The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

“Ahhh!” Frank was screaming, letting go of the knife—which was still, by the fucking way, in my shoulder—waving his arms in the air helplessly. “My eyes! My eyes!”

There was a warm pool of blood underneath us, and I knew it belonged to me. I couldn’t keep it up any longer. Concentrating, I tried to scoop out one of his eyeballs, which wasn’t as easy as he made it sound, since his eye sockets were pure, dense bone and I had to crack through them.

“Stop!” Frank roared. “Stop!”

But then he was the one who stopped.

In fact, he fell right on top of me, driving the knife even deeper into my shoulder as he collapsed.

There was a steak knife stuck in his back. And above him, stood Emmabelle, breathing hard.

Now, I decided, was a perfect time to succumb to unconsciousness.

So that was what I did.





I woke up in a hospital bed.

Everything hurt.

Everything, other than my shoulder, which I couldn’t feel at all. I snuck a peek down at it, frowning, and saw that it was bandaged and in a sling.

My eyes wandered around the room, which seemed to be never-ending, wall-to-wall light oak cabinets and medical equipment.

Cillian stood in front of a window overlooking the parking lot, talking quietly on the phone. Hunter sat on a recliner beside him, typing on his laptop, and I could hear Sam’s voice carrying in from the hallway.

My mates were here.

My family, naturally, was not.

But what really worried me was Sweven.

“Emmabelle.”

That was the first word that left my mouth.

Cillian swiveled, his signature cold gaze rolling over me like an icicle.

“She’s fine,” he assured me. “Persephone finally managed to pry her away from your side to get some checkups done. The doctors are keeping her for observation.”

“I need to see her.”

“She’s three rooms down.” Hunter looked up from his laptop, closing it.

I stared at him point-blank and said again, “I need to see her.”

“Okay, okay. A crazy bitch with some unsolved daddy issues coming right up,” Hunter murmured, placing his laptop on the light oak wooden table and scurrying out of the room.

I closed my eyes, dropping my head back to the pillow. “Is this all my bloody American health insurance bought me? This place is one fruit bowl away from being someone’s 90’s-style kitchen.”

“Be thankful the wood you’re surrounded by isn’t a coffin,” Cillian clipped.

The door opened, and Sam walked in. I’d never been overtly happy to see the guy, but now I was downright disappointed. I was expecting Belle.

He closed the door after him, holding his phone. “I’m sure you’d like to know my service is no longer needed. Simon’s out too. Frank’s dead—thanks to the deranged woman you’re in love with—and the man your mother hired, Rick Lawhon, is taken care of.”

I knew taken care of was code for pining for the fjords. Brennan was an extremely prolific killer. If we ever hit an overpopulation issue in the States, I had no doubt he’d be the bloke to fix it.

“I need to see her.” I decided to simply parrot myself until Belle was put in front of me, alive, well, and happily pregnant. Still, I couldn’t ask either of them if the baby was okay. The question seemed too intimate, and I didn’t trust myself not to bawl, no matter the answer.

“Persephone is pushing her wheelchair down the hallway now,” Sam said.

Wheelchair?

“Coming through. Please make room,” Persy chirped just then. Cillian hurried to open the door for her, and she walked in, pushing Sweven inside.

Emmabelle looked tired in a pale blue hospital gown. Her hands were folded in front of her. I couldn’t see her stomach from that angle.

Persephone parked her at the edge of my hospital bed.

I swallowed hard, everything inside me burning.

“Everybody get out. I need to speak to Belle.”

They all did.

Belle stared at me for a moment, blinking slowly, as if I was a complete stranger.

Bloody hell, I hoped she hadn’t lost her memory. I had just committed a heroic act, possibly the only heroic act I’d ever committed—past, present, and future—and I needed her to know about it so we could stop fucking around.

“The baby …” I started then stopped. A part of me was frightened to know. I did see blood before I passed out at her parents’.

She leaned forward, resting her cold, clammy hand against my warm one on the bed. “She’s fine.”

I nodded gravely, my jaw tense so I wouldn’t weep in relief, like a little girl.

“Good. And you? How are you feeling?” I asked.

“I’m also fine.”

“Lovely.”

Silence. I tried to twitch my fingers to put my hand on top of hers. But my entire arm and shoulder felt immobile.

“Am I paralyzed?” I asked conversationally.

“No.” She smiled, her eyes shining. “But you’re under the influence of painkillers, dude.”

“Marvelous.” I smiled tiredly.

We both laughed.

“You got into an air duct for me,” Belle choked on the words. “And you’re claustrophobic.”

Finally, I was recognized for my greatness.

“You were in danger.” I half-shrugged with my healthy shoulder. “It was a no-brainer.”