Page 9 of Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls #4)

Chapter 9

Who Doesn’t Love a Little Smut?

BELLE

T he silence in this house isn’t peaceful—it’s oppressive like the air’s been vacuumed out and replaced with something heavier. Even sitting at the most ornate dining table I’ve ever seen with a breakfast spread fit for royalty, I can’t escape the strangeness of it all.

My lids are heavy with exhaustion as I read until dawn, only succumbing to a fitful sleep for an hour before Mrs. P knocked on my door, entering with a tray of coffee service. Hazelnut coffee. Sugar-free vanilla syrup and a dash of almond milk. Just how I like it.

I’d be freaked out about how much these people know about me if I weren’t so damned grateful for the elixir of life.

Downing the deluxe caffeine is the only way I managed to crawl out of bed this morning and get myself to the dining room.

Dominic, my husband —the word feels surreal—sits at the far end of the table. I can barely make out his features through the silver candelabras, decorative fruit bowls, and fresh flowers that separate us .

I can just catch the shape of him shoveling food onto his fork with brisk efficiency. It’s not messy, but there’s an edge to the way he eats that’s purposeful, predatory.

He doesn’t glance my way, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or irritated.

I wrap my hands around my coffee cup—there might not be enough coffee for this day—the delicate China almost weightless against my fingers. But even the coffee’s warmth doesn’t reach me. My mind is a whirlwind of questions and worries, most of which I don’t dare say aloud.

The Beast of Boston—Dominic—is a contradiction. On the one hand, he’s this hulking, terrifying figure with a reputation to match. On the other, there's something more to him I can’t quite put my finger on. Or maybe that’s a side effect of reading too many romance novels, a lack of sleep, and an absolutely gripping attraction to my husband.

No two ways about that last one. I’m not in the habit of lying to myself, so there’s no use denying that I find him fiercely captivating. Though with the way I was brought up, I can hardly be surprised to admit that I appreciate some monster in my man.

Well, not my man.

Or I guess he is kind of my man?

Sweet baby witchtits, my brain is going to end up dribbling out my ears if I think about this too long.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about last night. Nothing says “newlyweds” like meeting your husband in a dark hallway, like strangers at a party. Yet I was held captive by his mismatched eyes. And I can’t deny something decidedly base and feminine enjoys the fact he is so much bigger than me. My husband is broad and thick with the muscle of both man and beast.

This marriage might be official, but the stiff, stranger-like tension between us keeps reminding me of one inconvenient fact: I have no idea who this man is.

Though, finding out he is familiar with my favorite classic, Jane Eyre , by making a direct reference to it just about bowled me over. Then, he matched my dry humor, referencing the imaginary doves at our wedding.

But what barred me from sleep was the memory of his face as he affirmed I was perfect . His gaze softened then heated, like butter hitting a smoking skillet.

I take a sip of coffee to steady myself, but it’s lukewarm now, the steam long gone. Across the table, Dominic abruptly pushes back his chair, the scrape of wood against the marble floor loud enough to make me flinch.

Without a word, he leaves the dining room.

A heavy sigh escapes me. I’m not even sure why or what for.

Relief?

Disappointment?

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Today I intend to familiarize myself with my new routine. My new life.

After breakfast, I find Tock in one of the many hallways, adjusting the hands on a grandfather clock that ticks away, its pendulum swaying in perfect rhythm. He straightens, his tall, broad frame imposing even in the mundane act of fiddling with the clock. The tweed suit strains around all those round gym-built muscles.

"Tock," I call out, and he turns toward me, his expression neutral but his sharp gaze assessing.

"Mrs. Blackwell," he greets, his Oxbridge accent polished and precise. "What can I do for you?"

Isabelle Blackwell. Witchtits . I hadn’t thought about changing my name, but I doubt the Beast of Boston would be amenable to my keeping my mother’s surname .

"Please, call me Belle."

He smiles kindly. "Belle."

"I need to go to Chapter Three today," I say. The words come out more firmly than I intended, but I don’t back down. "I have things to take care of at the shop. Orders, inventory, customers?—"

Tock’s brow furrows slightly, and he raises a hand to stop me. "I’m afraid that won’t be possible today."

"Why not?" I demand.

"Mr. Blackwell has other. . .obligations," he says carefully. "He won’t be able to accompany you."

"I don’t need him to accompany me," I argue. "I’m perfectly capable of going alone."

Tock’s lips press into a thin line. "That won’t be happening, Mrs. Blackw—Belle. Tomorrow, perhaps. Today, however, you’ll need to remain here."

Frustration rises with sharp pressure in my chest, but I force myself to exhale slowly.

