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

Chapter 4

A Little Man in Your Monster

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

C ome into the light.

The urge to roar at her again, to make her cower and submit, rises fiercely within me. But Isabelle’s eyes stay locked on mine, her stance bold. There's a command there, unexpected and maddening. Yet I can’t help but respect it.

One massive, clawed foot connects with the ground followed by the other, as I descend from the top of my desk. I slowly slink toward the warm glow of the candle, bringing me within six feet of the woman before me.

The candle’s glow casts an inviting light on her creamy complexion. Mahogany hair is pulled back into an elegant ballerina bun at the base of her skull, though several harried tendrils have escaped it and cling to her face and neck. Long, thick lashes frame her dark eyes. A pair of glasses gives her the appearance of a severe yet sexy librarian. I can’t help but notice how her pupils have expanded into dark pools as she hungrily searches the darkness. Her lips, pink and full, part slightly. Her fingers press tightly together as if bracing for impact .

And her scent. Warm and alive, with a sweetness that isn’t cloying but pervasive. Filling the air around her like a shimmering aura. It doesn’t just linger on her skin—it radiates, enveloping the space between us until it feels as if I’m breathing her in with every ragged inhale.

Isabelle is beautiful. Not just pretty but arresting in a way that both the man and the beast in me recognize. And that makes it all the harder to show her what I am.

I may be ruthless when it comes to business and getting what I want, but pride and vanity still riot in me, urging me to stay in the shadows.

The woman is all soft, round edges. The fabric of her shirt stretches over the generous swell of her breasts and hips. She isn’t small or fragile, and that somehow makes her more desirable. Her body seems built for warmth, for holding, and there’s a part of me that wants to feel her pressed against me.

I shove the thought away.

This transaction is about survival, not pleasure.

Don’t let her see what you are. You’ll only repulse her, the voice in my head hisses.

My claws scrape the wood floor as I step into the light, ignoring the desire to retreat. Knowing the monstrous visage I create, I straighten in the glow, allowing it to fully reveal me to her. I don’t wear shoes—my massive, clawed feet make them impossible—and the black slacks and white half-opened shirt don’t conceal the long streaks of fur lining my hard, corded muscles.

Had I known she would demand to see me, I would have fastened the shirt up to the neck.

Yet nothing can obscure the grotesque fusion that is my face .

Isabelle gasps softly, her breath catching in her throat, her lips parting further. Her eyes widen as she takes me in.

I grimace, knowing I look like the damn devil.

I let her take me in slowly.

From one side to the other, my face is a clash of human and beast, the man I was merging unnervingly with the creature I’ve become. My nose, once a proud arch, flattens into a lion’s snout, the bridge roughened with a scar that stretches across my brow. Dark, tawny fur ripples over the left side of my cheek, spreading upward toward a pointed ear that twitches at her scrutiny. A single fang protrudes over the left side of my lip. The green of my right eye remains sharp and human, but the left is distinctly feline—slit-pupiled and gleaming with predatory intensity.

I brace myself. She might faint, run, or scream as other fae-fearing women have before. Isabelle might even leave her father to die in her fervor to escape my presence.

But I’m betting everything I have that she won’t. I know what she’s sacrificed for that old man in my cell, the depth of her loyalty to the old coot.

Knowing people’s secrets is part of my business. Leverage is everything, and I’m leveraging Isabelle’s love for her father to bind her to me.

"You’re a Were," she stammers, her voice a mixture of disbelief and awe. There’s hesitation but no obvious fear. "But you’re. . ."

"Half-shifted," I confirm. My grimace morphs into a grin, knowing it presents an even more terrifying visage.

Am I trying to drive her away?

I can’t help it. The fact I look like a monster only compels me to act more like one.

Isabelle doesn’t retreat. She simply stands and studies my distorted features. Her brow furrows, her gaze sharp with curiosity, maybe even something like fascination.

"Your name isn’t really the Beast of Boston, is it?" she asks with plain open curiosity.

Why isn’t she fearful?

Why isn’t she recoiling?

A spring of surprise erupts in me. "No. It’s. . .Dominic. Dominic Blackwell."

