Blackmailing Belle (The Lost Girls, #4)

by Holly Roberds

It's a trick I learned young—the calmer you stay, the more foolish their rage appears.

I once read that sometimes our bodies adapt, creating shields where our minds can’t. Maybe mine did just that, forging armor to protect me from the world I grew up in. If that’s true, then I’ve made myself a soft place to land. Sometimes, I wonder if one day I’ll feel strong enough or safe enough to let the weight go.

Because you're too busy reading or peddling fantasy smut and ignoring the real world as much as possible.

Unless he’s got a super specific kink for heavyset introverts who love to read smut, I’m safe.

I planned to take care of my father, run my dream business, and read books until I died an old, bookish cat lady with an insanely long unfinished TBR. I haven’t gotten around to getting the cats, partly because I don’t care for their judgmental stares. But still.

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.

He’ll be fine. I bet brooding in his limousine is his favorite pastime right after yelling at his staff, menacing old ladies, and sucking lemons for fun.

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

"There. Now that you are calmer, use your big boy words and tell me what you mean."

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