He adjusts his glasses, his expression unreadable. "But if it puts you at ease, your new employee will be arriving at the house this afternoon." Before I can ask any other details, Tock whisks away.

New employee? So they just know someone who can sell romance books from off the street? Remembering the very specific, personalized tea and coffee service I’ve received, I know not to underestimate the level of detail around here.

I check on dad next.

He’s settled in a spacious suite that’s been outfitted with every comfort—plush armchairs, and a desk piled high with paper and pens. He’s scribbling furiously, muttering to himself under his breath, and doesn’t look up when I enter .

"Dad?" I call softly.

"Belle," he says brightly, glancing up for a moment before returning to his scribbling. "Did you know the structural integrity of a hex is multiplied by the?—"

I freeze. He recognized me. Just like that. No hesitation, no vacant stare. The relief is quick and sharp, lodging itself somewhere deep, but I don’t trust it to last. My dad also has no concept of what the last twenty-four hours have brought down on us though he is the cause. Not that I can justly blame him, so instead I take his lucidity as a temporary wedding gift. I smile tightly and settle into a chair across from him.

He seems content, his mind fully absorbed in whatever calculations he’s concocting. I sit with him for a while, though he doesn’t even notice when I leave and continues to ramble on.

I suppose there isn’t much for me to do other than get to know my new home.

The house is a labyrinth, sprawling and winding, a warren of hallways and hidden doors. It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s lived a dozen lives before me, each one leaving its mark in some imperceptible way.

Room after room, hall after hall, all blending into one another with ornate decor and heavy atmosphere.

I hesitate at the top of the stairs, adjusting my glasses. The dim lighting and sheer vastness of the place make me oddly aware of how much I rely on them. Not that I’m blind without them, but enough that everything is a little softer at the edges, like a painting that’s just slightly out of focus.

I push open a door to a sitting room lined with art so exquisite it takes my breath away. Museum-level pieces hang on the walls—imposing oil portraits, serene landscapes, and haunting abstracts that seem to follow me with their eyes. The light from the window catches on gilded frames, highlighting every brushstroke and whisper of genius.

Another door creaks open to reveal what must have once been a family parlor. The scent of aged wood and faint traces of lavender polish cling to the air, mingling with the melancholy smell of disuse. The room is large, with walls painted a deep emerald that must have once been vibrant but now looks dulled by time.

Sheets are draped over most of the furniture—plush sofas and armchairs arranged in an intimate circle around a grand, cold fireplace. The ghostly outlines stand as if waiting for a family gathering to begin. One corner holds a tall bookcase, its shelves filled with novels and games, the titles worn with love.

From Dominic’s hands? No, probably not. Did other people used to live here with him? Did he buy the house with all the furniture and items included from someone who had a family and a love for gathering in this room?

On the mantel above the fireplace, a carved rose stands out, its petals intricate and lifelike, almost too perfect to be made of wood. I pause, frowning slightly. The detail is exquisite, far too intentional to be a random flourish.

The rose isn’t just here. I’ve seen it elsewhere—woven into the iron of the stair railings, etched into the corners of the grand piano, and faintly carved into the frame of the door I just opened. It even sits on the fourth finger of my left hand.

Dominic’s insignia, his calling card. It shows his ownership, and now I’m under his domain just like this house. I’m still not sure how I feel about being owned by the King of Thorns .

But. . .this house. These carvings. They’re old. Too old to have been added by him.

The realization sends a chill through me. This wasn’t just Dominic’s empire—it didn’t start with him. Whatever this is, it’s bigger, deeper, and older than I’d thought.

A small side table sits uncovered near one of the chairs, its wood faded where countless cups must have been set over the years. There’s a faint ring mark still visible, a little imperfection in the otherwise impeccable space.

I step further in, trailing my fingers over the edge of the table. The silence here feels heavier—not the grand, impersonal quiet of the rest of the house, but something deeper. This room wasn’t just lived in—it was loved.

Most of the doors are locked. I jiggle a few handles but they don’t budge, leaving me to wonder what secrets lie hidden behind them. The ones that do open reveal similar spaces—abandoned but not forgotten. Each room carries whispers of the lives that once filled them, their presence lingering in the little details: a forgotten chessboard mid-game, a scarf draped over a chair back, a vase holding dried flowers that must have once been vibrant.

It feels like the house is holding its breath, waiting for life to return.

Had there been friends and family here? Maybe Dominic’s pack?

Without saying a word, my husband has made it clear we are not to even come close to the topic of his pack. Though I suspect their absence is very much tied to his peculiar half-shifted state.

