Page 34 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 34

A Formal Affair

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I ’m going to kill Roman. I’m going to tear him limb from limb.

Though I’m not sure which reason I’ll cite first—slaughtering my pack, abducting my wife’s father, or making me don a suit in my awkward half-shifted state. I look as ridiculous as I do monstrous.

Thank fae for Mrs. P’s abilities; she helped tailor one of my best suits to fit my bulky, unusual frame. The dress shoes, too, are sufficient to cover my half-morphed feet.

As Tock adjusts the necktie around my throat, making me feel like I’m being fitted for a noose, I’m even more determined to claw Roman’s heart from his chest.

Not tonight, though. Not while we are on neutral territory per the arrangement explicitly stated in the email Tock received.

The Wolves have Basil and they are willing to give him back in exchange for. . .Well, what they want, they haven’t made clear yet. They simply said they’d explain their terms in person.

There was also a bunch of crap in the email about wanting to properly celebrate my and Isabelle’s union. It’s a load of witchtits.

Fae lords, I may not possess the strength it takes to keep from ripping off both of Roman’s arms and beating him to death with them.

Not only was Basil snatched at the edges of my property, I now have to show up in a public place with this face.

Confining my pain and my monstrousness at home has been my choice over the last year. The fact I even left the car to track down Isabelle in the Poison Apple, or to discuss the plumbing issues with the contractor, are two anomalies caused by one very strong-willed wife.

Who is currently sick with worry about her father.

And who is currently gliding down the stairs in a yellow satin dress that climbs over one shoulder and falls over her body with lethal beauty. Her hair is pulled back into a complex bun of some kind, with tendrils of hair caressing her shoulders. Her lashes are longer, and she’s glowing. The dark bruises and bite marks have been covered and concealed with makeup, but I know just where to look to find traces of the havoc I’ve wreaked on her. Something she assures me is fine, but I still can’t forgive myself for.

There’s something different about my wife now. Not just the fact she’s dressed like an elegant bombshell, but also the way she descends the stairs. Her face, her posture, reminds me of when we ran into the Wolves in the alleyway and then again on the pier. She has donned her emotional armor, and there is a command about her.

Like she wouldn’t hesitate to ask anyone to do her bidding if she saw fit. Surprise ripples through me. This is a woman who grew up among people with power and learned how to wield it .

Isabelle reaches the bottom of the steps, her eyes hard and lips pursed.

I want to tell her she’s beautiful. A goddess worth worship from any and all beings. That I don’t feel worthy to lay a single finger on her while also desperately wanting to touch her everywhere at once. But from her expression, I can tell she doesn’t need or want platitudes. That’s not what this is about now. This is about getting her father back and facing her past.

I may be the Beast of Boston, but she is my queen and every bit as formidable as royalty.

I hold out a hand. "Are you ready?"

Isabelle gives a short nod, slipping a manicured hand into mine. "Let’s go."

All too soon, the limousine pulls up to the aquarium. Lucien exits the front passenger seat and rushes around to open the door leading to the turquoise blue carpet entrance of the gala. As light fills the back of the cab, I instinctually rear back, my lips curling up in a defensive snarl. Nerves volley up and down my stomach with a vengeance.

A hand falls on my arm. "Remember the last gala we attended?" Isabelle says. "How everyone was shocked to find out you were a half-shifter for the first five, ten minutes, and then nobody cared anymore?"

I swallow down hard against the unsteady riot inside of me. "I only remember that the shrimp was subpar and that no one could keep their eyes off you."

Turning, I meet Isabelle’s gaze. She smiles. "Which is why you danced with me not once, but twice, even after claiming you would never. "

The imaginary memory takes shape in my mind, calming me in a way that shouldn’t be possible. But Isabelle does that. We have our own inside jokes, and I feel bonded to her in a way that makes me feel—fae lords help me—safe.

So why haven’t we formed a pack? Why can’t I faefucking shift?

I push aside the questions that will get me nowhere and focus on what is. "It’s impossible to resist wanting to show you off, especially when you look like this." It’s only then that I allow my gaze to turn hot as I scan her satin-clad figure.

