Page 27 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 27

The Family We Are Born To

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

T he world pulses red, the edges of my vision narrowing, closing in like the jaws of a trap. My focus is razor-sharp, locked on the blade pressed against my wife’s perfect throat.

Roman Valentine. The name alone scrapes against my mind like claws on stone. He’s the leader of the Wolves—the rival gang tearing through my territory, the one I’ve been fighting tooth and claw to destroy. The halfwits stealing my product or distributing Thorns that don’t have petals.

And by her own admission, Isabelle is his cousin. Which makes her father Roman Valentine’s uncle.

This can’t be right.

The muddled old man who’s been skulking around my estate, trying to steal Thorns from me, is tied to the Wolves? How in all the cursed realms did I not see this?

My chest tightens, fury roaring to life, but I can’t afford to focus on that revelation now. Not with that knife glinting against Isabelle’s skin.

"Let my wife go," I growl .

"Do it," Levi, the Wolf who recognized Isabelle, agrees.

The woman's lip curls as she shifts uneasily. The knife presses closer, the blade nicking Isabelle’s neck.

A thin line of blood blooms against her pale skin, and the scent of it—her blood—ignites everything animal inside me. The tension in the air snaps like a live wire.

I move before I think, before the Wolves have time to react.

The woman gasps as my claws close around her throat. I lift her off the ground, her feet kicking uselessly, her knife falling to the snow.

"I was going to let you all walk away tonight. But now? You die," I snarl, shaking with rage. "You touched her. You hurt her. You think you can spill her blood and walk away?"

The Wolf’s hands claw futilely at my arm, her breath rasping in desperate gasps. "I—It was an accident?—"

Despite the Wolves' namesake, there is but a delicate human neck in my hand. She doesn’t stand a chance.

"Accidents don’t matter." My grip tightens, the sharp points of my claws biting into her skin. "Not when it comes to my wife."

Her breath catches, her lips moving as though she wants to plead, but no sound escapes.

I slam her to the ground with enough force to crack the ice beneath her. Her eyes widen in shock, her lips moving soundlessly, but there’s no mercy left in me. My claws drive into her chest, silencing her forever.

When I rise and twist, the Wolves continue to stand there in silence. Levi raises his hands slowly. A silent message. The kill was yours to take.

I huff, a cloud puffing from my nose as I relax a fraction.

The Wolves slink back, each one glancing uneasily between me and Isabelle, leaving their dead at my feet. Levi nods at Isabelle—a subtle acknowledgment, an understanding passing between them.

Silence descends, broken only by Isabelle’s sharp inhale as she touches her neck.

I’m at her side in an instant, my bloodstained claws carefully retracting as I lift her chin. "Let me see," I murmur, tilting her head to the light. My thumb brushes lightly against the edge of the wound, and she flinches again.

Isabelle’s skin is cold beneath my fingers, but her pulse thrums fast and strong. The cut is shallow, barely more than a scratch, but the sight of it enrages me all over again.

"It’s fine," she whispers, her voice shaky but calm.

I exhale slowly, forcing the fury down. "It’s not fine." I’d strike down anyone who even looks at Isabelle wrong, so the fact she’s bleeding is beyond my limits of control. The entirety of Boston should shake in the echo of the rage inside of me.

Her hand covers mine, her touch warm despite the cold. "I’m okay," she says again, more firmly this time.

I catch my breath, grounding myself in her steady gaze. There’s a calm determination in her eyes, the fire of defiance that I’ve come to admire—even if it drives me mad.

"Dad," Isabelle says gently, reaching out to the man who doesn’t seem to notice he’s shivering. "You’re coming home with us."

Basil hesitates, his eyes flicking to the darkness where the Wolves vanished. "They. . .They need me. Said I could help. I have the Thorns. They need these."

"No," she replies, voice firm but soft, taking his hand. "They don’t need you . I need you, Dad. Come home with me." She gently pries the pouch from his fingers, passing it over to me without hesitation.

I take it, even as I still inwardly reel.

