Page 8 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 8

The Fuzzy Robe of Seduction

THE BEAST OF BOSTON

T here won’t be any sleep on my wedding night and for all the wrong reasons.

Not because I’m buried deep in my bride, driving both of us to exhaustion with powerful strokes. No, it’s the kind of restless energy that digs under the flesh, refusing to let go. The kind that burns when it should be spent.

The marriage didn’t trigger my shift. Not like I thought it would. Not like I hoped it would.

Instead, I’m stuck here in this half-state, with claws too sharp, senses too keen, and frustration thrumming through me like a second heartbeat. My muscles coil and flex as if gearing up for a fight that isn’t coming. I pace the west wing like a caged animal, my claws scraping faintly against the floor.

This energy—this simmering, gnawing frustration—has to go somewhere. I chalk it up to disappointment. The ritual didn’t work. The shift remains just out of reach, like an itch I can’t scratch.

Then I catch it .

A faint scent, sweet and unmistakably Isabelle, drifts toward me on the air. My restless energy latches onto it immediately, pulling me forward, compelling me to find her.

What is she doing out of bed?

The tension inside me sharpens, tightening like a noose as I follow the trail. Each step brings her scent closer until it wraps around me completely.

She rounds the corner, and for a moment, I stop in my tracks. Wrapped in a fluffy robe that emanates her clean and sweet scent with even more power, her dark hair is loose, spilling over her shoulders. She looks soft, tempting, and entirely out of place in these shadowed halls. She pushes her glasses up in an impossibly adorable gesture.

The frustration inside me flares hotter.

"You shouldn’t be here," I say, stepping forward and filling the space between us. My voice is rough.

Isabelle’s eyes widen with surprise as she steps back.

That’s right. A beast lurks in these halls, wife .

But then her chin tilts up, her expression unfazed as her dark eyes meet mine. "I thought this was my house now too?" Her voice is steady, and it grates against the part of me that wants her to be afraid. She should be afraid.

"You know what I mean," I growl, my claws flexing again.

She crosses her arms, pushing up breasts I can’t help but steal a glance at. "You’re avoiding the question," she says, her tone light but her eyes sharp.

I grit my teeth, the tension in my jaw almost unbearable. "The west wing is off-limits," I say finally, the words coming out harsher and foreboding.

Her brow arches, and she leans closer, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Off-limits? What, are you hiding a secret, crazy wife in there?"

The reference catches me off guard, and despite the tension crackling between us, I find myself smirking. "I’m not Mr. Rochester. You are my only wife."

Her brows shoot up, arms dropping to her side, clearly surprised that I understood the reference.

"Yes, I also read," I add before she can say anything, my tone dry. But I don’t let the moment linger. "Regardless, you are never to go in there. We are. . .dealing with an infestation."

"An infestation?" she repeats with curiosity, looking over my shoulder. "Bats? Or maybe something bigger?"

I studiously ignore the sound of flapping wings from the other side of the door.

My claws twitch at my sides, desperate to reach out, to drag her away from this room, this side of the house.

And then to the bedroom, or maybe my office. Where I can peel that robe off her body and lick and nip at her pretty pale flesh until it’s bruised and marked. I would agitate the nerve endings of her full breasts until she’s wet and ready, then drive into her pliant, willing body. I’d pleasure and abuse her from the inside out so she feels me even days later.

What are you thinking? This is not the deal. You are not to touch her even if she is your wife.

But fae fucking hell, she smells sooo fae fucking tempting.

"Enough." My nostrils flare as I snap against her curiosity and my own rising desire. "You’re not to go in there."

Isabelle doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower. Instead, she lifts her chin, giving me a slow blink that’s maddeningly unimpressed. "Of course, husband . I wouldn’t dream of it."

My gaze catches on her shoulder. The robe has slipped, baring a stretch of creamy, unmarked skin. The faint flicker of light from the hall highlights the curve, the softness, the invitation of it.

Heat surges through me, sharp and all-consuming, like being caught in a storm I can’t outrun. Every instinct screams to drag her closer, to taste that bare skin, to leave marks that wouldn’t fade for days. Her scent wraps around me, sweet and heady, and when I glance at her face, those wide, honest brown eyes meet mine. They’re usually so clear, like polished wood catching sunlight, but now— now —there’s a glaze of something deeper, darker.

My hand moves on its own, a rough, hurried motion to pull the robe back into place before the temptation overpowers my control.

The sharp edge of my claw grazes her skin as I adjust the fabric, sealing it back over her. Her soft gasp hits me like a fist to the gut, the sound sharp and almost sweet, but my stomach twists.

What have I done?

