Page 22 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 22

A Not So Silent Partner

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I ’m an absolute bastard.

No. I’m a beast. The Beast of Boston.

And that means I take what I want, when I want, and instill fear in everyone to do so if necessary.

Yet I can’t stop berating myself for yesterday, for coming down on Isabelle so hard. For what I did next. . .

I may be in the business of orchestrating illegal hexes and curses, of maiming or killing others to get what I want, but I have never been the sexual predator I acted like last night. I tried to scare her, intimidate her, then took her forcibly.

She did seem to enjoy it, but that doesn’t excuse what I did.

I’d been a messy spiral of fear, unable to stop the past from dragging into my present. Though that may be an indication that my body is breaking down, taking my mind with it.

The massive oak table stretches before me, set meticulously with silver and porcelain, gleaming in the muted morning light. An array of breakfast dishes covers the table— steaming plates of eggs, crisped bacon, buttery croissants, fresh-cut fruit, all surrounded by delicate pots of coffee and cream. The rich scents drift into the air, warm and inviting, though I have no intention of touching any of it.

Somewhere upstairs, the faint squeak of a marker against the wall drifts down, barely audible over the quiet clink of dishes. Basil must already be deep into his morning equations, filling another blank canvas with numbers that only make sense to him. Mrs. P will clear them off by evening, only for him to start over again tomorrow.

At least he stays in his damn room where he belongs.

His daughter, on the other hand, is a fae fucking menace.

Going off without telling me and then making me answer to her. I was out of my mind with the fear something had happened to her. Something in me broke, and I turned feral.

And there she was in Chapter Three smelling delectable, acting like she wasn’t the problem, and accusing me of embarrassing her in front of her friends. I had to make her feel something. Anything to even the score between her ire and my raging emotions. I kept pushing and pushing until there I was, pushing between her thighs and sinking my teeth into her.

My heart thunders despite myself. Isabelle steps into the dining room wearing what should be an utterly unremarkable outfit: a romance book graphic tee tucked into soft, stretchy pants that cling to her every curve like a whispered secret. Over it, she’s thrown on a cardigan that she’s pushed up at the sleeves, revealing the delicate bookish tattoo twirling down her forearms. Her hair is up in a neat bun, parted at the center like a ballerina’s, her glasses perched on her nose, lending her a scholarly allure that borders on maddening.

And there. The imprint of my teeth on her neck.

The sight of it gets me hard. I want to make her mine all over again.

My instincts scream at me to claim her, to mark her more, to bind her to me in every way that matters. Because that’s how a pack is formed—with proximity, with connection, with sex. But being near her is tearing me apart.

She takes her seat gracefully, unfolding a napkin and laying it across her lap with practiced ease. She looks almost regal.

How dare she?

She might as well have sauntered in here wearing nothing at all, announcing she’d like to be fucked for breakfast.

How dare she flaunt her scent, her softness, her skin in a way that is so deliberate —taunting.

How dare she sit there, composed and unaffected, while I’m unraveling? Every second I spend around her feels like a test I’m failing. She’s supposed to make me stronger, to stabilize me, to give me the pack I need to survive.

"Good morning," she finally says, voice calm, eyes meeting mine without a hint of fear or hesitation.

She doesn’t hold last night against me. She should.

That blend of vanilla and wild roses wraps around me even from across the room, tightening the noose I’ve been trying to escape since this marriage began. I can’t help but close my eyes and inhale deeply.

I picked her out to be my wife based on her background and that little bio on her website, but I hadn’t anticipated that absolute drugging heaven that emanates from her skin .

What’s next? She’ll come to breakfast wearing that delectable fuzzy robe that now gets me hard every time I see it? When she wears that damn thing during our evenings in the library, I have to hold my breath and keep my tablet up in front of my face to block her out of my senses.

It drives me wild.

Well, more wild than she already makes me. She often pushes me to the brink.

I grip the edge of the table, forcing the beast within me to quiet. It’s a constant battle—keeping myself in check, restraining the urge to close the distance between us. I hate it. Hate how she stirs something primal in me, something that isn’t soothed by the reminders of what I am, what I’ve become.

She takes a delicate bite of her toast, chewing slowly, savoring it. I hate how effortlessly comfortable she seems, as if my presence doesn’t rattle her in the slightest.

I can barely look away, even as a stab of self-revulsion twists in my gut. She has no idea how monstrous I feel under her touch, how grotesque I must seem compared to her grace. Her softness and warmth, the utter human ease with which she occupies the space—it’s both a balm and a torment.