"I know the feeling," she says, squeezing my arm and appraising me just as openly. I can’t help the surge of confidence as she runs a hand along my jawline with a sultry look in her eye. I didn’t realize until now how much it matters that she approves of how I look. I could stand being monstrous to the rest of the world and in pain for the rest of my days, and none of it would matter if she only continued to look at me like this. Like I was some kind of devastatingly attractive creature she couldn’t keep her hands off of.

With that I slide out of the car and onto the bright blue carpet to be blinded by countless camera flashes and the dull roar mixed with gasps of surprise from the press.

The idea of stepping into the spotlight, hideously disfigured as I am, always seemed to be a pain worse than death.

I put all my focus on helping Isabelle out of the car. The massive ring on her finger glints under the flashing bulbs with near-blinding brilliance. It says she’s mine, in no uncertain terms. I drop a kiss on the back of her hand, cementing that in front of the cameras.

With Isabelle on my arm, there is no shame or regret even as the exclamations ripple through the crowd on either side. It doesn’t matter what I am or how people see me as long as my wife wants me. Though I remain perfectly aware I’m not deserving of her admiration or affection, not even a little bit.

And I certainly don’t deserve her heart, though it’s now all I want.

We follow the line of attendees through the massive aquarium entrance, glowing in ethereal blues and greens from the towering tanks inside. The space smells of saltwater, clean glass, and wealth—polished, ostentatious, and deeply calculated. The clinking of the champagne glasses and murmured voices of Boston’s elite fill the air. The media cameras remain at the doors, held at bay by security as we step into the hushed opulence of the gala. Some charity for ocean conservation.

My arm tightens around Isabelle’s as we approach the heart of the event. She moves with purpose, her chin high, her body language commanding in a way that makes my chest ache with pride—and unease. She’s transformed herself tonight, the edges of her vulnerability hidden behind a poised mask. It reminds me how much I don’t know about the woman I married.

The crowd parts subtly as we walk through. It’s impossible to miss the stares—the gasps—as people take in my half-shifted form. I catch snippets of hushed voices.

"The Beast of Boston…"

"He's a Were?"

"Who is that with him?"

A woman over six feet tall with generous curves and a shark-like smile intercepts us.

Morgana—a vision in deep teal silk—is flanked by two tall, dark-haired men. Her light gray hair is swept back into a sleek chignon highlighted by lavender streaks. Her eyes flash with a confidence that veers dangerously close to arrogance. She’s every inch the power player tonight, with her twin mages flanking her like dark sentinels.

Zephyr and Surge, identical in their tall, lanky forms and sardonic smirks, are dressed in tailored black suits that fit them like shadows. Their mage scent—a mix of bitter herbs, burning wood, and a faint, acrid chemical tang—hits me like a punch to the gut. My stomach clenches, but I don’t flinch. I never do.

“Dominic,” she greets in a sultry contralto that carries a gravelly edge, hinting at a past she’s never tried to hide. The transgender woman is the essence of femininity—her gown draped to perfection, her makeup flawless—there’s a proud defiance in the way she carries herself, as if daring anyone to question what she’s built herself to become. "Brave of you to come out like this. But then again, boldness has always been your signature, hasn’t it?"

"Morgana," I greet, “May I introduce my wife, Isabelle Blackwell. Isabelle, this is our host. Morgana Delmare is the most ruthless and sought after lawyer in the city.”

“The east coast,” she corrects me with a sharp tone.

Morgana’s smile widens as her gaze flicks to Isabelle. "Aren’t you a gorgeous thing?”

Isabelle hesitates for only a fraction of a second before taking Morgana’s hand, her grip firm. "Likewise."

Morgana’s smile widens as her attention shifts to Isabelle. “And here I thought Dominic didn’t believe in partnerships. You must have worked some magic to change his mind.”

Isabelle returns the smile, her tone measured. “I wouldn’t call it magic. Just an agreement that benefits us both.”

Morgana’s brows lift, clearly intrigued. “A pragmatist. How refreshing. I imagine that serves you well, being married to someone like Dominic.”