"Well," I say aloud, turning in a slow circle in what appears to be a music room, complete with a grand piano. The instrument gleams, its surface polished to perfection despite the layer of dust that clings to the corners of the room. "If we’re going to spend a lot of time together, we might as well get to know each other."

The room doesn’t answer, of course. I smile at my own foolishness but press on, trailing my fingers lightly along the polished wood of the piano as I speak. "I’m Isabelle. But you can call me Belle. Everyone does." Except my husband.

I pause, looking around the faded grandeur of the room, and a wry smile tugs at my lips. When I was growing up, a lot of people said I was odd, peculiar, a funny kind of girl—they were too scared to say anything worse. But I can’t say they were wrong.

It’s ridiculous, talking to the house, but somehow it feels less like I’m wandering aimlessly and more like I’m finding my place.

I pass through a grand hall with a double staircase spiraling up toward a high-vaulted ceiling painted with soft clouds and cherubs. Dust motes swirl in the shafts of light coming through tall windows. I pause and let out a low whistle, craning my neck to take it all in. "I’ll admit, you’ve got quite the charm offensive going on. Bet you were stunning in your heyday."

My voice echoes faintly in the cavernous space, and I laugh under my breath. "Not that you’re not stunning now, of course. But I’d wager you could use a little company, huh? You’ve been left to your own devices for far too long."

My curiosity has me turning toward the west wing, though I hesitate before going too far. The memory of Dominic barring my way is fresh in my mind, his fierce expression and warning growl still vivid.

I stop short of the wing, staring down the corridor. It’s quiet now, but I swear I can still hear faint fluttering, like the sound of birds.

"Infestation," I murmur to myself.

What kind of infestation would make a man like Dominic so guarded? And why doesn’t he have his staff take care of it? I’d think he’d have exterminators here in a snap.

I shake the thought away and turn back, deciding to explore elsewhere.

"You’ll have to share your secrets with me another day," I tell the house, my voice soft. "For now, let’s just be friends, alright? I’ll be a good roommate and you. . .Well, you just keep being mysterious and intimidating, I guess. Deal?"

There’s a faint creak from the floorboards beneath my feet, like a response. "I’ll take that as a yes."

The house doesn’t reply, but the faint tension in my chest eases all the same. As I continue on, I let myself feel the charm and mystery of the place, imagining it not as a cold, imposing mansion but as a place I could belong. A home.

Chip arrives mid-afternoon.

The first thing I notice is the hair—short and lavender, a sharp contrast against the muted tones of the house.

"I’m Chip, pronouns they/them," my future employee says in a warm, animated voice. The second thing I notice is half of Chip’s front tooth is broken off. I’m guessing Chip is a nickname.

Where did Dominic find this kid? They’re barely out of their teens and about as far from the thuggish enforcers I’d have expected Dominic to send.

"And I'm Belle," I reply, stepping forward to shake hands. Chip’s thin fingers are chapped and cold, but their grip is firm.

"Mr. Blackwell says you have a job for me," they say, their tone light but with an edge like they’re testing the waters. Chip is dressed in a sweater nearly three times too big for their skinny frame, along with a pair of rather large combat boots.

There’s a skittishness in their body language. It’s the kind of wary confidence you don’t pick up in cushy jobs or safe neighborhoods. Chip looks like someone who’s nice enough but isn’t quick to trust—and probably has good reason for it.

"Um, yes. I own a romance bookstore, and seeing as I’m recently married, I don’t have as much time to run my shop." The words come out forced and awkward, but I barrel forward. "Have you ever worked in retail?"

A strange smile twists the corner of their mouth but doesn’t reach their eyes. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"As a kid I used to sell black market hexes," they say with a shrug. "So, you know—exchange of goods for money. Can’t imagine books are that different."

I blink. "Oh."

"Not that I do that anymore," Chip rushes to clarify, their face tightening with something that looks uncomfortably close to regret. "I wouldn’t touch that nasty stuff again if you paid me."

The sincerity in their voice is striking, but I still haven’t decided whether that makes them more or less of a gamble.

"And you know my husband. . .how?" I ask.

Chip glances at the ornate chandelier overhead, buying themselves a moment. "From. . .around," they say vaguely, their tone light but evasive.

We fall silent for a moment, studying each other. Chip’s expression is open but guarded like they’re used to keeping people at arm’s length until they decide otherwise. I have the distinct feeling we’re both deciding whether the other is worth the trouble .

"How do you feel about romance books?" I ask finally, breaking the stalemate.

Their lips quirk into an easy grin. "Who doesn’t love some good smut?"

I blink again, startled into a laugh. "Okay," I say, nodding slowly. "This might actually work."

Chip’s grin widens as they relax a fraction, though their hands stay firmly in their pockets. "Guess we’ll see."