Page 23 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)
Chapter 23
Unexpected Company
THE BEAST OF BOSTON
B efore I even enter the house after coming home from dealing with the plumber, I know there are unwanted entities inside.
The scent hits me the moment I stepped out of the car.
"Stay here." Commanding Belle to remain just outside the door, I wonder where the hell Lucien and Tock are. "We’re not alone."
Her brows knit up in confusion, but she does as I say.
Mrs. P is there to greet me. "You have visitors."
"Who are they?" I ask, with not a little bit of menace.
Mrs. P raises her eyebrows at me, silently pointing out I don’t usually take that tone with her. "I didn’t mean for you, Mr. Blackwell. They are here for Mrs . Blackwell."
Belle crosses the threshold at hearing that. We look at each other, but her expression reveals she’s just as mystified. But she walks past me, only pausing to hang up her coat of roses. I don’t let her go in there by herself, though.
Four figures await us in the sitting room.
The distinct odor of strong magic emanates from the blonde one wearing pink and black, though it’s not nearly as offensive as I am used to encountering. She’s perched casually on the arm of the sofa, her legs crossed and her sharp eyes already appraising me. Next to her, a lumberjack-sized man stands stiffly, his broad shoulders and towering frame exuding an unspoken threat. His scent is unmistakable—bear shifter. I’d caught it from the car, the earthy musk of something powerful invading my territory.
My gaze moves to the others. A petite Black woman with hair pure white sits with her legs spread wide, looking overly comfortable. Her pale blue eyes are steady but piercing. She’s quiet but watchful, like she’s the one I should really be worried about. Then there’s the woman with the colorful viking braids. She stands when I enter, her green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sharpens the air.
They’ve made themselves quite at home, their postures unconcerned, the firelight casting their shadows like they belong here. They don’t.
"Can I help you?" I ask, my voice a low growl as I take another step into the room. My muscles coil, every instinct demanding I assert control.
The blonde one tilts her head, her lips curving in a way that’s both amused and unimpressed. "We’re Belle’s friends."
Friends. That one word lands like a challenge.
A hand presses on my arm. Belle’s subtle message to relax. "Isabelle goes on. "This is Rap, Snow, Goldie, and her fiancé, Ted."
I glance at the shifter, who stands behind the blonde one like a silent enforcer. His presence isn’t overtly threatening, but it’s enough to make my hands curl into fists at my sides. Ted gives me a slight nod.
"We’re here to congratulate you both on your marriage," Rap states, her voice even but edged with steel.
The hell they are. This is a wellness check.
Isabelle catches my eye with a knowing look. I read her nonmoving lips perfectly. See? They think I’m in an abusive relationship and are here to check on me. If you hadn’t acted like a brute, they wouldn’t be here.
As much as I want to argue the point that it was her fault, there is no use.
I let my gaze sweep over the group again. "It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Welcome to our home."
Oh, that felt more than a little weird. Too normal for the circumstances of our marriage, our relationship. Though in another world this could be a joyous occasion for Isabelle to introduce her friends to her husband. A pang of guilt goes through me. That’s not the life I’ve given her.
"Could you please go ask Mrs. P to bring us some tea?" Isabelle asks me with a smile. Again, I read her unspoken thoughts. Give us a minute alone so I can assure them I’m not your unwilling prisoner.
"Of course," I answer stiffly.
I turn on my heel, leaving them in the living room. Their scents cling to the air behind me, and for the first time in years, I feel the weight of intruders in my home.
In the kitchen, I find not only Mrs. P but also Lucien settled over in the breakfast nook, drinking coffee.
"You couldn’t have warned me?" I practically snarl at both of them.
Lucien takes another sip as he continues to read something on his phone. "They’re the mademoiselle’s friends. You did not say she is forbidden from having any," he says in an almost bored tone.
Mrs. P keeps moving about the kitchen, unbothered as well. Another testament to how Isabelle has softened them to my power. "Of course, she is allowed to have friends. I’m assuming they’d like some tea?" She is already at work magicking together some croissants and a tray of China cups.
"I walked into an ambush. They were ready to tear me apart if need be," I accuse the two wildly unconcerned members of my staff.
Lucien snorts. "I doubt they could get the drop on you, boss."
"And all you needed to do was show up and be polite. It’s the least you can do for Belle after all she’s done for you."
