitch. "That does sound. . .unappealing."

She huffs, crossing her arms. "Well, it’s not exactly the most romantic setup."

"Would it help if I read to you?" The words tumble out before I can think better of them, and her head snaps up, eyes wide.

"Excuse me? "

"From your book," I clarify. "Perhaps you could read to me instead. Something steamy."

Her jaw drops. "You’ve lost your damn mind."

My lips quirk into a smirk. "Remember the last time you read to me? How you struggled to get the words out with me lapping at your sweet slit until you couldn’t focus on the page anymore?"

Her eyes widen, her breath coming in short pants. The scent of her arousal blooms and I instantly begin to harden.

"No?" I step closer. "I remember it vividly. The way you tasted. The way you begged me not to stop. And the way you couldn’t hold the book steady while I?—"

"Okay, okay," she cuts in, her voice high and flustered. But there’s a spark of interest in her eyes now, the tension between us breaking like a fever.

She reaches for the tied cloth belt, fiddling with it for a minute before loosening it and shrugging off the robe.

Oh.

Fuck.

Me.

I’m in trouble.

The entire world narrows to the criss-cross of red straps across her full, beautiful flesh. The sinful lingerie clings to every curve of Isabelle’s body, and blood is drawn to my dick so fast I’m lightheaded.

My claws itch to tear it off her, like unwrapping a Christmas gift. I’m literally salivating, unsure where to even start. I want to start everywhere all at once.

I thought I could approach this with a relatively level head, but Isabelle is now a piece of bait I want to play with, bat at, lick up and toy with for hours.

I swallow hard, feeling the acute rise and fall of my Adam's apple .

She shifts under my gaze, her hands fidgeting with her glasses.

That only makes me harder.

I can’t stop the low growl that rumbles in my chest as my eyes rake over her. Every predatory instinct screams to claim her, to mark her, to make her mine in every way that matters.

"Isabelle," I rasp, the word rough with need. "What do you think you are doing?"

Are you trying to make me lose my mind? Do you know how on the verge of losing control I am? I don’t want to hurt you, but fae above I want to tear into you so badly my teeth hurt.

She freezes, her gaze flicking up to meet mine. "I thought you’d like it."

I open my mouth to answer.

"Like I said, I’m not in peak condition," she barrels on in a defensive rush while adjusting her glasses again. "I know that I look like a trussed-up ham, okay? It was a gift from one of my girlfriends. Not that it matters. You didn’t marry me for this, but I thought the, uh. . ." she waves a hand over her body and the illicit strappy one piece, "might help."

"Help?" I choke on the word. Unable to look at her one second longer before I pounce on her, I turn and pace, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to access the man in me. The gentleman. Fuck, had I ever been a gentleman when it came to sex?

If not, I better figure it out quick.

I hear the rustle of clothes. Whipping around, I snatch the robe from Isabelle as she tries to pull it over an arm again.

"No," I snarl. Then I turn and roughly throw her up one of the spiral posters framing the bed. Her back arches, and she moans as I trap her wrists over her head. "Don’t you dare put that thing back on. You think you are a trussed-up piece of meat, Isabelle? In fact, you are a whole mouthwatering five-course meal I want to devour twelve different ways over the span of what would feel like days. Because I am so very, very hungry."

I lean down and level my mouth to her ear. "And don’t you dare try to leave or I will chase you down and hunt you like an animal. Then there will be no stopping me when I catch you." My voice trembles, half caught between the excitement of the idea and the terror of unleashing on my bride.

Her teeth snap together.

That scent. Oh fuck, she’s fully turned on. It thickens and surrounds me, making me so hard I’m pretty sure my balls will burst if I don’t get to pump, thrust, and blow inside her sweet fucking body.

"You like the idea of me chasing you down, my pet?" I purr, my animal side taking over.

"I doubt I’d get far," she says, turning slightly, her soft petal lips brushing against my cheek. I grit my teeth so hard, my fang cuts into my lower lip. The slide of my own blood over my tongue only heightens my senses and primal need to hunt.

"What if I gave you a head start?"

Am I really thinking of doing this? Chasing my wife down and fucking her?

This is wrong.

This is unconscionable.

I shake my head and break away. "I-I’m sorry, I?—"

A whimper of disappointment escapes her and I freeze. Still holding her wrists, I meet her hooded, glazed eyes.

"I don’t want to hurt you," I say in a moment of bald honesty .

She drags her tongue over her lips in deliberation, or maybe it’s to help steady her ragged breathing.

"What if—What if I like it to hurt a little?"

Her confession simultaneously stops my heart as my blood rushes in my ears as loud as an entire raging ocean. I couldn’t have heard that right.

That would mean she is beyond perfect. It would mean too much. This wasn’t the plan. She wasn’t the plan. Or she was but I didn’t know we’d end up here, like this.

Logic and reason are crowded out by the sharp, demanding edge of my need.

I release her, taking a step back, regarding her coolly. Isabelle’s arms fall as her brows draw with disappointment.

Every ounce of power I possess goes into controlling what I do next.

"I’ll give you to the count of ten," I force through gritted teeth.

Those brown eyes fly wide.

"One." Pause. "Two." Oh fuck, if she doesn’t move. . .

Oh fuck. If she does .

"Three."

Isabelle slips by me and out the door to the hallway, closing it behind her. The growl from my chest can’t be contained as every muscle coils. As the need to chase her, to tackle her to the ground, to bite and fuck.

I haven’t felt this alive, this excited, in I don’t know how long.

"Six."

It won’t last long. She can’t hide from me. Not when she smells so damn good. Not when she leaves a trail of tangible warmth in her wake. Not when I want her so badly .

"Eight."

Don’t hurt her. Whatever you do, you can’t completely unleash.

What if I like it to hurt a little?

" Nine."

I can’t wait any longer. I stalk to the door, throwing it open.

The thrill of a hunt tingles through me in a wash of energy and excitement.

Isabelle.

I’m coming for you.

And soon after, you’ll be coming for me.

"Ten." I whisper it instead of shouting, the beast inside me surging forward.

My wife is about to learn exactly what it means to be hunted—and owned—by the Beast of Boston.