We sit in silence, but I feel the tension thickening in the air. The silence is ripped in half as her phone buzzes loudly from her pocket. She pulls it out and answers.

After making only a few displeased sounds, she hangs up. Isabelle clears her throat. "I’ll be leaving shortly. My bookshop has a burst pipe, and I need to handle it."

I whip my gaze to her, incredulous. "No. Absolutely not. Someone else will handle it. "

She raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. "It’s my bookshop. I’ll be the one taking care of it."

"No, you won’t." The words come out sharper than intended, a command more than a request. "This. . .situation means you stay here. Out of danger. I have people who can handle whatever problems arise with your shop."

I’m still rattled by her disappearing act yesterday, but I refuse to admit it.

The idea of finding her drenched in blood, limp on the ground, turns me cold. The scent of burning flesh hits my nose out of my memories. That moment remains so real, so close, I might as well be standing there in the middle of the conflagration, bodies piled around me right here in this dining room.

"Dominic," she says, my name falling from her lips with a calm certainty that makes my blood burn. "I appreciate the concern, but I’m not some delicate flower who needs to be coddled. I’ve been managing that bookshop on my own for years. I will go, and you can either come with me or. . .not." She takes another sip of her coffee, entirely at ease, as if she’s just stated a fact, not issued a challenge.

"Isabelle, I am not some. . .lapdog you can order around."

She simply looks at me, her stare unwavering, serene as ever. "I’m not ordering you around. I’m telling you what I’m going to do. If you want to follow, that’s your choice." She gives me a soft smile, her calm infuriatingly unshakable. "Besides, I thought we were supposed to spend time together."

There is a glint of something ice cold in her eyes and I realize she isn’t so wholly unaffected. My wife is pissed. Pissed off at me to be exact. And she’s not afraid to yank my chain when the opportunity arises .

She tilts her head, studying me with those steady eyes, and it takes everything in me not to reach for her, not to pull her close and see if I can melt that chilly disposition. Instead, I bite back my frustration. "Why can’t you be like everyone else and cower before my awesome power?" Even I can hear that I sound more like a sulky child than a formidable businessman with senators in his pocket and an empire at his feet.

"Because I know the difference between bark and bite."

"Tell that to your neck," I shoot back on reflex.

She rolls her eyes. "You’re not as bad as you think. You’re just in pain."

There’s a sincerity that I wasn’t expecting. Her words cut directly to my core, slicing straight through all my many defenses. "And I think. . .I think if you were truly a monster, you wouldn’t care so much about protecting me," she adds softly.

The words settle between us, heavy and charged, and for a moment, I can’t look away from her, caught in her gaze like she’s somehow the one holding me captive.

I let out a long, ragged breath, finally tearing my gaze away. "Fine," I growl. "I’ll accompany you to the shop. But I expect you to follow my lead."

She simply nods, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips as she rises from the table.

My wife wins yet again.

Dammit .

The moment we enter Chapter Three, I stick to the shadows, instinctively moving away from the front windows.

Yesterday, I hadn’t thought. I hadn’t cared. I’d stormed into Poison Apple without a second’s hesitation because I’d thought Isabelle was in danger, and nothing else had mattered. But now, with the urgency gone, I still can’t force myself to stay in the car. I need to stay close. No matter how uncomfortable being out in the open makes me feel.

Isabelle is surprised when I follow her in.

"I don’t need your help. This is my business, not yours." She stresses that last part before her eyes flit to the counter I had her trapped against last night. Where we’d felt each other up like a couple of randy teenagers. I swallow hard at the memory and force myself to focus on the present.

I lift my hands. "I’m just here to observe. Like a silent business partner."

Isabelle casts me a warning glare before going about business. Chip is already there.

They were the one to catch the leak in action, informing my wife of the issue.

"Mr. Blackwell." Chip greets me formally but I can practically see them vibrate with energy at seeing me.

I nod at the kid in approval. "You’ve put on weight. That’s good."

Isabelle first regards me and Chip. "Put on weight?" she asks in disbelief.

"You want that tooth fixed yet?" I ask Chip, not acknowledging my wife’s comment. "Like I said before, just say the word and we’ll get dental on it in a heartbeat."

Chips shakes their head. "No sir, it, uh," they tap the tooth with their forefinger, "it reminds me where I came from."

I give another sharp dip of the chin. I understand that.

It’s still strange that someone gets so excited to see me. Most of my crew don’t even know what I look like, but Chip was one of the first to see me in my half- shifted twisted form. Little did they know, I’d been in that warehouse torturing one of the men responsible for my condition—my pain, my tragedy—when I found them outside, near death.