The faint pink trail my claw left across her pale skin burns into my vision, an unintentional mark that feels more like a brand. My fingers linger on the velvet of her robe, the heat of her bare shoulder beneath it crawling up my arm like shame. I’ve hurt her .

The familiar loathing wells up, black and corrosive. My beast bristles inside me, torn between regret and the darker, more primal urge to make her mine completely.

I lift my gaze to her face, expecting a wince, fear, or anger— something to match the guilt surging through me.

But she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t flee in abject terror.

Instead, her lips part, and her breath quickens.

The air thickens between us, heavy and charged, as I realize the truth: I didn’t scare her. I didn’t hurt her. If anything, the way she’s looking at me now—with wide, dark eyes and flushed skin—tells me I did the opposite.

I drink in her expression, and the sight of her—unflinching, her eyes dark and defiant, yet somehow heated—sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through me. My body responds to it instantly, fiercely, like she’s flipped a switch.

I’m the one who should terrify her. I’m the one who could break her, but the only thing in danger of breaking right now is the razor-thin line of my restraint.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask in a soft growl.

Her answer comes without hesitation. "No."

"Why not?"

She tilts her head. "Because you married me. Which means you plan on keeping me around." I’m learning my wife speaks very matter-of-factly.

She licks her lips, the movement drawing my attention despite myself. "And because of what you said before," she adds.

I study her closely. What is she getting at?

"What I said?" My words are low, controlled, but inside, my instincts churn. "I’ll have your father locked up if you don’t marry me?" I prompt dryly.

A laugh bursts out of her, sharp and sudden, and I freeze. For a moment, the tension crackling between us lightens, just barely.

"No," she says finally, her voice softer now, more uncertain. She pauses, and I can see the debate flicker across her face, the way she’s weighing whether to say the words at all.

"You said I was. . .perfect."

The word hangs between us, quiet but impossible to ignore.

Perfect.

Her brown eyes search mine, wide and unguarded, and I feel like I’ve been caught in the act of something I can’t name.

I should deny it. Deflect. Say something to break this moment apart before it tightens around me like a snare. But I can’t.

Because it’s true.

"Because I’m nearing thirty and unattached? So I must be desperate?—"

"No," I cut her off sharply. "Because…" I search her face for the right words.

The air between us crackles, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on me.

I tell myself it’s because she was unattached. No ties to anyone but her father, and that made it simpler. Clean. That kind of freedom was rare in my world.

She reads shifter romance. That was another reason. I’d hoped she wouldn’t recoil at what I was—what I could be. It seemed logical.

And then there’s her loyalty to her father. The lengths she’d go to for him reflect a quality I need in my corner. In my world, loyalty is everything.

"You just are," I say finally, the words rasping out before I can stop them. "Perfect."

Her breath catches, and I catch something crossing her face—confusion, vulnerability, surprise—that’s gone too quickly for me to name.

I step back, putting space between us before I do something reckless. "Never mind that now. Go to bed, Isabelle, before I throw you over my shoulder and take you back there myself."

"I mean, it is our wedding night," she suggests in a light, teasing tone.

Despite her levity, the words slam me with a jolt of heat, unexpected and searing. My body tenses against the surge of arousal and surprise.

Isabelle freezes, her shoulders stiffening as if she can’t believe she let that slip out. Before I can react, she barrels on. "I mean, I’d expect nothing but rose petals and candlelight lovemaking after that proposal today. The hot air balloon ride? The acoustic guitar player? The heartfelt declarations of romance? How’s a girl to say no to all of that?"

A scoff escapes me before I can stop it. For a fleeting second, amusement tugs at the corner of my mouth, almost a smile. But I shove it away, replacing it with the scowl I wear like armor. "Don’t forget the doves."

She doesn’t miss a beat. "Ah yes, the doves. How could I forget?"

Her lips twitch, and there’s a glimmer of something on her face—dry humor, sharp and biting, yet somehow. . .charming. The way she speaks pulls me in despite myself.

I exhale slowly, the sound rumbling low in my chest, more growl than breath. "Go to bed, Isabelle," I say. The words are a rough, gritted out command to myself as much as to her.

I turn and disappear into the shadows, forcing myself to keep moving, to put distance between us. The way she looked at me, the way her breath caught, the faint flush that crept across her skin—it wasn’t arousal. It couldn’t be.

She simply smells. . .delicious. Too tempting, too fearless, too everything. My mind twists her scent and her lack of fear into something it isn’t.

I grit my teeth, my claws flexing at my sides as I stalk down the hall.

Her scent saturates the space, coiling around me, an invisible chain I can’t shake.

I absently wonder how many grooms end up jerking themselves off on their wedding night before I move on to the more pressing question. How many times will it take before I can get control of my senses and sleep again, knowing my wife will be sleeping in the room next to mine?