Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls, #4)

by Holly Roberds

Isabelle is beautiful. Not just pretty but arresting in a way that both the man and the beast in me recognize. And that makes it all the harder to show her what I am.

"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.

You're perfect. He said it as if he was affirming it to himself. It’s almost possessive, the way he says it. Like I’m. . .made for him.

I’ve never needed the promise of love to understand the value of loyalty and sacrifice. Love, after all, is just a construct, but duty. . .that’s something real.

Are you an angel? The angel of croissants?"

Should I text her? Write a note? How does one properly invite their wife to bed? Dearest wife, fancy a shag tonight?

I bet her love feels like standing in an endless ray of sunshine, warm enough to burn away the cold of any winter.

I once thought love was a fantasy—something spun only in the pages of a book— beautiful, completely unattainable. But this? This is flesh and blood, unshakable and true.