Page 5 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 5

A Comfy Cage is Still a Cage

BELLE

I t’s not a face a girl forgets.

The mix and mash of a man and lion’s face stays imprinted behind my eyes the entire drive back to my apartment. The sky is the same cold bright expanse as when I closed my bookstore an hour ago, though everything’s changed.

I can’t deny being entranced by the way skin and fur wove into one tapestry of a fae being. No wonder the Beast of Boston drew away from the crowd’s eye. The most powerful man in the city is secretly a shifter. One stuck between two phases.

Though admittedly, the human half of him clearly had all the makings for an attractive man. In that severe, dark way that I’d envision Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre.

You're perfect.

He said it as if he was affirming it to himself. It’s almost possessive, the way he says it. Like I’m. . .made for him.

I can’t even begin to fathom what he means by that. But for the first time, something other than fear and anxiety rolls through me. It’s a dark, aching want fluttering in my stomach.

Don’t go there. Don’t romanticize the Beast of Boston. For all you know, he eats babies for breakfast and kicks puppies before bedtime.

Annnnd that’s the guy I’m going to marry.

Great. Fae-fucking fabulous.

It doesn’t take long to pack my clothes and essentials, but even as I go about the task, ideas begin to formulate and harden.

When I’m done, Tock assures me the rest of my things will be packed and moved for me. I nod absently as he picks up my suitcase and duffle bag. "I don’t have a wedding dress." The words come out automatically, an afterthought or my brain’s attempt to organize the situation in some manner that is understandable.

Do I need a wedding dress? I’m getting married in a matter of hours.

Tock freezes like a deer caught in headlights. "Uhhh. . ."

Then, realizing what I’ve said out loud, I wave a hand in the air. "Never mind. Ignore me. Let’s go."

Back at the gothic Boston mansion, I make my way up the freshly salted front stairs and am greeted by a thin woman with gray hair pulled up in a severe bun. Her cheeks are sallow, and her eyes are a heavy blue.

"I’m Agatha Potts, the housekeeper, though everyone calls me Mrs. P," she introduces herself with a firm shake of the hand. "Anything you need, I am here to see to it. We will have your things unpacked in no time. I’ll have a light supper prepared for you to take between your meeting with the master and your. . .nuptials."

The idea of someone taking care of me, of preparing a meal for me has my head spinning. That's usually my job. Maybe this won't be a hellish existence after all?

Free, prepared food. Any port in a storm, eh, Belle?

"Mrs. P," Tock greets her with a nod. She nods back. They exchange a grim look. I get the sense neither of them is thrilled with my being a new fixture in this place. Or maybe they are always this excited to attend a wedding. Again, the idea that this is my new home whirls around me like winds that never calm.

"I need to make sure my father is okay," I say, looking around and wondering how to get to that cell the Beast locked him away in.

Mrs. P grips my shoulders. "Your father is currently in the kitchen. I've been plying him with tea and a meaty stew. He's just fine."

"Can I have more cookies?” My father emerges from the kitchen, crumbs sticking to the white scruff on his face. He has the appearance of an old man and young child rolled into one.

My heart soars and a sob builds its way up my throat as I throw my arms around my dad.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” I squeeze him tight and inhale his familiar scent of mothballs, and the slightly medicinal smell imprinted in his skin from those years mixing alchemical potions.

He’s safe. The pinch in my heart intensifies before releasing.

I pull back, holding him by the shoulders. “I was so worried about you. But it’s okay, everything is going to be okay now. You don’t have to worry. I’m taking care of it.”

Dad gives me a vacant smile, patting my arm. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

My heart cracks along the familiar fissure from so many breaks. I should expect this. It happens all the time. Yet logic cannot prevent the pain of being a stranger to my father.

He looks over my shoulder to Mrs. P. “Do you have any more cookies?” I release Dad so he can go to her.

Concern and pity are plainly etched into the housekeeper’s face from our interaction. I try to cover up any evidence that I’m affected by his response.