Basil blinks at me, confusion clouding his face, and then he focuses on the pouch in my hand as though just realizing it’s gone. "The Thorns…" he murmurs, lost again. "I got the Thorns so they would take me back. I could create again."

"Basil." I wait to go on until the man's glazed over eyes meet mine. "I apologize for losing my temper earlier. Can you forgive me?"

Basil looks down at his empty hands. I suspect he is looking for the bag of Thorns but may not even realize what he's missing.

"How about we get you home and by the fire with some of Mrs. P's fresh, hot croissants?" I suggest.

That penetrates. Basil's chapped red face breaks into a smile. "Scones? With jam and curd?" I pull my own coat off and put it around his shaking shoulders.

"And clotted cream," I add.

When our eyes meet, I see her relief—her gratitude.

Taking care of her father means everything to her.

But not fear. Not disgust. Not the kind of shock I’d expect from a woman who just watched her husband rip someone apart. Then again, it turns out my wife had a much different upbringing from what I supposed.

Despite her appreciation, I'm unmoved. We have a lot to discuss. Namely, how in the hell I married a woman related to the Wolf gang and why the fuck I didn't know. Her smile falters. She knows as well as I, it's going to be a long night.

In the library, Lucien stitches up my knife wounds.

I insisted he take care of Isabelle’s cut first, though. They both wanted to argue since I was bleeding everywhere from multiple stab wounds, but one look had them both submitting to my demand. A bandage covers the thin cut on her neck now, which is why I’ve finally submitted to his attentions.

Basil is seated in the kitchen being doted on by Mrs. P with a fresh batch of croissants and tea as promised. Isabelle sits across from me, curled up in a chair, staring into the fire with a distant look in her eyes.

"You shouldn't have run after your father like that."

"You shouldn't have yelled at him and scared him off."

"Yeah, well. . .he needs to be controlled."

"He needs to be loved and taken care of."

"Enough," I growl at Lucien, pushing him away.

"They still need more cleaning and to be bandaged," Lucien points out.

I snort.

"I've got it," Isabelle says, rising and crossing to take Lucien's place.

He shoots her a thankful look before beating a hasty retreat and shutting the door behind him.

"Talk," I say brusquely.

Those big brown eyes lift to meet mine even as she grabs the disinfectant. "What's there to say? I'm Roman Valentine's cousin."

"And you didn't think to tell me? You didn't think to disclose that you are the cousin to the leader of the Wolf gang?"

Again, how this got by me and my people is mind boggling. We did thorough background checks, even learned how Isabelle took her tea, but we missed this?

Her lips thin. "I didn't think it mattered."

"Of course it matters." My words start as a snarl but turn into a yelp as the sting of the antiseptic hits with a little too much pressure from her cloth.

"You lied."

"I didn’t lie, I. . ." She pauses. "I dissociated. It’s kind of my thing." Isabelle's mouth parts then closes. "Sorry." I'm not sure what she's apologizing for. Not disclosing her relations or for being too rough with me.

"We did background on you. You didn't have any other family other than your father."

Isabelle nods, still not meeting my eye. "I worked very hard to make it like that. And I had some. . .help."

Without even saying a word, I know she means Rap. The woman is formidable. I caught that from the first.

I don't fill in the rolling silence between us as she bandages me. Despite every fiber of my being shouting to shake her by the shoulders until she tells me everything, I wait. To explain how this could have happened. Whose fault it is and whose blood should be spilled over it.

Finishing up, she stands back and walks over to the lit fireplace with a heavy sigh. "The Wolves. . ." She starts and then stops as if struggling with what to say next. "It's a family business. My uncle ran it, his father before that, and now my cousin." A knuckle taps the bottom of her chin as she stares at the fire. "My father worked as their potions man. He's brilliant, or. . .he was. I don't think my dad ever thought much about the consequences of putting hexes or curses on the street. It was never about hurting anyone with him. He's a deep intellectual with a hyperfixation. His first loves in life are chemistry and magic." She shoots me a lopsided smile. "But I’m a close second."

