Page 3 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 3

A Terrifying Proposal

BELLE

T he air inside the black SUV is thick with the scent of the bigger man’s cologne. It’s an oddly homey contrast to the chill clawing up my spine as the vehicle passes through massive iron gates. I have two books in my purse, but I haven't felt comfortable to take out either for the duration of the trip.

Tock opens the door the moment we stop. I step out and my gaze lifts to the looming brownstone fortress ahead. Not quite a castle, but it’s close enough to make me feel as if I’ve crossed into a dark fairy tale.

Tock leads the way up the stairs, Lucien trailing behind me while continuing to flick his lighter on and off. They flank me as if to make sure I don’t cut and run. I have no intention of leaving, not when my father is here.

The massive black doors are covered in ornate moldings—gothic swirls and floral designs that seem to swallow the winter’s light. They swing open with a heavy creak, and I barely have time to register the dark, rich furnishings and antique rugs before I’m ushered down a hallway into a cavernous room. A study or office of sorts .

Despite the bright gray light of winter’s day, the room is shrouded in near complete darkness. The faint aroma of smoke mingles with the smell of old wood and something spicy. Heavy curtains cover the windows and a lone candlestick in a corner flickers, barely penetrating the inky shadows.

I jump as the door slams shut behind me, sharp as a gunshot. Lucien and Tock have left me alone inside. Before I can call out to them, something shifts in the dark and my breathing turns harsh as I realize I'm not alone. My skin crawls and the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise.

"Who’s there?" I demand, the roughness in my voice betraying my nerves. I need to hear it, to ground myself.

A looming figure too large to be human rises from behind the desk. I can’t help but retreat a few steps, my heart thudding up into my throat.

The need to scream for help, to throw the door open and run grips me, but I force myself to root down through my feet.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I manage, the words scraped from a throat gone dry.

A low monstrous chuckle reverberates through the room, rattling my bones. Despite the laugh, there is no hint of humor in it. "Didn’t they tell you?" a dangerous voice asks.

I take a steadying breath. "You’re the Beast of Boston, and you have my father."

There is a pause from the mass behind the desk. "That I am, and that I do."

The Beast doesn't elaborate. The silence stretches between us with thick expectation. I squint into the shadows, trying to discern details. Is the Beast of Boston really an Ogre, like the rumors say? Though Ogres are usually considered to not be high functioning. They are more like big, thick-skinned himbos with violent tendencies.

Why didn’t I pay more attention to the stories about his withdrawal from society?

Because you're too busy reading or peddling fantasy smut and ignoring the real world as much as possible.

Oh right. That .

"What do you want?" I ask finally. If he wants money, I don’t have much. Not by his standards, anyway.

I can't see him, but I swear he grins in the dark. " You , Isabelle."

No one calls me by my full name, not even my dad. The words are spoken with such menace, such promise that I take another step back.

"Your father was found breaking into my property," the Beast says in a low growl. "You're lucky I’m not handing him over to the authorities. Breaking into my property alone would warrant jail time. Add my name to the report, and there’s not a judge or jury in Boston who wouldn’t make an example of him." Even as he says the words, a screen at the far end of the office lights up. showing an image of what looks like a jail cell containing my father.

My heart clenches painfully. He’s safe. . .for now. The fraying mustard sweater I saw him in two days ago still hangs on his sparse frame. Tufts of white hair stick every which way from his balding head as if he’s been running his hands through them. He paces back and forth in the cell, his mouth moving. He’s talking to himself and gesturing wildly with his hands.

The constant ache born of worry drills through the center of my heart. Is he cold? Is he scared? Does he know what’s going on? Have they been feeding him? He doesn’t remember to eat. I always have to bully him into consuming enough calories to fuel his overactive brain. I had to do that even before the incident that unraveled his mind, but it’s worse now.

"He was trying to steal from me." The Beast’s words lash out with a venomous snap.

"I’m so sorry, but I’m sure he didn’t really mean to. My father gets confused. He has a condition?—"

"He tried to steal from me." The Beast’s roar is sudden, a gust of wind that blows my hair back. My teeth click shut as I flinch. I clutch my hands together until my knuckles turn white, trying to hold steady. He’s trying to scare me.

"Yelling at me won’t accomplish anything," I shoot back. "I may be a woman you think you can bully, but I’ve dealt with my fair share of powerful, dangerous men. If you want to talk, do not raise your voice to me." My words snap out like a whip.

The shadow rears back slightly. Again, I sense more than see his surprise.

"I’m not like any man you’ve met before," he says in a low voice that trembles with barely restrained violence.