"Hey, book girl," Lucien calls in a lazy drawl. He motions to me with a grin that doesn't meet his eyes. "Time to meet with the master."

I look back at my father, who is observing a suit of arms in the hallway with great interest.

“I’ll take care of him,” Mrs. P assures me again. "Is there anything you need right now, dear?" Despite her calm demeanor, Mrs. P’s tugs at her skirt with either nervousness or anxiety.

Heat floods my cheeks. "Not that I can think of."

It’s not like she can supply some much-needed lucidity for my father. Or an escape route from the insanity that is this situation.

Agatha folds her hands together with another curt nod. "I'll bring you some tea."

Oh, tea. Now that I can get on board with.

"Let’s go," Lucien prompts again.

This time I’m led to a grand dining hall. Heavy velvet drapes line the walls, muting the room in thick, near darkness, interrupted only by the flickering glow of a few candelabras. The air is warm and heady, carrying the faint, mouthwatering scent of something slow-cooked and savory coming from somewhere else in the house.

I step forward, my gaze locking on the figure seated at the head of the long table.

I can make out his face in the candlelight—I want to study the unsettling mix of roughened skin and fur, but he retracts further into the dark.

The Beast gestures to the seat beside him, where a contract is waiting on the table.

I settle into the chair, picking up the pen. The metal is cold against my fingers, but the sensation only sharpens my focus as I scan the words.

"Your wifely duty will primarily be to stay here on the grounds," he says.

I raise an eyebrow at the archaic demands. "To cook and clean for you?"

He snorts and the massive head shakes with disdain. "Of course not. There is staff for such things. Your duty will be to stay by my side."

I still don’t understand. If it’s not about service, it must be about sex. "What about. . .other marital duties?"

Is it sex? It has to be about sex.

I force my voice to stay level, but there’s a betraying heat creeping up my neck. It has to be about sex. My mind tries to categorize this in a way that makes sense. This marriage is a transaction, not a love match. He’s blackmailing me, but he’s also… a man. A man I can’t seem to stop noticing, even when I should be furious. Even when I am furious.

Another snort, but softer this time. "That won’t be necessary. Your proximity is what’s most important."

"So this isn’t about sex?”

"No," he says, and I can hear the frown in his voice.

"Oh." For a minute I'm not sure if I’m disappointed, offended, or just confused. "So, are you gay? Do you need a wife for show? Like a beard? "

"No," he says louder this time, frustration seeping through.

"Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’d understand?—"

His fist hits the table—the loud bang causing me to jump. "I'm not gay. I simply need you around."

"I have a business to run." The words sound faint to my own ears, barely more than a whisper. The weight of them is a desperate grasp at normalcy, at something that is still mine. But the truth of it is already unraveling, slipping through my fingers like sand.

"Not anymore. Not if you marry me. Then again, if you choose to be fatherless, you will have all the time in the world to do as you please."

Terror coils in my stomach, cold and nauseating. The idea of my father rotting away in a cold cell somewhere I can’t take care of him is unbearable. More unbearable than walking willingly into a cage of my own. My life, my bookstore, everything I’ve fought to build—swallowed whole by this shifter before me.

He truly is a beast.

"I have friends, family who won’t like this." I shoot out, desperate for any bit of reasoning to save me from the trap closing around me.

"You have few attachments, and no family outside your father."

"What about my boyfriend?" I’m testing the limits here.

"There is no other man in your life other than your father. Even if there was, it wouldn’t matter." He says it so calmly. As if my life is a book he’s read and knows front to back.

"And I won’t abide you taking a lover." His voice drops to an impossibly low, scary place. "I consider what’s mine to be mine, Isabelle. If you were to even think I won’t find out about a dalliance, you’ll find out what a beast I can really be."

A shiver rattles its way through my bones. I can’t get my mouth to work to tell him he won’t need to worry about that. For all that I read romance, it’s been years since anything had come between my legs other than my own hand. All I can do is nod.

