Page 7 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 7

The Angel of Croissants is a Witch

BELLE

I sit next to my father, clutching a delicate China cup of Earl Grey that nearly rattles in my hands. The tea’s warmth barely reaches me as the reality of this place—of this life I’ve been thrust into—sinks in.

"Belle," he nods with a lopsided smile. "You look so pretty today. Did you go to prom?"

Mrs. P meets my gaze over the large white marble kitchen island. Distress pulls at the tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her sharp eyes.

The kitchen is a masterpiece of elegance, nearly overwhelming in its opulence. Black lacquered cabinets soar up to the high, vaulted ceiling, every panel and molding etched in gold, gleaming even under the dimmed chandelier that hangs like a crown above the marble island. The centerpiece, a massive marble-topped island, reflects the ambient light, its surface a swirl of creamy whites and gray veining, polished to perfection. Large, arched windows frame the falling snow outside, each flake drifting lazily through the night sky.

"Yes, I went to prom, and I had a wonderful time," I reassure my dad absently, clinking the cup back on the saucer without even taking a sip. My fourth finger rubs gently along the bandage now wrapped around my thumb, covering the wound from where I drew blood on a rose spike.

When I first saw my father again I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around him so tightly I never planned to let go. That was until he asked if I had any sweets for him, clearly still no idea who I was.

At least he’s eating.

Now we sit in silence, drinking tea as I try to let it sink in that I’m married.

To the Beast of Boston.

My emotions have been a roller-coaster since the moment I woke up, fearful of my dad’s whereabouts. Then my fear and fascination spiked as I was brought before the Beast of Boston, before I cut my feelings off altogether to make a life-altering decision. After a wedding that ended in glass and blood, now all I feel is a numbness permeating through me.

"Basil, why don’t you come sit by the fire?" Mrs. P offers, coming around and taking my father by the shoulders and leading him to the adjoining room. "I’ll bring you a fresh hot plate of croissants."

My father brightens at the mention of pastries. "Yes, please. Are you an angel? The angel of croissants?"

Mrs. P laughs a little though it’s strained. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Mrs. P returns after escorting my dad to the fireside, her quiet footsteps barely echoing on the polished floor. With a flick of her wrist, the teapot on the table tips itself forward, gently pouring to top off my tea. The puffy tea cozy shimmers faintly, its vibrant splash of color standing out against the muted elegance around us as it fluffs itself into place.

"You’re a Mage," I say stating the obvious.

Her thin lips quirk up in the corner. "Indeed."

I want to ask what level, but I don’t want to risk being rude. There is an abundance of level one to two Mages in the world, but lesser still of three, four, and only a handful of level five Mages. The fact I happen to know a few of those most powerful magic wielders is more than a little unusual. Though, when I’ll get to see my friends again is unclear.

Mrs. P turns toward the small oven on the counter, and as she opens the fridge, rolls of dough lift into the air on their own, arranging themselves in perfect rows on a baking sheet. Another flick of her fingers sends the sheet gliding into the oven, which hums warmly, its glow intensifying as if alive. It’s not long before the warm smells of sugar weave through the room, the aroma wrapping around me like a soft embrace.

Mrs. P’s eyes stay fixed on the oven. "Is that a problem?" There is no challenge in her question. She is merely trying to figure out where I stand. Mages are far more accepted by the human community than fae beings, even glamorized in the media at times, but Boston is still a human city. Some people, like that disgruntled woman who came into my store this morning—fae lords, was that really only this morning?—believe in the purity of mankind and value segregation.

"Not at all," I say with a shake of my head. "I’m surprised, though. I thought shifters found mages to uh. . ." I’m not sure how to say the next part without offending her.

"Stink to high heaven?" She finally meets my gaze with a raised eyebrow and a knowing look.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and I give a small nod, taking a sip of tea to cover up my embarrassment.

"Yes, well, Mr. Blackwell values a useful staff more than he cares about that. Though we do have some specialized sprays we use to help dull the effects to his sensitive olfactory system," she adds with that same tense, crooked smile.

Her mouth parts then closes twice as if she wants to say something but keeps changing her mind.

"You can ask me anything," I say. It’s true. I’ve never been one for secrets. Too much stress to keep them. I’m an open book. Which is exactly how I like all my books.