Something in my chest squeezes.

"My uncle let him have a lot of leeway with what he wanted to work on, but when my uncle died of a heart attack, my cousin Roman took over. Roman had an agenda. And he pushed that on my dad. A new Thorn. Something special, something terrible. Before you ask, I don't know what it was for. I was in college when I got the call. My dad had ingested a Thorn, and it fractured his mind. He basically poisoned himself, and to this day, I have no idea if he drank it voluntarily or if Roman stood over him and forced his hand. Either way, my bastard cousin was responsible for my father being under too much pressure. That was the day I decided to cut ties. A family that uses and experiments on their own like lab rats isn’t a family at all. I went to Roman and told him in no uncertain terms my father and I were out. That we want nothing to do with the Wolves or the family. No more birthdays, Christmas gatherings or Sunday night dinners."

A low growl builds in my throat, but I choke it back, my claws digging into my thighs to keep myself grounded.

Roman Valentine.

That name is already poison, already tied to the chaos I’ve been cleaning up for years. And now it’s tied to Isabelle.

I rake a hand through my hair, the firelight catching on the tips of my claws. My voice comes out low, a rough growl. "He simply let you go?"

Her shrug is nonchalant, but there’s a tension in her frame that betrays the effort it took to say those words. "His top alchemist had destroyed his own brain, and I served no useful purpose to the family business. I’d never been interested in pursuing a place there and had gone away to college." She pauses, her eyes drifting toward the door as if she can see her father resting in the other room. "If I’m being honest, I think Roman felt guilty."

Her words don’t soothe the rage coiling in my chest. Guilt. Roman Valentine and guilt are two concepts I can’t reconcile. Not when he’s flooding the city with hexes that leave nothing but destruction in their wake.

"My father is not a bad man," she says quietly, but the conviction in her tone makes it feel like a challenge. "He made hexes and curses for the family, but it was never about the effects of the potions. He loved the work itself. He’s brilliant. And if he’d been tasked with curing a disease instead, he would’ve been just as devoted. But the family you’re born into has a gravitational pull that can be impossible to get away from."

Her words hang in the air, but my gaze stays fixed on her. The way her shoulders slump under the weight of everything she’s carried. The quiet pain she exudes as she defends her father, even knowing the damage he’s caused.

I can’t stop myself. "And you think I’m terrible for dealing Thorns?"

She simply sighs, covering her face. "It doesn’t matter."

"Of course it matters." This situation is so interwoven, it’s a fucking bag of witchtits.

"You could have said no."

Her irritation flares, a flush creeping up her neck as she rises to her feet. "You mean condemn my father to death instead of marrying you? No." The words are clipped, her temper simmering just beneath the surface. "My family, or what’s left of it, is the most important thing to me."

The Wolves aren’t her family, she insists. She practically vibrates with frustration as she repeats it, as if saying it enough times will make it true.

"Family doesn’t use you for their own gain," she says firmly, crossing her arms.

My gaze narrows. "Sure they do," I counter. "They use you for validation. For support. For love."

She glares at me, her fingers raking through her hair. "Not my idea of family. Maybe it’s all those books I read, but I somehow got it in my head that family shouldn’t treat their own like trash."

Her words slice through the space between us, but I hold my ground. "I’m not like the Wolves, Isabelle."

"I don’t want to talk about this." She starts toward the door, but I step directly in her way.

"They’re releasing hexes and curses into circulation with no antidote. My Thorns always have one."

She scoffs, her frustration boiling over. "Are you trying to tell me this makes you better? If so, I really don’t want to hear it."

The air between us crackles with tension as I tower over her, forcing her to meet my gaze.

"I’m not saying I’m a good man, Isabelle," I continue, my voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous cadence. Her scent, warm and uniquely hers, mixes with the faint burn of the fire, grounding me in the moment even as the confession burns on my tongue. "But I’m not like them. You probably think I’m just another version of Roman—a man profiting off misery, playing god with people’s lives. But you’d be wrong."