Chip barely reacted, so beaten down by life by that damn stolen Thorn. When I offered salvation, Chip saw past my physical state and hero-worshipped me, something I’m not always comfortable with. And if we’d taken better care of our product, Chip would have never been subjected to it. It’s part of the reason the recent months have been so infuriating. The Wolves, as they stupidly call their little human crew, have been stealing from me with more frequency.

Blinds draw up with a sharp rattle as Isabelle sheds more light on the store.

It's been years since I’ve been out in the open in light like this. The sensation is disorienting, the brightness harsher than I remembered. Isabelle moves through the store with a practiced ease. The space smells like fresh paperbacks, lavender, and her . I want to bottle it up and huff it whenever I need a hit of something heady.

She pauses in the center of the room, hands on her hips as she surveys the water damage creeping across the ceiling. A thin trickle seeps through a crack, hitting a stack of ruined hardcovers with a damp thud. Her mouth sets into a grim line as she assesses the destruction.

The plumber arrives minutes later, strolling in with the swagger of someone ready to overcharge a clueless customer. I stalk down a different aisle so he doesn’t see me, but where I can watch the two of them.

"These old places are a nightmare to fix, you know?" His tone is dismissive, almost bored, as he glances at the ceiling and sniffs. "Gonna cost you at least fifteen hundred, probably more once I start tearing things out."

Isabelle’s polite smile falters just a little. "Could you look over the entire space first? I’d like to know the full scope before making any decisions."

He snorts, waving her off. "Look, lady, it’s not rocket science. You’ve got leaks, you’ve got damage. It’s gonna be expensive no matter what."

The words are barely out of his mouth before I step forward, emerging from the shadows with enough force to make him stumble back. I let the dim light catch on my jagged teeth, let my hulking form cast a terrifying shadow over him. His face drains of color.

"What. . .What the?—?"

I don’t even need to growl to make him flinch. "You’ll treat her with respect, or you’ll find money to be the least of your troubles. And you’ll give a fair price. No games."

He stammers, nodding frantically. "Y-Yes. Of course. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’ll, uh, check everything properly."

As he scrambles to get to work, Isabelle sets her hands on her hips. When the plumber disappears into the back to "reassess," she turns to me, eyebrows raised.

"So much for silent partner, huh?"

"I won’t stand by while you’re disrespected. That was never part of our agreement."

She studies me, her expression softening in a way that makes my chest tighten. There’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes, like she’s seeing something new. I force myself to look away, focusing on the cracked ceiling instead.

After a beat, she crosses her arms, mirroring my stance. "So, I assume you’ll just scare everyone into giving me a good deal from now on?"

"If that’s what it takes," I say, only half-serious. Her lips twist as she does everything to fight the smile from forming on her face. Her reluctant pleasure hits something deep within me, a warm pulse I push down, focusing instead on my next steps. This place is hers, but it’s also. . .mine to protect now.

When the plumber reappears with a revised, considerably lower quote, Isabelle hands over a deposit, her face unreadable. But as he leaves, I pull out my phone and quickly dial Tock.

"Dominic," she says sharply, catching my attention. "What are you doing?"

Ignoring her, I wait for Tock to pick up. "Tock, get a crew to Chapter Three today," I say into the phone. "Top of the line, efficient. No delays."

She lets out a frustrated huff, her arms crossed tighter now. "I told you, I can handle this on my own."

"This isn’t negotiable.” I meet her gaze, letting her see the resolve in my eyes. "This place is important to you, Isabelle, so it’s important to me."

Her mouth parts in surprise, the protest dying on her lips. She blinks, momentarily caught off guard by my words, and I feel a faint pulse of satisfaction. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability I wasn’t expecting, and it makes the need to protect her burn even hotter.

She clears her throat, recovering quickly. "Well. . .thank you," she murmurs, clearly unsure how to respond.

I shrug, pretending it’s nothing, but I feel the weight of those words settle between us, creating a new understanding. She’s more than a partner in a transaction; she’s mine to protect, my pack—even if the fae lords won’t acknowledge it and grace me with shifting powers again. And anyone who dares cross her will have to answer to me.

As Isabelle and I stand in the quiet aftermath, she shoots me a sidelong glance, her lips quirking into a small, reluctant smile. "I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re not the monster you’d like me to believe, Dominic."

I grunt, dismissing the idea with a wave of my hand, though I can’t deny the warmth her words bring. But as we lock eyes, the air between us shifts, a pull that’s both unnerving and undeniable.

"Monsters protect what’s theirs," I murmur, almost to myself.

And Isabelle, for better or worse, is mine.