"You run a romance bookstore, I understand," she starts hesitantly. "So I imagine you might be suffering a great deal of disappointment at ending up in a marriage that isn’t a love match."

She rears back slightly when I laugh. Even I’m surprised any humor can break through the numbness pervading me.

"Sorry, I just. . ." I pause to figure out how to succinctly explain. "I don’t believe in love."

Mrs. P blinks rapidly, struggling to comprehend.

"I know, I know. The irony of someone who doesn’t believe in love running a romance bookstore is pointed out to me on a regular basis. But romance, true love, all that stuff is fantasy. I seek out that fantasy between the pages of a book, but I’m far too pragmatic to think that any of that can be found in real life."

Mrs. P studies me with an unerring focus that makes me wonder if her powers extend to being able to probe my mind. "You love your father. That much is clear."

I twist to look over my shoulder to where I can see a tiny sliver of my father cozied in a chair by the fire. "That’s different. Loyalty, duty, companionship, and care are very real, and we call it love. But the out-of-control, passionate romantic love is nothing but layers of chemistry and biological attempts to create that bond. People use romantic love to get what they want."

"If the basis of love is manipulation, what are you using your father for then?" she challenges, leaning forward slightly.

"It’s not the same thing," I say, gripping my cup tighter. "I didn’t take from him—I made sure everything didn’t fall apart. That’s not manipulation. That’s survival."

I drop my gaze to the amber liquid that’s cooled in my cup. A rare surge of shame washes over me. "I used his money to start Chapter Three. He spoke of helping me make the dream come true when I was in college, but I refused. I planned to pay my way to my own dream without help. But then his mind. . .I had to drop out of college to take care of him. Eventually, I broke down and used his money to fulfill that dream. When he couldn’t rightly consent to it anymore." It niggled at me. Though I’m not sure if it was because I knew I couldn’t take care of him and realize my dreams independently or because I was afraid that I didn’t fill my own cup somehow, I wouldn’t be able to take care of my father. I’d grow resentful.

I never lied. Not even to myself.

And part of me is oddly relieved to be married to someone who isn’t lying about why he’s marrying me. It’s purely transactional. Aside from the abruptness and physical threat to my father’s life, this is oddly an ideal situation for a realist like me.

His reason for marrying is elusive, but he hasn’t lied. And I’m slowly piecing together a reason all on my own.

"Sounds like you started a business to take care of both of you," the housekeeper says softly. "Sounds like a loving action to me." Then she leans over and lightly taps my China cup. Steam begins to rise from the once-cold tea.

I don’t respond to that even as the tray of perfectly browned croissants floats out of the oven, doubling the sweetness in the air.

"The master’s not so bad, not really," Mrs. P says in a low voice, though her eyes are still pinched with worry. They've been that way since the wedding ceremony began.

My wedding.

Nope. It still doesn’t penetrate.

But something else has registered.

A girl could take it personally that her husband just lost his shit and destroyed a rather beautiful room of glass and plants promptly after our "I dos."

At first I wondered, was he angry he was bound to me? Even though this was his idea? His trap?

No.

In the depths of those mismatched green eyes sparked a torture I’m too new to inflict. First, it seemed like an internal spike of pain that seemed to plunge deeper into his physical being until he lost all sense.

"He’s in pain, isn’t he? Dominic," I clarify when lines of confusion deepen along her forehead.

Mrs. P’s severe brows shoot up in open surprise.

"Being half-shifted. It’s hurting him."

The housekeeper’s lids lower. "It is," she says lowly. "More so with each passing day."

I scrub my fingers along my forehead before turning to look at my father through the hallway. Wrapped up in a blanket, he happily jabbers to himself about chemistry, wild dogs, and Thorns. His usual rhetoric. I don’t think my father is in distress much, but when it hits, it’s devastating.

"I’m sorry for that," I say plainly .

I turn to face the older woman when she sucks in a sharp breath.

"I believe the master is right. You are perfect." A wrinkled, cold hand covers mine for a moment before slipping away.

I don’t know if she said that because I have a general sense of empathy or something else. I don’t get to ask, as she has organized the fresh hot croissants on a plate and has whisked them away to my dad. She left one on a plate before me.

As I bite into the chewy, warm morsel, I allow its warmth and comfort to permeate through me. And try not to think about my wedding night in my new home.