Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls, #4)

by Holly Roberds

He said he wants me, but I don’t know what that means. The idea that I might have to pay for my father’s freedom with my body passes my mind for a moment before disappearing into vapor. The Beast of Boston could and likely does, have any woman he wants. Unless he’s got a super specific kink for heavyset introverts who love to read smut, I’m safe. The pause becomes heavy. I get the strange sense it's as if the Beast is loading a gun, before he’s about to make a fatal shot.

"Your father’s life or your hand in marriage."

"Either I put your father behind bars, or you leave your life and come live here with me as my wife. Effective immediately." "My father’s life or my hand in marriage." I say it aloud more for my own sake than his. A grunt of assent lets me know that’s exactly what’s on the table.

It’s insane. Ridiculous. Witchtitting bonkers. This is the insane plot of a romance book, a marriage of convenience or rather, inconvenience. A dark fae mafia lord takes a woman as his wife and prisoner, but this is the real world. Fae and humans don’t mix. Not in Boston.

"Come into the light." The hulking mass goes deathly still. "No." I huff a sigh and push my hair from my face. "You want me to marry you? I want to properly meet who I'd be shackling myself to."

From one side to the other, my face is a clash of human and beast, the man I was merging unnervingly with the creature I’ve become. My nose, once a proud arch, flattens into a lion’s snout, the bridge roughened with a scar that stretches across my brow. Dark, tawny fur ripples over the left side of my cheek, spreading upward toward a pointed ear that twitches at her scrutiny. A single fang protrudes over the left side of my lip. The green of my right eye remains sharp and human, but the left is distinctly feline—slit-pupiled and gleaming with predatory intensity.

"So what is your decision? Make it now," I snap. "Why me?" "What?" "Why me? Why marry me?" "Because you’re perfect." I say the words quietly, before I know I’ve let them out. "I’m not perfect," she says with a slight shake of the head, a line pulling between her brows. My tone turns steely and business-like. "That is for me to decide, not you. Now I need your answer. Yes or no." "Yes." It’s so soft I’m not sure I heard it. "What was that?" I need to hear it. Her acquiescence. I may know that everything and everyone has a price, but I don’t tire of winning. "I’ll marry you," she says clearly this time, her voice tight but determined.

I’ve already begun to view her as mine. My possession. My mate. All to get what I want. And I’ll have ruined a woman’s life to do it.

"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."

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.

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 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.

"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’...

"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 unattac...

"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?"

"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."

"Sit." I command it, trying to distract myself from how inviting she looks. "Please." "What?" "Please sit. The ‘p’ word is a powerful one." She still lingers at the door, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. The gesture is oddly vulnerable, domestic in a way that makes my chest tight. "Put," I emphasize the ‘p,’ "your butt in that chair across from me," I say, ignoring her request and the way the firelight warms her creamy skin. She snorts with displeasure before doing what I ask.

"I think it makes sense. Time together creates bonds, and everyone knows Weres have to spend a lot of time with their Packs, because without them they could literally—" She stops speaking abruptly. Die. Without a Pack, Weres literally die. Her brown eyes flit to mine before looking away nervously. "Not everyone knows that," I point out. "Just little bookshop keepers who read shifter romance." An unladylike snort comes out of her. "I don’t think anyone has ever called me little." Her fingers brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through her usual composure. "But I think it may take more than time and proximity to create a Pack." "Pray tell," I say, both wanting and not wanting her opinion. Isabelle shrugs. "Well, it’s about a connection, right? So to form connections, there also has to be communication." "Nope." I’m off the chair like a shot. "We can just start by sharing a couple small things each day," she rushes to say. "Like what our favorite color is, or our favorite songs, what you do for a living." "Absolutely not."

"Remember when I said I chose you because you were perfect?" I ask through gritted teeth. "Yes," she responds slowly. There is an earnest gleam in her eye she tries and fails to hide. She still wants to know why I view her as perfect. And I’m about to give her the reason. "I need someone who knows how to keep their own company in my presence. I know you are happiest reading in solitude. Isabelle Lockhart, owner of Chapter Three believes every problem in life can be softened by a cozy chair, a steaming cup of something warm, and a really good book." I quote her bio from her website, not adding that I memorized the rest as well. As the owner of a romance-only bookstore in Boston, Belle spends her days surrounded by shelves of happily-ever-afters and the intoxicating scent of fresh coffee and old pages. I devoured every piece of information I could get on her after her father fell into my lap. "And based on the stock of shifter romance you carry in your little store, I gambled that my grotesque form wouldn't be so. . .offensive to you. Therefore, we could sit in silence in close proximity for the rest of our days, not talking." "Oh." "Oh," I echo mockingly. "I did not pick you to be a conversationalist, Isabelle. We can live separately but together."