Tock strides in next. "Could I get a cuppa as well?" he asks Mrs. P, settling in next to Lucien. Then, as if noting my decided tension, he asks, "Is everything alright?"
"Belle’s friends do not care for the boss," Lucien says again in that infuriatingly flat tone.
"She’s assuring them in the next room she’s not a hostage," Mrs. P says as she manually opens a tin of loose leaf tea, "and that Mr. Blackwell is not really the beast he seems."
"Oh." Tock nods as if in understanding.
"I am standing right here," I say in a raised voice that is more than a little strained.
They all look up at that. A pause.
"And since you are here," Mrs. P says, "how are things progressing with Mrs. Blackwell?" Her tone is tight, reminding me she hasn’t approved of this from the get-go.
"Can’t be going too well if you are still in this state," Tock gives me a hard, studious look while adjusting his glasses as if searching for signs of my ability to shift.
"They spend a lot of time together. What else can they do?" Lucien says, pulling out his lighter and clicking it open and closed.
I open my mouth to stop this speculation.
"Sex."
My teeth clack against each other the moment it’s out of Mrs. P’s mouth. Even Tock and Lucien stare at her, as if startled as well.
"What?" she asks as golden croissants float from a hot tray out of the oven to fill a cloth-lined basket. "Sex is a powerful method of creating intimacy and connection. If Mr. P were still alive, fae lords rest his soul, he’d agree with me. They should be having sex, lots of it. Heaps of it."
I drag a claw over my pained expression.
Tock and Lucien are now watching me, their expressions somewhat crumpled as if they are trying to fight back laughter.
The urge to rip their faces clean off swells inside of me. The basket of croissants is pushed into my hands before I can make a move to do so.
"Now go out there, take this, lead everyone to the library for tea, and be hospitable to your wife’s friends."
The urge to push back rises but just as quickly deflates as my housekeeper gives me a sharp look. I turn and take the basket back into the living room, wondering when I lost control of my household.
Mrs. P follows me into the sitting room shortly after with a full rolling cart of teacups and a pot of tea. Goldie and Snow are openly and vocally delighted about Mrs. P’s abilities as the cups fly and fill themselves before everyone. Mrs. P seems more than a little pleased by the fuss made on her account.
Meanwhile, Rap’s cutting gaze remains glued to me, making it difficult to stay calm. I’m not used to being looked at, and my hackles rise under the scrutiny. Thankfully, Isabelle is always sure to have a hand on me, whether on my arm or leg, while we sit next to each other on the couch. While I’m not sure if she’s solely doing it to put on a show for her friends, it calms me nonetheless.
Rap finally eases up as the second pot of tea is near empty. There are half a dozen empty plates and little buttery flakes of croissants all over the coffee table and even a bit on the floor, but everyone seems to have relaxed a bit, including me. Though I could chalk that up to the glasses of rare cognac that have been distributed. Only Belle and Goldie passed on the apéritif while Snow boldly downed the first like a cheap shot. Now she sips the second glass more leisurely, her petite frame practically melted into the chair. Occasionally, a tiny hiccup escapes, a faint reminder of her earlier enthusiasm.
"I remember after Ted and I formed a pack bond," Goldie says. "We were attached at the hip, or me and my Teddy Bear would feel real physical pain at the distance."
"Goldie," Ted addresses his fiancée with more than a little exasperation. She pats him on the chest and leans up to drop a placating kiss on the cheek. Then she leans forward to grab the last little piece of croissant left on her plate. "He hates when I call him that," she says in a mock whisper.
Ted’s eyes roll up as if praying to the heavens above for strength, even though his arm remains fused around her body. I have to admit I don’t mind the bear shifter so much. He owns a construction company and says little but enough.
"Is that what it’s like for you too?" Despite languidly swirling the glass of cognac, Rap has all the subtlety of a shark scenting blood.
I’m not sure what information Isabelle conveyed about our marriage. Did she tell them it was a love match?
If she conveyed that I blackmailed her into marrying me after using her father as leverage, I bet the tone of the room would be wildly different.
Looking at Isabelle, I decide to let her take the lead. If she wanted to set them upon me like an angry, vengeful mob on her half, I think she’d have already done it. She looks at me and those big brown eyes seem to be at a loss, trying to determine the right thing to say in my gaze. The arm that rests along the back of the couch moves so my fingers can find the back of her neck. It’s both a possessive gesture, and one meant to reassure as I knead the muscles there.
