Page 6 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 6

My Bloody Wedding Day

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

I 'm still uncertain why Tock and Lucien insisted I change until Belle enters the conservatory. She steps in, awash in the pink light of the setting sun streaming through the glass panes, and for a moment, I almost forget to breathe.

Her hair, once restrained, now cascades in loose waves, evoking the elegance of a 1940s starlet. White lace hugs her curves, flowing gracefully over her hips and sweeping down to pool around her feet in a delicate whisper of tulle and fabric. The neckline of her gown plunges daringly, framing her decolletage and accentuating the creamy swell of her skin. Off-the-shoulder straps rest just on the edge of her arms and a faint blush dusts her exposed shoulders, hinting at a tantalizing softness beneath.

Her eyes—warm honey-brown and unguarded, without the familiar shield of her glasses—meet mine, and I’m caught in them, spellbound. And yet my gaze can't help but travel to the inked lines that mark her skin. A half-finished sleeve of bookish tattoos adorns one arm. A testament to her passion for words, each design is a blend of delicate linework and vibrant color. Lines of text curve on the inside of her other arm, phrases from some hidden story etched forever into her flesh.

The sight of her—tattoos, bare skin, lace—strikes me with unexpected ferocity, stirring something deep within. I have the sudden, unbidden urge to pull her close, to press my face into the curve of her neck, to trace my tongue along the delicate dip between her collarbone and shoulder.

No. I will control myself. I’m not an animal who just takes anything he sees and wants.

And witchtitting fuck, do I want her right now.

This wasn’t the plan. Not to want her like this.

My insistence that we move the brief ceremony to a mostly darkened corner of the house was ruled out by Mrs. P herself. She tutted and said the girl had already seen me and didn't run screaming. The least we could do is show the woman a little beauty on her wedding day. No place is better than the conservatory. Now, I'm glad I was too preoccupied to fight the request.

Isabelle deserves to be bathed in light, to be surrounded by the exotic plants curated from lands and realms far beyond here. She is as timeless and rare a beauty as any of the plants in here.

Guilt, gnarled and complex, strikes me in the chest. I'm essentially taking this woman as my captive. I truly am a beast.

Isabelle's fingers squeeze and release as if they don't know what to do. I turn and use my claws to cut a single pink rose that matches the color of her lips and hand it to her as she stands across from me. "Here," I say awkwardly, avoiding her gaze.

"Oh, thank you." She takes it from me, careful not to touch my paw .

Thank you? Did she really just thank me?

Tock clears his throat between us, ordained for just this purpose. Agatha and Lucien stand nearby as the witnesses who will sign the marriage certificate. Their expressions volley between admiration of my soon-to-be wife’s beauty and tense, straight mouths of disapproval.

Tock runs through the cursory vows; nothing more than would be done at a courthouse. When he gets to the part about the rings, Lucien steps forward, handing each of us the predetermined jewelry.

I slip both the engagement and wedding rings onto Belle's finger.

"Oh," she says with surprise, eyes turning round. "It—it fits, and it's. . ." She doesn't finish the sentence, and I tell myself I don't care what she thinks of the choice I made. It's simply a status symbol meant to bind us together and show the strength of my power to any and all.

Yet the ring seems to be made for her. An elaborate jeweled rose with diamond thorns curving around the band. The opulent design is perfect on her hand, and I pride myself on choosing so well. My own is a black band, cheap and made of flexible materials for the ever-shifting tendons on my hands.

"I pronounce you man and wife," Tock concludes. "You may now kiss?—"

"That won't be necessary," I say sharply. The room falls into an awkward silence.

I should have told him to cut that part before, but I expected Tock to assume the obvious.

How could anyone possibly kiss this grizzled face? I’d likely cut her with my protruding fang, but not before she vomited on my shoes from disgust .

Yes, I did manage to shove my clawed feet into some fashion of footwear, though it’s rare I bother.

Belle shifts her stance, clinging to the rose I cut for her like her life depends on it. Needing this moment, this transaction to conclude, I stick out my human hand.

Belle's brows furrow as she looks down at it, then up into my face with confusion. Then she slips hers into mine. It's like electricity is sparking its way up my arm from the contact of her palm and fingers into mine before drilling into the center of my chest. She sucks in a breath, and I wonder if she feels it too.

Yet again, she meets my gaze head-on. There is no evidence of revulsion on her face. Only quiet, serious consternation. She makes me feel as though I am some kind of puzzle she is trying to work out. I don't want to let go of her hand.

The animal part of me flares. I want to draw her into me, breathe deeply of her scent, and run my lips along her skin until she's panting and flushed. The idea of rubbing my scent on her, of laving my tongue all over her and marking her, has my grip tightening around hers.

I want to press my mouth to hers, to claim her as my bride. I want to imprint on her in every way possible and taste the sweetness of her body, but I won’t. Not with my gnarled half-human lip line. Kissing is not an option. No matter how much I’m tempted to feel her glossy ones.

The effort it takes to control my feral nature becomes more than a painful pinch. It feels like I’m cutting off circulation to my heart.

I drop her hand as if it scorches me and take a measured step away. There are no shadows to hide me here, but the urge to recede into the bushes and flower pots so as not to be seen anymore is strong.

With a deliberate movement, I create more distance, bracing myself for the shift.

Will it be like the roll of thunder, or will it come soft and easy to me? Will my form melt into one form or the other, or do I need to direct the energy?

When I feel nothing, I push some energy into the Change . I endeavor to become fully man again, but I'd settle for lion. Anything but this painful, half-melted form of two beings.

My muscles roil and stretch, and pangs of protest spiral through me with a piercing kind of agony. A growl escapes my throat, and everyone recoils.

My effort to shift suddenly ratchets up and out of my control. Claws lengthen and my human flesh turns tight, pulling around my bones. Fire streaks through my brain until my eyes nearly feel like they are bursting from my skull. The sound of fabric tearing is drowned out by my growls.

Isabelle lets out a surprised exclamation of pain before dropping the rose. The smell of her blood hits my nostrils and my mouth salivates as violence crashes over me.

A crimson droplet clings to one of the thorns on the downed flower.

"Get her out of here," I growl. Lucien is quick to respond, grabbing Isabelle's arm and dragging her away. Tock and Agatha hurry off as well. Those honeyed eyes meet mine even as she is pulled to safety.

Rage grips me and rampages through the conservatory. Pots shatter, dirt flies, and petals are demolished in my rage.

When I come back to my senses, darkness has fallen completely. The conservatory is smashed beyond recognition. It now resembles a graveyard more than a plant house. Glass and my own blood smear the tile floor and the walls. The winter chill sweeps through the gaping holes where windows once stood, burning me with its freezing breath.

I have a wife. I've made a pack again. A new one.

I should be able to shift again. I should be me again.

Apparently, technicalities don't count. The natural laws of pack don't equate marriage as enough of a binding.

And if I don't create a new pack, Isabelle will be a widow all the sooner.