"You may have memorized my website bio." Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. "But it doesn’t say how important it was for me to build something of my own. I want to get books into the hands of readers. I want to promote my favorite authors. I want to create a safe haven for readers where they can escape into fantasy and romance. Making that kind of sanctuary is important." I lean back, lips curling. "Quite the ambitious little bookseller, aren't you?" "That's not why you picked me, though. Not because I have dreams, but because you thought I'd be content to sit quietly in your haunted mansion forever, reading my little romance novels." She doesn't raise her voice, but there's steel in it. I start at her use of the word haunted. Does she know? Feel the presence of all those who used to live here? My skin itches at the thought. Thankfully she doesn’t notice my reaction, but continues on. "Because obviously, someone who reads shifter romance must be desperate enough to accept a life with a monster." Her face tenses. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to refer to you as a monster."

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" I surge to my feet, my claws scraping against the arms of the chair. "You signed the contract. You took the deal." She doesn't flinch at my movement. She just watches me with those steady brown eyes. "I took the deal to save my dad. He's my only family left. Or he was. . .until yesterday." Because we are married now. Family by law. But not pack. "You're right—" she goes on. "I do love my quiet moments with books. But that's not all I am." "So what?" I pace the room, my partially shifted form casting monstrous shadows in the dim light. "We can't all get what we want, Isabelle. You think I wanted this?" I gesture to my grotesque form. "You think I wanted to trap some bookshop owner in a loveless marriage just to survive?" "No," she says simply. "But you're not the only one who’s paying a price here."

"When are we going to Chapter Three today?" I ask, my voice steady despite the way my pulse hammers in my ears. I have to project for him to hear me all the way at the other end. He doesn’t look up. "Today isn’t good." I swallow the spark of irritation that flares in my chest. "I have responsibilities there. Chip is expecting me to show them how to run things. I’ve already lost a day and a half of business." At last, he looks up, his expression sharp and unforgiving. "We’re not going today." The air grows heavier, the same kind of pressure I felt on our wedding day right before he exploded in a violence that decimated the beautiful plant laden conservatory. Though Mrs. P must have magicked it back together since it looks perfect now. My stomach knots, but I force myself to hold his stare. "If you don’t plan to honor the terms of our contract, perhaps I should consult someone who will," I say, my tone measured. "I hear there’s a sea witch who is quite skilled with contracts." His claws dig into the table, leaving more deep gouges in the polished surface. "You think threatening me is a wise move?" "Not a threat," I say calmly, though my hands tighten on the napkin in my lap. "A logical measured action. You don’t want me to act outside the boundaries of our agreement, do you?" For a moment, I think he might snap—his muscles coil, and his eyes darken, his jaw tight as a spring. Will he jump onto the table? Tear the room apart? Would he hurt me? The thought sends a flicker of f...

"What was all that yelling about this morning?" I ask, keeping my tone light. His gaze flicks to me, then to the window. "Just business." "Business sounds. . .intense." "It is." His tone is clipped, a clear warning to drop it, but I press on. "Someone is stealing from you?" The air between us tightens as his head snaps toward me, suspicion flashing across his face. "How do you know about that?" "We live in the same house. I overhear things." "Well, stop it." "You want me to stick my fingers in my ears whenever I think I might potentially hear something I shouldn’t?" "Yes," he huffs. Unreasonable man. "Also blindfold yourself if you think you might see anything as well." I roll my eyes at his ridiculous yet serious suggestion. "Well, that’s not going to happen, so all your cloak-and-dagger attitudes are unnecessary." For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out again, but then he exhales sharply and looks away. "Some. . .rabid dogs have been causing trouble. That’s all you need to know."