"Great. I’m not like any woman you’ve met before. Glad we cleared that up. Now, I’d appreciate it if you would let my father go and we’ll be out of your hair."

When the Beast resumes speaking, his voice is calmer, colder. "I can't just let him go."

"Why not?" I manage to ask, my impatience rising as quickly as my frustration.

"I have a reputation to uphold."

"But no one even knows he?—"

"A price must be paid," he interrupts, "and it will either be paid by him or. . .you." The Beast draws out the last word, a sinister purr. I can’t tell if it’s an invitation or a threat .

"What price?" I ask. He said he wants me, but I don’t know what that means. The idea that I might have to pay for my father’s freedom with my body passes my mind for a moment before disappearing into vapor. The Beast of Boston could and likely does, have any woman he wants.

Unless he’s got a super specific kink for heavyset introverts who love to read smut, I’m safe.

The pause becomes heavy. I get the strange sense it's as if the Beast is loading a gun, before he’s about to make a fatal shot.

"Your father’s life or your hand in marriage."

Bang .

"And just so we’re clear, should I decide to press charges, your father will spend the rest of his life behind bars. That’s not a threat—it’s a certainty."

I blink, my mind struggling to comprehend.

He doesn’t want money or apologies. He wants. . .me?

Dear fae lord, did I actually hit on his kink?

Or does he know where I come from?

I shake off the thought. When I cut ties, I did it efficiently and completely. There’s no reason to drag me into his life.

My thoughts spin out like a possessed clothes washing drum, but there is one thing I’m crystal clear on. This isn’t a proposal. It’s blackmail.

A cold, burning anger rises inside me, mixing with my fear. "I’m very sorry my father broke into your home, but this is not a proportionate response."

The massive figure leaps on top of the desk, sending papers, books, and items crashing to the floor. The distinct scrape of wood under claws sets my teeth on edge as my skin pulls back. Fear freezes my feet to the floor.

"You know who I am."

I nod.

"You know what I am capable of."

He doesn’t need to say it outright. If I refuse him, my father loses everything—his freedom, his care, his fragile safety.

I know well enough the Beast of Boston could ruin me and my father with one phone call. Make my bookstore disappear, empty our bank accounts, have us held on murder charges for a crime the Beast himself committed, and all before lunch.

"Then you know I am deadly serious." A near-silken tone wraps around his harsh words. A deadly promise. "Either I put your father behind bars, or you leave your life and come live here with me as my wife. Effective immediately."

"My father’s life or my hand in marriage." I say it aloud more for my own sake than his.

A grunt of assent lets me know that’s exactly what’s on the table.

It’s insane. Ridiculous. Witchtitting bonkers. This is the insane plot of a romance book, a marriage of convenience or rather, inconvenience. A dark fae mafia lord takes a woman as his wife and prisoner, but this is the real world. Fae and humans don’t mix. Not in Boston.

Not that I have a problem with interracial marriages. And it’s not like I’m holding out for Mr. Right. Love isn’t real. People just use each other for their own purposes and call it love.

I long ago gave up any romantic hopes for my life, but this certainly doesn’t gel with the future I’d envisioned for myself.

I planned to take care of my father, run my dream business, and read books until I died an old, bookish cat lady with an insanely long unfinished Tbr. I haven’t gotten around to getting the cats, partly because I don’t care for their judgmental stares. But still.

I focus on the screen now showing my father lying on his back on the small cot in the cell. He kicks his feet back and forth like a child, his mouth still moving a mile a minute. I can guess he is reciting chemistry equations. It’s what he does when he’s stressed out.

"Your time to decide is up." A mass of muscle shifts in the dark as the Beast snarls. “Which will you forgo, your father’s future or your own? Make your choice."

As if on cue, Lucien appears on the screen. He stands at the cell bars, serious eyes turned up toward the camera, as if waiting for a signal. My father continues to babble to himself, arms thrown over his eyes. He has no idea he’s in danger.

Panic grips me in a chokehold, nearly pulling me off my feet. My hands press into my heart to keep it from breaking through my ribcage.

My father is the only family I have. He’s taken care of me my entire life. The man supplied me with more books than any girl could dream of. Before his mind unraveled, we had the greatest conversations about life, love, and what’s possible.

I was twenty-two when he had his accident. The first few years of college had been a dream come true for me, and I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. But when my father needed extra care and support, I didn’t hesitate to drop out of school and take care of him. It was because of him that I was able to open my dream business.

But he may be the same reason it’s snatched away from me .

I swallow hard and steel my jangling nerves. "Come into the light."

The hulking mass goes deathly still.

"No."

I huff a sigh and push my hair from my face. "You want me to marry you? I want to properly meet who I'd be shackling myself to."