His scary hulking form deflates ever so slightly.

"The terms are explicit," he says, a clawed finger pointing to the first line. "You must remain on the house grounds; we will rendezvous in a shared space for a minimum of six hours daily. Mandatory shared meals—breakfast and dinner. Two hours each evening together in the library or sitting room."

My throat tightens at each line. "And if I need to leave the grounds?"

"Then I accompany you." His tone brooks no argument.

"My bookshop?—"

"Will be sold."

"Absolutely not." I straighten in my chair. "Chapter Three is mine. I won't give it up."

A low discontent rumbles from his chest. "Fine. You may spend one hour there. Daily. And I will escort you there and back personally."

"Eight hours," I counter. If he wants to negotiate, fine. "I’d think you’d understand the importance of a good business." We deal in very different products, but I’m trying to bring him to my level.

This man—this beast—has my father. And if he’s dragging me into this life, I won’t go without laying down my own terms.

His eyes flash. "Two hours."

"Six."

"Three," he snarls, "and that's final."

"I can’t run a profitable business on three hours."

He waves his human hand, dismissing the thought. "We’ll hire someone to run it for you. Delegation is easy."

"It’s not easy when you don’t have enough money to pay them."

He pauses a beat. "I thought you knew you were marrying into a great amount of money."

" Your money," I point out. "Not mine." It actually hadn’t occurred to me.

"If you become my wife, any and all funds will be available for your use. And believe me when I say you will not find our accounts lacking."

He might as well have described his level of wealth as "comfortable." It’s the code word for filthy rich. And even knowing the little I do about the Beast of Boston, I’m sure that money is, in fact, filthy.

I grip the pen tighter, studying Dominic’s face. There's no give there, no room for further argument. And yet. . ."Fine. Three hours. But I choose which three hours."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Within reason."

"And I need my staff to be able to reach me if there's an emergency." I lather the word “staff” in honey. I have no idea how or who to hire, but I’ll figure it out.

My gut twists with reluctance at allowing him to interfere in my business, but that’s the least of my issues right now. My father may be sitting in the kitchen, comfortable and fed, but it doesn’t mean his life isn’t in danger.

"True emergencies only," Dominic emphasizes in reference to my request. "Not every time someone can't find a book."

"Agreed." I scan the rest of the contract. "The sleeping arrangements. . ." I don’t realize I’ve read the words out loud.

"Adjoining rooms with a connecting door." Dominic’s tone suggests this isn't up for debate.

I narrow my eyes at a particular clause: The wife shall agree to do whatever is deemed necessary for the benefit and success of the marriage.

"What exactly does 'necessary' mean here?" I ask, my voice edged with skepticism as I glance up to meet his eerie, mismatched gaze.

He holds my stare, his expression unreadable. "It means I expect flexibility ."

I narrow my eyes. "Flexibility? That’s a convenient way to leave me open to anything you demand."

"Convenient, yes," he replies, a hint of dry humor curling his lip. "Necessary, even more so." He leans back, his focus shifting to the contract in a gesture of command. "But these terms are essential. Our proximity is paramount. There is much to your benefit here as well. This isn’t an offer I’d extend to just anyone."

My attention lifts, locking onto his mismatched eyes, one human, the other gleaming with an unnatural intensity in the dim candlelight. "So you reserve this offer for women whose old, addled fathers you hold hostage?" The words are out before I can filter them, but I hold my ground.

His chuckle is a low rumble. "Your father was trespassing on my property, Isabelle," he replies, as though that explains everything. "I usually take payment in flesh. You are paying for him. A life for a life."

"And what of my father’s life? I’m his caretaker. I won’t have him sent off to some facility, not knowing if he’s truly cared for."

Dominic lets out a heavy exhale. "Then he’ll live here with us. If he becomes cumbersome, we’ll hire a caretaker. If he is troublesome beyond even their abilities, you will have to consider putting him in a place that can better handle his needs."