"Thank you," I say with sincere gratitude. He doesn’t look up from his phone, just grunts. "Seriously," I press. Dominic finally lifts his head to meet my gaze. I’m thanking him for more than allowing me to be at my shop. I’m thanking him for saving Chip, though I won’t articulate that out loud. "You’re thanking me for something you already negotiated?" His brows rise with boredom, and it feels like a slap. "I keep my word. Don’t expect more." His eyes flick downward. "Also you spilled coffee on yourself." Then he goes back to his phone. Whatever flicker of warmth I felt earlier extinguishes. Forget calling him a beast. My husband is a dick.

"What are you reading?" he asks, his voice low and rough. Dominic’s gaze locks onto mine. My mouth goes dry. "What?" "You seem to be enraptured by what you're reading. What’s happening in the plot?" There is genuine curiosity in his question even as he wears his usual scowl. I grip the book tighter. "Nothing’s happening in the plot." Technically I’m not wrong. This is an action scene. Pure furious, frantic fucking. No plot in sight. Dominic frowns. Nope. Not happening. I shake my head and bury my face in the book, pretending to be engrossed. But Dominic doesn’t drop it. He leans forward slightly, his attention sharpening like a predator catching the scent of something intriguing. The realization hits me like a freight train. Oh no. "You smell. . .different," he says, his head tilting as if to confirm it. "Sweet." My stomach drops. "Excuse me?" His nostrils flare, and he sets his tablet aside. "Your scent. It’s stronger than usual." I want to die. I want to crawl under the rug and never come out. "I-It’s probably the lotion I used," I stammer, desperate for any excuse. His brow quirks. "Is it? Because it smells more like arousal." There it is. The mortification. The earth might as well swallow me whole. I need water. Or air. Or both. "I think this is the part where I get up and leave," I mutter, my voice high and strained. He growls in warning. "I’ll be right back," I wave him off even as I abandon the book and flee for the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" My words come out a squeak. "I wanted to see what was happening in your book," he explains, his lips twitching. I snatch the book from him. "Well, now you see I'm right. There is no plot." I hate the defensive edge in my voice. I thought I rid myself of any shame long ago. For witchtit’s sake, all I do is help other readers embrace reading the very same thing without shame, yet my face is as hot as a stovetop. I’ve reverted to my younger self, easily wounded by others’ criticism over what I read. Though I swore I’d left that insecurity behind, the deep stab of my first beau making fun of me resurfaces with a vengeance. Why do you read this trash? You don’t think I give it to you good enough? You’re so weird. I wish Dominic would go back to his seat and give me space since I can’t yet leave for another thirty minutes. "I disagree," he says slowly. "There was quite a lot of action, and despite it being sexually driven, there is clearly an exchange of power happening, which is very much plot." I stare at him, thrown by his literary analysis of shifter smut. Then he's directly in front of me, breathing in deeply. "Though I'd say your shifter romance is missing something crucial when it comes to mating patterns," he goes on. "Oh?" I ask in a strained tone, A line seems to connect us, reeling him in. When his hand curls around my nape, I melt into his grip and my self-consciousness evaporates. Dominic’s nose brushes my cheek. He hesitates, but I tilt my hea...

Should I text her? Write a note? How does one properly invite their wife to bed? Dearest wife, fancy a shag tonight? No. Absolutely not.

She pets and caresses my human arm in soothing strokes. In mere moments, I feel calmed by her touch. "There. Now that you are calmer, use your big boy words and tell me what you mean." I rear back as if she’s slapped me. Despite my evident outrage, Isabelle doesn’t seem to fear another outburst from me. She just continues to stroke my arm. "My big boy words?" I repeat after her. She gives a little shrug. How can this woman insult me while endearing herself to me at the same time? Fae lords help me, I actually adore the mischievous little smirk that plays with the corners of her mouth. She knows exactly how to push and pull me in equal measure, so I am under her complete control. I step back, untethering myself from the influence of her touch as I prepare to tell her what

"Don’t you dare put that thing back on. You think you are a trussed-up piece of meat, Isabelle? In fact, you are a whole mouthwatering five-course meal I want to devour twelve different ways over the span of what would feel like days. Because I am so very, very hungry." I lean down and level my mouth to her ear. "And don’t you dare try to leave or I will chase you down and hunt you like an animal. Then there will be no stopping me when I catch you." My voice trembles, half caught between the excitement of the idea and the terror of unleashing on my bride.