“It does,” Isabelle replies smoothly. “Though I like to think we balance each other out.”

Morgana laughs softly, a sound both amused and knowing. “Balance. Now that’s a word I rarely hear in Dominic’s orbit.” She turns back to me, sharp as ever. “But perhaps that’s why I’ve always found you so fascinating.”

"Well," Morgana says, her tone light but her eyes sharp, "we’ll have to catch up later. It’s been too long since you and I have danced on the edges of legality, Dominic."

"I look forward to it," I say with a tight smile. While we sit on either side of the law—and are keenly aware of it—our interests have yet to come into conflict. Though I don’t look forward to the day when that comes about.

The twins linger a moment longer then turn and follow Morgana into the crowd.

As the trio disappears, Isabelle lets out a breath she must have been holding. "She’s. . .intense."

"She’s a shark," I mutter, leading us toward the open bar. "And she’s dangerous. But she’s also one of the few who understands the rules of leverage. Keep that in mind tonight."

"I’m not the one you need to worry about," Isabelle says quietly.

We reach the bar, and before I can call for the bartender, Isabelle turns to face me. Her eyes are steady, her voice low but firm. "Dominic, I need you to let me talk with Roman alone first."

I blink at her, the words sending an immediate ripple of tension through my body. "Absolutely not."

"Listen to me," she says, stepping closer, her tone calm yet unyielding. "I know my cousin. He may be a bastard, but he still has some loyalty to his blood. I can appeal to that better than you can—especially without you looming over my shoulder reminding him I married his enemy."

A growl rumbles deep in my chest. "Isabelle, you have no idea what he’s capable of. If you think for one second?—"

"I’m not asking," she interrupts, lifting her chin. There’s a fire in her eyes, one I’ve rarely seen but can’t look away from. "I’m telling you. He has my father, and I’ve got to get him back safely. Let me handle this."

I hate the sound of those words. Every instinct I have rebels against the idea of her stepping out of my shadow, even if it’s only across the room. Roman is dangerous—a predator circling the edges of a kill—and the thought of Isabelle anywhere near him without me sends rage boiling under my skin.

"You’re my wife. That makes you my responsibility."

"Dominic, I’ve been taking care of myself my entire life. I don’t need anyone’s protection. Not even yours."

I clench my fists, trying to hold on to the argument forming in my mind, but the determination in her eyes disarms me. She’s resolved, and I know there’s no stopping her without making a scene. My pulse thunders as I grit my teeth and force the words out. "Fine. But if he so much as looks at you wrong?—"

"I’ll be fine," she says, her voice softening just enough to show a flicker of gratitude. "Thank you."

Before I can stop her, she turns and glides away from me, moving through the crowd with a confidence I’ve never seen before. It’s not just the dress that transforms her, though the way it clings to her every curve would tempt a saint. It’s the way she carries herself now—poised, commanding, as she steps back into a skin she hasn’t worn in years but still fits her perfectly.

I watch as she crosses the room, her every step deliberate, her head held high. She’s heading straight for Roman, who stands surrounded by his men near the other side of the gala floor. My muscles tense as I catch the flicker of surprise in his expression when he notices her approach.

My hand flexes at my side, itching to follow her, to rip Roman apart before he can say a word. But I force myself to stay rooted in place, every nerve in my body straining as I track her progress. My ire rises when I catch the tall blonde man smiling at Isabelle.

I should rip off his face for even looking at my wife, much less with that smug knowing.

She doesn’t falter, doesn’t glance back at me for reassurance. This is a side of Isabelle I’ve never seen before—sharp-edged and utterly in control.

The woman who, at this moment, is showing me just how formidable she can be.

Tock sidles up next to me. Lucien is elsewhere seeing to his own special task.

“Shall I stay near her?” Tock asks, keeping his own level gaze on the Wolves. He may be human, but between his eidetic memory and diplomacy, he might as well be supernatural.

I give a sharp nod and my man peels off.

We are merely biding our time. What Isabelle doesn’t know but can likely guess is the moment we have Basil secure, I intend to wipe out this pittance of a wolf pack. And nothing she can say will change my mind.