Page 24 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 24

The Forbidden West Wing

BELLE

I ’ve officially become a gothic romance heroine, roaming around the mansion in my fuzzy robe, unable to sleep. Even after getting myself off multiple times, there is still an ache, a need pulsating in me, demanding I do something about it.

It demands I go to the door separating my husband’s bedroom from mine, knock on it, and ask Dominic to shove me onto his bed and fuck me until there’s nothing left of this awkward tension that keeps cropping up between us.

It became such a strong intrusive thought that the only way to keep my hand from rapping against the wood or curving around the handle was to put some space between us. So here I am, a lonely, horny waif avoiding that damn door.

Even as my bare feet pad down the cold, dimly lit hallways, my body wants more. It wants Dominic’s heat, his weight. It wants the unexpected pleasure of hands I can’t anticipate, that aren’t my own.

The irony of vowing never to be seriously romantically entangled again, only to find myself bound to a temperamental half-shifter I find devastatingly sexy, is not lost on me.

How dare he come with me to my bookstore and defend me to that plumber and get the place back in perfect shape in record time. He even kept straightening book displays here and there. He picked up entire shelves and stacks of books, moving them to safety away from the leak. My insides inexplicably melted and then swelled up like a bubble until I felt my chest might burst.

Probably heartburn, right?

I mean, it’s nothing. Just several nice gestures in a row that make me feel cared for in between some very intense, sexy, panty-melting encounters.

It's not like I’m falling in love with him or anything.

I’ve seen the cost of believing in love. My parents were proof enough of that. My mother wanted grand gestures, sweeping declarations, a love she could show off to the world. My father? He didn’t believe in performing emotions for an audience—or anyone, really. He loved his work, his duty, and he loved us in his own quiet way.

When she finally left, he barely blinked. He didn’t fall apart or even stumble. He just kept working, kept caring for me like nothing had changed. And eventually, I learned to do the same. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend we didn’t need her until it was true.

But it wasn’t just them.

Adrian taught me the rest. He was my first everything—my first kiss, my first love, my first mistake. I believed him when he said I was special, that I mattered. I let myself get swept up in the fantasy, thinking I’d found something real.

I hadn’t.

Adrian didn’t love me. He loved what I could give him—a means to an end, nothing more. He thought it was better to give me a beautiful lie. But I’d rather have the cold, hard truth than be made a fool of.

Wandering these dark halls, I try to outrun the ache in my chest, the heat simmering low in my belly. But my body refuses to listen.

It remembers too much. The way Dominic’s hard frame pushed me against his desk, the way his sharp green eyes watched me like I was the only thing in the room. And then there was the fear of losing me, like he’d lose his mind if something happened. The weight of his presence, the brush of his claws—these moments replay in my mind, dragging me under.

The way he picked up my book and read it because it caught my interest. Even those tiny glimpses of his sense of humor slip under my skin like silken claws, hooking me from the center of my chest.

No.

Romantic love doesn’t exist. What does exist is chemistry, companionship, and mutual need. Relationships are transactions, and this marriage is no different.

Dominic needs a pack. I need protection and stability for my father. That’s it. That’s all.

The way he looked at me when he thought I didn’t notice, possessive and raw, doesn’t mean anything. Helping Chip doesn’t make him a good guy. Coming to my shop and shouting down the plumber for disrespecting me didn’t make me feel taken care of or like I was special.

I stop and sigh.

No matter how hard I try to logic my way out of it, I can’t lie to myself.

I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want my husband.

And that terrifies me.

A fluttering sound echoes around me as I near the west wing. The odd, insistent sound that sends shivers racing up my arms. The hallway stretches endlessly before me, its dim light swallowed by shadows that cling to the edges of the walls. My feet carry me forward as though under some spell, my fingers brushing against the polished wood of the railings as I go.

I stop in front of the door. The heavy oak is just as forbidding as it was the first time Dominic barred me from entering. But there’s still that sound—a soft, rhythmic thrum—emanating from behind it, like dozens of fans going.

I press my hand to the door, feeling a peculiar warmth radiating through the grain. Curiosity wars with caution, but the compulsion to know what lies beyond is too strong.

My fingers curl around the handle.

"Isabelle, no," Dominic’s voice roars behind me, and I jump, spinning toward him just as the door gives way.

An explosion of fur and wings bursts from the room, a chaotic flurry that swarms into the hallway in a cacophony of chirps and frantic flapping. I duck instinctively, throwing my arms over my head as the creatures rush past me.

When I finally dare to look, I blink in utter disbelief.

"Are those…" I murmur, staring at the winged rabbits as they hover, swoop, and flutter around the hall. Most are jet black, their fur gleaming like obsidian, but a few are lighter shades—grays and snowy whites with patches of golden brown. A small pair of horns protrude from the tops of their heads.

One particularly bold rabbit flits close to me, its translucent bat-like wings edged in black with iridescent silver. Its nose wiggles as it regards me with wide, curious eyes before darting away with an almost mischievous chirp .

"What the hell have you done?" Dominic growls, storming toward me, his eyes flashing with rage.

Dominic is bare to the waist, exposed. The hard planes of muscle ripple beneath his skin, a fascinating interplay of smooth flesh and coarse patches of fur. My fingers ache with the temptation to reach out, to trace the contrast, to feel the give of muscle under my touch. His skin is flushed, tinged red from the bite of cold, as if he’s been outside in the freezing air. He smells of the ocean—raw, untamed, and alive. The scent clings to him, blending with the faint musk of his sweat, a telltale sign of exertion. It’s utterly intoxicating.

The flying fuzz bombs dart and dive through the hallway, their tiny wings beating furiously as they perch on sconces, banisters, and even on Dominic. One particularly audacious creature perches on the edge of his shoulder, its claws gripping skin as it sniffs at his hair with a curious wiggle of its nose.

I bite my lip to stifle a laugh, but it escapes anyway—a helpless, breathless sound that bubbles out of me. The sight of this towering, half-feral man, glowering as he’s bedecked by winged rabbits, is too much.

The secret of the west wing is out.

The only question now is why is he keeping these creatures locked away?