My wife is about to learn exactly what it means to be hunted—and owned—by the Beast of Boston.

"Isabelle," he purrs through the wood. The way he says my name sends a shiver through me, causing my nipples to tighten in anticipation. "When I catch you, I’m going to eat you alive."

"Mine," he rasps into my shoulder. "You’re mine, Isabelle. Every inch of you. Always."

Yeah, the sex has pretty much ruined me for all time. Which works fine since I’m a married woman and he forbade me from taking a lover. Now, how do I break the news to my sex toys that they’ll never cut it again?

"This was my mother’s favorite room," he admits quietly. "She loved it. Spent her days here. After she died, I locked it up." "Oh." My voice comes out small, my chest tightening at the weight of his words. His mother is dead. I suspected but didn’t know. I try not to assume anything, and he gives me so little help to fill in the gaps. "Since you are so enamored by books," he continues, his gaze falling to the floor so as not to meet mine. "I realized you might appreciate it like she did."

Dominic might have given me this room, this sanctuary, but it’s clear he’s still keeping the most important parts of himself locked away.

"You are a pain in my ass, wife." Heat simmers beneath each syllable, my brutality taking over. "I should finger-fuck you until you’re right on the edge, right on the precipice of screaming my name and breaking your spine on the orgasm I’ve built up in you. And then I should leave you there. Hanging. Insane with want." I thrust harder, deeper, her cries driving me to the edge. "And then maybe you’d have something to be afraid of. Because you won’t be able to give yourself the relief I could. And then you’ll learn to be afraid of wanting me as much as I want you."

"You think you can just disappear on me?" The words tear from my throat, raw and jagged. I thrust forward, the stretch overwhelming both of us, her sharp cry mingling with the guttural growl that escapes me. "Do you know what that did to me? What I thought?" I need her around me desperately. Every gasp she emits reminds me she’s here. She’s real. She’s alive. My fear wraps around her in greedy tendrils demanding more, more, more. "I didn’t disappear.” She clutches my shoulders, trying to steady herself even as I pound in her body. "You were gone." My voice cracks as I thrust harder, burying myself to the hilt. She takes me, her body wrapping around me so tightly it’s almost too much. Almost. "I thought I’d lost you. Again." Her breath catches, and she echoes the word back at me, soft and confused. "Again?" Shit. The word slams into me like a wrecking ball, and I feel the weight of my mistake. A slip I hadn’t meant to make. The past surges forward, a tidal wave I can’t stop. The image of her lifeless, broken, traded away by my enemies tangles with another—darker, more painful. My family. Their screams. Their blood. The unbearable void they left behind.

I thought I’d lost her tonight. And the truth is, it hurt far more than it should have. Far more than I want to admit. For the first time, I realize marrying Isabelle may be the second biggest mistake I’ve ever made.

I picked her out to be my wife based on her background and that little bio on her website, but I hadn’t anticipated that absolute drugging heaven that emanates from her skin.

"Why can’t you be like everyone else and cower before my awesome power?" Even I can hear that I sound more like a sulky child than a formidable businessman with senators in his pocket and an empire at his feet. "Because I know the difference between bark and bite." "Tell that to your neck," I shoot back on reflex. She rolls her eyes. "You’re not as bad as you think. You’re just in pain." There’s a sincerity that I wasn’t expecting. Her words cut directly to my core, slicing straight through all my many defenses. "And I think. . .I think if you were truly a monster, you wouldn’t care so much about protecting me," she adds softly.

"I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re not the monster you’d like me to believe, Dominic." I grunt, dismissing the idea with a wave of my hand, though I can’t deny the warmth her words bring. But as we lock eyes, the air between us shifts, a pull that’s both unnerving and undeniable. "Monsters protect what’s theirs," I murmur, almost to myself. And Isabelle, for better or worse, is mine.

Romantic love doesn’t exist. What does exist is chemistry, companionship, and mutual need. Relationships are transactions, and this marriage is no different. Dominic needs a pack. I need protection and stability for my father. That’s it. That’s all.

No matter how hard I try to logic my way out of it, I can’t lie to myself. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want my husband. And that terrifies me.

