Page 45 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)
Chapter 45
Provoking My Husband
BELLE
M y husband is hot .
There’s no two ways about it.
Because there are at least three.
First off, I had never seen pictures of Dominic from before he got stuck between two forms, so I had no idea what to expect. Not that I hadn’t imagined it, but my imagination—which is incredibly healthy considering what I sell for a living—did not come close to the mark.
Dominic as a lion is magnificent—powerful, commanding—but as a man? He’s devastating .
Broad shoulders that seem carved from marble, a beard rough and unkempt, framing a face that’s all hard edges and raw power—and green eyes that still burn with the feral intensity that drew me to him in the first place.
His presence is magnetic, a force that makes it hard to think straight. But it’s not just his looks—it’s the way he carries himself with a confidence that doesn’t demand attention but commands it anyway. He’s still dangerous, still wild, and he still makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world when he looks at me .
And when he smiled for the first time—an actual, genuine smile—it felt like the sun breaking through storm clouds. My husband is hot. In every possible way. I am, without question, the luckiest woman alive.
Not only because he’s a smokeshow of a man who occasionally shifts into a lion—though that makes for excellent fireside cuddling with a good book. When he gets incredibly amped up, either agitated or insanely aroused, his body finds that spot between forms again.
I’ll lick and suck, agitating his cock and then pull away right before he comes. His already generous muscles thicken and lengthen, claws sprout, fangs lengthen, and his pupils turn to slits. Barbs lift against my tongue, and that’s when I know he’s about to pull me by my hair and piston down my throat, or throw me over the nearest piece of furniture and rail me within an inch of my life.
So yeah. There’s three ways about it, and I’m addicted to all versions.
The golden light streaming through the solarium filters across the room, touching everything with a soft glow. My dad sits by the window in a sturdy armchair, the light making the silver streaks in his hair glimmer. His posture is relaxed, and the teacup in his hands remains steady as he sips carefully—something I can’t remember seeing in years.
I stop in the doorway, the sight making my chest feel tight. When was the last time I saw my dad so. . .at ease?
After coming home from Roman’s massacre, Dominic and I stayed in bed for two straight days before we got back to any sense of normalcy. Even coming down to the kitchen without him, I feel the pull on our connection. The need to always be near him is impossibly strong, but I don’t mind.
Though for the last week, Dominic insisted on spending two hours a night in the basement.
He’d come to bed smelling faintly of magic and burnt ozone, and when I pressed my mouth to his, I tasted something almost electric lingering on his tongue.
But we still spend every evening together in the library. So when Dominic asked me to get us a snack from the kitchen instead of calling for Mrs. P, I suspected something was up.
“Dad?” My voice is barely above a whisper as I step forward.
My dad sets the cup down gently and looks up, his eyes meeting mine. They’re different now—clear, sharp, no longer clouded by the fog that had consumed him for so long. His lips tremble as they curve into a smile. “Isabelle.”
The sound of my name from his lips, spoken with such clarity, nearly undoes me. I cross the room quickly, sinking to my knees in front of him. “How are you feeling? Are you. . .Is this real?”
“It’s real,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion. His hands—those same hands I had held through his worst episodes—reach out to cup my face. “Mr. Blackwell, your husband. He helped me make a Petal.”
My chest collapses in on itself as I throw my arms around him, burying my face in his chest as the tears spill over. “I missed you,” I whisper, my words muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “I missed you so much.”
He holds me tight. “Oh, my sweet girl,” he murmurs, his voice shaking. “You’ve spent your whole life taking care of me, and I didn’t deserve a moment of it. I’m so sorry.”
I pull back just enough to look at him, and shake my head fiercely. “Don’t say that. You’re my dad. There was never a question.”
His eyes mist over, and he wipes at them before taking a deep breath. “Seeing you all grown up and so capable—it makes me miss your mother. I wish she could see you like this.”
The words hit me like a jolt. “Mom?” I blink in confusion. “I thought you didn’t care that she left.”
Basil winces, his face crumpling with regret. “I was heartbroken when she left. I loved her deeply, but I couldn’t give her what she needed. We were two very selfish people who needed to live life on their own terms. I was so consumed by work, by everything else, that I couldn’t make her believe how much I loved her.”
His voice breaks, and he exhales shakily. “You suffered for my mistakes. When she left, I told myself I had to stay strong for you. But I didn’t. I buried myself in science and potions to shut out the pain. And you—you were the one who stayed strong for me.”
My throat tightens as I process his words. “You actually loved her?”
“Very much,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “Not perfectly, but deeply. And you. . .you are the best part of both of us. You have her passion, her heart. But you’re the most selfless person I’ve ever known. You didn’t get that from either of us. And you did it all while building your dream from nothing, Isabelle. I’m so proud of you.”
Tears blur my vision again, but this time, they don’t feel as heavy. “I used your money— the blood money from the Wolves—to open it. I didn’t even get your consent.”
I jerk in surprise at the laugh that explodes from my dad. “My sweet Belle. You did nothing wrong. You took care of yourself and me at the same time. Again, I’m not sure where you learned how to do these things, but I am so impressed, and honestly, I need to be more like you.”
“Thank you, Dad,” I whisper, my voice shaking. A heavy pressure lifts from my chest. It had been there so long I almost didn’t understand how I could feel so light and unburdened. I didn’t even know it was possible to be absolved of the sins I’d pinned on myself.
Mrs. P’s laugh rings through the hall, followed by the unmistakable click of her heels. She appears in the doorway, hands on her hips and a twinkle in her eye. “Basil, you promised to help me with that new recipe, and I don’t accept broken promises. Don’t worry, Belle, you can taste test.”
My father chuckles—a warm, rich sound I haven’t heard in years. “I wouldn’t dream of breaking my promise, Agatha.”
Agatha?
As he stands and takes her hand, I see the spring in his step, the lightness in his movements. He throws me a wink before joining her in the pantry to gather ingredients.
“You know baking isn’t all that different from alchemy,” he says, obviously trying to impress the housekeeper.
“Then we’ll just have to see what we can conjure up between the two of us, shall we?” Mrs. P says in a tight but knowing voice.
Wow.
What?
Okay.