My wife’s silence doesn’t unsettle me. I know she’s taking this in, processing every word. It’s written in the way her arms cross defensively, the way her breath catches but doesn’t falter.

"Enlighten me, then," she snaps. "How are you different?" She straightens, lifting her chin in a challenge that I can’t help but admire.

The corner of my mouth twitches, but it’s not amusement that stirs in me—it’s the razor-thin line between fury and desire. "Because, like I’ve told you, I don’t let chaos run wild," I say, the words slipping between clenched teeth. I step even closer, our faces mere inches apart. "I don’t release destruction without control. Every Thorn I sell comes with an antidote. Every curse I create has a countermeasure. The Wolves? They don’t care who their hexes hurt or how many lives they destroy. They’d flood the streets with poison and sit back, counting their money while the city burns."

Her glare sharpens, and the firelight dances in her eyes, making them flash with defiance. "That doesn’t make you a saint. You’re still profiting off pain."

I’ve heard those words before—felt their sting—but not from her. Somehow, from her, they cut deeper. My jaw tightens, and I feel the muscles in my temple tick as I force myself to keep my tone steady. "I never said I was a saint. I’m not here to save the world, Isabelle. But if there’s going to be blood spilled, I make damn sure it’s not without reason. This world is a battlefield, and if someone’s going to arm themselves, I make sure they know the cost. I provide the weapon, but I also provide the cure."

She’s shaking her head before I even finish, her frustration rolling off her in waves. "That’s just a justification."

"It’s survival." My volume rises with an edge I can’t hold back. My hands clench at my sides as I step closer again, invading her space because I can’t stand the distance, not when she’s standing there like a storm I can’t control. "You don’t survive in this world without getting your hands dirty. You should know that better than anyone, considering where you came from."

Her flinch is subtle, but I catch it. My words land harder than I intended, and something in me twists as I see the flicker of pain in her eyes. For a moment, I soften. "I’m not like your cousin."

The silence stretches between us, her attention flickering away before she looks back, her lips parting as if she’s searching for the right words.

"I don’t use my people," I press on, my tone quiet but fierce. "My business is ugly, yes, but it’s controlled. I deal in shadows, but I don’t let the darkness consume everything. And whether you like it or not, Isabelle, that makes me better than the Wolves."

She doesn’t answer right away, her arms tightening around her as she holds my stare. The tension between us thickens, the weight of my confession hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Her doubt is tangible, but so is her reluctance to outright condemn me. She doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s truth in what I’m saying.

"You’re mine," My words are a dangerous whisper. "And I protect what’s mine. Always."

The fire crackles, filling the silence that stretches between us, but my focus is entirely on her. The bandage covering the slice on her neck, draws my attention like a beacon. The memory of it—her blood, her injury—ignites something primal in me.

"That cut," I growl, my hand rising but stopping just short of touching her. My claws curl as I fight the urge to trace the line, to erase the evidence of her pain. "That shouldn’t be there. It should never have happened."

I grip the edge of the desk instead, my claws biting into the wood as the fury courses through me. "You shouldn’t have gone after him. Running into the night, putting yourself in their hands. . .Do you know what it did to me, seeing you like that? Knowing I might not get to you in time?"

Her eyes widen, startled by the force of my words, but she doesn’t retreat. "I had to—" she begins.

"You didn’t," I cut her off, stepping even closer until my shadow engulfs her. "I don’t care what you think your duty is, Isabelle. You don’t risk yourself like that. Not for anyone."

I don’t give her time to respond. My hands find her hips, pulling her to me with a force that’s as much desperation as it is control. She’s mine— my wife —and I’ll be damned if I let anyone take her from me.

Her breath hitches as my mouth claims hers, my kiss searing, bruising, a brand that stakes my claim as much as it releases the fury inside me. My hands tighten on her hips, lifting her onto the desk effortlessly as I step between her legs, crowding her with the intensity of my presence.

"This isn’t about love," I growl against her lips, my breath ragged. "This is about what’s mine."

"Okay," she breathes.