"Are those…" I murmur, staring at the winged rabbits as they hover, swoop, and flutter around the hall. Most are jet black, their fur gleaming like obsidian, but a few are lighter shades—grays and snowy whites with patches of golden brown. A small pair of horns protrude from the tops of their heads. One particularly bold rabbit flits close to me, its translucent bat-like wings edged in black with iridescent silver. Its nose wiggles as it regards me with wide, curious eyes before darting away with an almost mischievous chirp.

"They’re…adorable." Cute aggression is becoming a very real problem as the flying rabbits with tiny horns fly around me, and I have to fold my hands into my stomach to keep from catching and squeezing the bajeezus out of all of them at once. "They’re a disaster," Dominic snaps, his voice tight with irritation as he reaches up to shoo a particularly bold bunny-like animal off his shoulder. "And now they’re everywhere." The creature chirps indignantly before flapping off, its wings brushing his cheek. I cover my mouth, but it doesn’t help to suppress the giggle that escapes me. "What are they?" Dominic glares at me, his jaw tightening, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes as he watches me try to compose myself. He swipes at the one on his shoulder but it swoops out of reach, letting out an indignant chirp before darting to a nearby bookshelf. "They are called flutterbuns." One of the lighter-colored animals lands on my arm, its tiny claws tickling my skin. I lift it closer, marveling at the softness of its fur and the delicate veins that thread through its wings. It nuzzles against my cheek, and my heart squeezes to the point of pain. "You’ve got to be joking," I murmur, stroking its tiny head. I might have dissolved into uncontrollable laughter at hearing that ridiculous word slide out of my husband’s mouth if I weren’t being so careful not to startle my new friend. "I assure you, I’m not. They are creatures from the Midnight Realm." Dominic exhales sharply...

"She never even got to see them," he murmurs, his voice soft but bitter. "But I kept them, nursed them to health ,and they multiplied. She would’ve loved that."

"But I hunted all of those bastards down.” He rises slowly, a panther uncoiling from the underbrush. There’s something final in the way he moves, something that says the past is still bleeding under his nails. "Every last one of them. The men who did it. They begged for mercy." He rises to his feet, stalking toward me in steady strides. "They tried to escape, offered me money, even their own family members, in exchange for their miserable, worthless lives. One tried to claim someone else hired them to do it. But I ignored their lies and manipulations as I tore their cowardly spines out of their throats." Yet again. He wants me to be afraid. I can feel it in the way he looms over me, the way his claws flex at his sides. But I’m not. I hold his gaze, my pulse racing. His grief is palpable, but so is his rage, his hatred—for those who hurt his family, for himself, maybe even at me, standing here and witnessing it all. "You avenged your family," I say quietly, refusing to break eye contact. "You didn’t just let it go. That doesn’t make you a bad man, Dominic. It makes you human." This I understand. While I don’t agree with most of the things instilled in me from childhood, this one I understood. I may read romance. I may be independent and run my own business, and as much as I rise above the nasty comments I’ve had to endure about my weight or the disgruntled customers who take out their unhappy lives on me—there is a point where nothing less than an eye for an eye will do. Hi...

To make a pack, does he need someone to love him? Because of all the things I’d do for my father, for Dominic, I don’t think I can give him that.

"Don't hurt her," the Wolf with the buzz cut calls out, struggling to get to his feet. An angry red mark on his round face indicates the blow he's taken from my husband will turn into a nasty bruise later. "Why not?" the female Wolf asks, though her weight shifts back and forth nervously. I wince as the blade slices my skin. Dominic's shoulders tense. He's about to lunge. "Because she's a Wolf," the man says. "They both are." He gestures to my father as well. "We are not Wolves." I should keep my mouth shut, but the words shoot out of me on instinct. Another scoff from my captor. "Don't fuck with me, Levi." "I'm not. That's Roman's cousin," Levi says, staring me straight in the eyes. "Don't be an idiot," the female says. "I heard she was dead." "I assure you," I say calmly. "She isn't."

"You shouldn't have run after your father like that." "You shouldn't have yelled at him and scared him off." "Yeah, well. . .he needs to be controlled." "He needs to be loved and taken care of." "Enough," I growl at Lucien, pushing him away. "They still need more cleaning and to be bandaged," Lucien points out. I snort. "I've got it," Isabelle says, rising and crossing to take Lucien's place.