I blink rapidly as surprise grips me. I was expecting more pushback on that. Not many men would concede to having their father-in-law (or essentially a stranger with mental conditions) move into their home.

Then again, nothing about this is even remotely normal.

I look down at the contract, skimming over it again.

I can’t help but be attracted to the simplicity of his proposal. No illusions, no pretense of romance. Just terms—something I can navigate, something concrete. I’ve never needed the promise of love to understand the value of loyalty and sacrifice. Love, after all, is just a construct, but duty. . .that’s something real.

And taking care of my father is my duty. If this is how it has to be done. . .

Mrs. P enters the room with tea service on a silver tray. I thank her as she sets it down and pours me a cup. The delicious steam wafting off it carries the scent of bergamot and Earl Grey. My favorite. Before I can stop her, Mrs. P doctors my tea with a dollop of heavy cream and two sugar cubes.

Exactly how I do it for myself.

I open my mouth and shut it as the housekeeper makes her exit, struggling to mask my discomfort at how well they know my preferences. I stare at the perfect China cup of creamy tea as if it is poisoned.

The luxury of this gesture isn’t lost on me. All the money I could want. I’ll live in this beautiful, albeit slightly gloomy and dark mansion. Yet this all feels like a trap.

It is a trap, you idiot. A comfy cage is still a cage .

"I could call the police. Tell them you are holding my father."

Dominic gestures to an ornate rotary phone in the corner of the room. "Be my guest."

Would the police rescue me and my father from the Beast of Boston? I cross my arms over my chest. "It’s probably for decoration and doesn’t even work. Who even has a phone like that anymore?"

He doesn’t answer, but his lip curls slightly in what is almost a smile.

The cold weight of the pen is heavy in my hand.

The Beast watches as I sign my name, his eyes—one sharp and human, the other an unblinking slit of green—fixed on me with unnerving intensity. His gaze holds until the last stroke of my name dries on the page, a strange and final sensation settling over me.

"Good," he says with a tone of dark satisfaction.

After that, everything turns into a whirlwind. I'm swept up to my new bedroom by Tock and Mrs. P.

It’s far grander and nicer than my ant-infested apartment with uneven floors. There is a decidedly feminine touch to the room, with Tiffany blue and rose-colored damask curtains and a matching bedspread. The bed looks like a fluffy cloud of comfort I could sink into. My fingers find the warm carved wood of one of the four posters on the bed.

"Where is he?" Tock mutters to himself with open irritation, glancing at his expensive pocket watch for the twentieth time in only a few minutes. I can’t even bring myself to ask who he’s referring to.

Mrs. P sets down a dinner tray on the small marble table by the massive windows. My mouth instantly salivates from the amazing savory smell of the short ribs and what looks like butter carrots and cheesy potatoes.

"Where does. . . he sleep?" I can't bring myself to say his name.

"The master’s room is adjoined by that door." She nods toward the door directly across from my bed.

Right. It was in the contract. But my head is still spinning with all the details we hammered out.

This all feels like a fever dream.

This is my bedroom.

This is where I’ll live. Forever.

With my husband. In the next room.

The meaning behind the thoughts is slow and thick like molasses in my mind.

The door swings open and an out-of-breath Lucien stands there holding a garment bag. The man's face is bright red as he pants heavily, like he's been running for miles.

"At last," Tock chastises. "You are late."

"I think the words you are looking for are thank you ," Lucien snipes back.

"Oh good, I thought you might not make it." Mrs. P snatches the garment bag from Lucien.

Still out of breath, Lucien shoots me two thumbs up with a grin before Tock pushes him out the door.

The housekeeper wastes no time hanging the garment bag and unzipping it to reveal a beautiful white dress.

I stand, my heart lurching into my throat. "What's that?"

Mrs. P smiles at me. "Your wedding dress, dear."