"Um. . ." she starts, still looking into my eyes. Suddenly I wish we were the only two in this room. Sex and intimacy. That’s how to make a pack, says my level three mage housekeeper.
"Of course it is," Goldie answers for her. "Pack is paramount for shifters. Ted can only be away from his two brothers for longer periods because they’ve established that bond for so long. Of course, Dominic would be out of his mind if he didn’t know where Belle was. I shudder to think what Ted would do if he didn’t know where I was."
The man’s jaw tightens, his broad shoulders going rigid. For a moment, his expression goes blank—not vacant, but controlled, as though he’s shuttering something dangerous just beneath the surface. The muscle in his temple twitches almost imperceptibly, his fingers curling tighter around his glass, the faintest crack of tension in his grip.
I know the feeling.
"I am sorry for alarming you or any of your patrons." I direct this at Rap with sincerity, rolling the glass in my hand.
I am, after all, a businessman. I created a disruption at Poison Apple that was unwanted. Not to mention I seemed to be negatively affecting one of Rap’s people—though Isabelle is mine. It’s understandable she’d come check things out. It’s what I would do in her shoes.
Those green eyes settle on me for several heartbeats, but I don’t look away.
Again, I can’t help but note the smell of the woman is strange, undefinable. Rap isn’t wholly human, but I’ve no idea what her deal is. If I had cared to spare the resources, I could find out.
Finally, she nods, and I know we are fine. . .for now.
Isabelle shifts under my touch. The way she looks at Goldie and Ted, I can only guess at what she’s thinking.
Is that what it’s supposed to feel like? Is that how we are supposed to be?
Of course those must be Isabelle’s thoughts. Not mine.
The only thing I need to gauge whether things work or not is by my ability to shift, which means we need to continue to stay close.
Yet again, Mrs. P words come back to slam into the side of my head.
The mental image of fucking Isabelle all over the house, on every surface, as often as possible sends my blood south. I shift on the couch to relieve the sudden pressure.
"Can we go now?" The question comes from Snow, followed by another hiccup. Her legs are now draped over the leg of her chair.
Rap dead-eyes me. "Yeah, we’re good here."
They all stand.
"Thank you so much for having us," Goldie says, stepping forward as if about to give me a hug. Both Ted and I tense. She instantly reels back and sticks a handout.
The wisest move between two over-territorial shifters.
I shake it and thank her for coming. Ted also gives me a firm shake before following the other women out. I pretend I don’t hear Rap whisper to Isabelle as they hug, "If you are ever even remotely uncomfortable or scared, you come to me."
Isabelle gives her a quiet thank you and we wave to the groups as Ted drives them off in a truck that can easily handle the nasty slick streets this late at night.
We shut the door, and suddenly it’s just Isabelle and me. She’s standing far too close, looking up at me through those thick eyelashes behind her glasses.
Everything about her is sultry and inviting.
The need to take her, fuck her right against the front door, is so intense I bite down on my tongue. And based on the scent of her and the way she licks her lips, she wouldn’t mind in the least.
I step back. Not far, just enough to give myself room to think.
Her friends’ voices still echo in my head, sharp and lingering. Rap’s pointed questions, Goldie’s too-perfect anecdotes about her "pack bond," and the watchful silence of Snow—they all stick to me, scratching at the edges of my control. I’d felt their judgment in every glance, every subtle shift of their postures. They didn’t have to say it outright—I’m not good enough for her. I’m a force of chaos in her ordered world, a threat to the lightness they want to protect.
My hand finds the back of my neck, claws curling into my skin as I look past her, the polished grain of the front door catching the dim light. "I have some work to finish," I say, voice low, too casual, already turning away.
The truth is, I’m suffocating. Her friends’ comments about pack bonds, the expectation that I’d already forged something deeper with Isabelle, sit like stones on my chest. The pressure to be more, to give her something I’m not sure I’m capable of, builds with every step I take down the hall. If I don’t find a way to clear my head, I’ll lose the fragile threads of control I’ve been clinging to.
My footsteps echo in the quiet, heavy and deliberate, carrying me away from her pull. The beast in me snarls at the retreat, but I ignore it, shoving down the instinct to go back, to claim her, to drown myself in her scent. I won’t let myself unravel. Not here. Not now. If I can’t sort through this, I may need to go for a run in the freezing Boston night just to get my head on straight. Anything to keep the chaos inside me from spilling over.
Only one thought repeats over and over in my mind. Coward .