Suddenly, I find it maddening, the way she doesn’t flinch, or turn away.

It’s too much. Being in the light, exposed to her intense focus, makes me feel raw and vulnerable. I retreat into the shadows, letting the darkness close around me like a shroud. The familiar cloak of control returns. My breathing steadies, my heart rate slows, and the cold detachment I need reasserts itself.

If only I could get her scent out of my nose. It feels like she’s inside me now, and I don’t like it. Or perhaps I hate that I do like it.

"So what is your decision? Make it now," I snap.

"Why me?"

"What?"

"Why me? Why marry me?"

"Because you’re perfect." I say the words quietly, before I know I’ve let them out.

"I’m not perfect," she says with a slight shake of the head, a line pulling between her brows.

My tone turns steely and business-like. "That is for me to decide, not you. Now I need your answer. Yes or no."

"Yes."

It’s so soft I’m not sure I heard it.

"What was that?" I need to hear it. Her acquiescence. I may know that everything and everyone has a price, but I don’t tire of winning.

"I’ll marry you," she says clearly this time, her voice tight but determined.

A twisted sense of triumph rises in me, though it’s tempered by the cold reality of what I’ve forced her into. Isabelle’s gaze has turned to the security cam of her father’s cell, deep underground.

They call me the Beast of Boston for a reason, I remind myself, even as the tortured look in her eyes pierces something deep within me.

I keep my tone steady, formal. "Good. But understand this: you are to move into this house effective immediately and your father will remain in my custody until the ceremony is complete."

Isabelle blinks rapidly, fighting back tears before they can spill. Her expression shifts from horror to anger, raw and desperate. "You can't be serious. He’s frail—He needs?—"

"He will be cared for," I interrupt, my voice cutting. "He’ll have food, warmth, and anything else he requires. But he will not be released until you are officially my wife. That is non-negotiable."

She draws in a shaky breath, her chest heaving, and I can see the conflict play out across her face—fear for her father battling with her desire to break free from my control. But I know I have the upper hand. The Beast of Boston always does.

Her pulse flutters in her neck, a rapid, enticing rhythm I can hear even from across the room. It sends my instincts into chaos—fight, claim, devour. I can’t tell if I want to scare her or make her mine.

"Then I’ll need to go home and pack my things," she says quietly, her voice laced with an edge of bitter resignation.

"You have one hour," I say, unwilling to grant her more time than that. “Tock will take you back to gather your essentials but my staff will gather and transport the rest. I’ll meet you back here to go over the contract before we close the deal and marry."

"The contract—" She pauses, clearly thrown. "You mean a prenup?"

I can’t help that half-grimace, half-grin from sliding upward. "Not exactly. There will be no need for such a thing as the only way either of us will get out of this marriage is the old-fashioned way."

"Time travel through standing stones? I read enough historical romance to know how that ends."

Her retort is so matter-of-fact, I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Or really what she is even talking about. Still, I can’t help but be slightly amused.

"I meant death," I reply just as flatly.

"Oh." She nods as if unbothered by the terms. "Right."

"We will go over what is to be our marriage contract. The terms we’ve already discussed, plus a few more to ensure compliance," I reply smoothly. "You’ll have the chance to review and sign it before the ceremony."

As she leaves my study, a strange sense of anticipation stirs within me.

I meant what I said. She’s perfect. And hopefully, in a few hours, our marriage will bind us into a pack, and I’ll be able to shift back fully into my human form.

I’ll be me again.

Shrugging my shoulders back, I try to bury the guilt that threatens to rise. I remind myself that she’s not a victim; she’s a necessary means to an end .

I move to the window and part the heavy curtain, watching as Belle descends the front steps. The cold air outside seems to bite at her exposed cheeks, making her wince. She hesitates for a moment, her breath visible in the frigid air, before she heads toward the waiting SUV. Belle slips on the slick, snow-covered ground outside.

My body tenses, jerking forward involuntarily with a primal instinct to catch her. Tock grabs her elbow, steadying her before she can fall. A low growl rumbles in my chest, surprising me with its intensity.

I’ve already begun to view her as mine. My possession. My mate.

All to get what I want.

And I’ll have ruined a woman’s life to do it.