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

And she did.

She told me about Mr. Locken, about her youth, about the attack, about the miscarriage, and about her revenge. At the end of it all, I gathered her into my arms and kissed her with such ferocity I thought we would both burn alive.

“Do you still love me, then?” she asked uncertainly.

“Love is a very weak word for what I feel for you, Sweven.”

“Thanks for making me lose my appetite. You should start your own diet method.” Sailor strode into the room followed by Persephone and Aisling, their husbands not too far behind. Suddenly, the room was full of people who’d been there for me, and just then I realized that I did have a family. We just weren’t blood related.

“You two getting married?” Sam leaned against the foot of the bed, draping an arm over Aisling’s shoulder.

“Not yet, I need to propose to him first.” Belle propped her head against my shoulder, and it hurt like all the bitches on planet Earth, but obviously, I did not say a thing.

“Would you look at that. Not even married, and she already wears the pants in this relationship.” Hunter jerked a thumb in her direction, laughing.

“Knowing Devon, he’ll find a way to get her out of them.” Cillian smiled—and for a second there looked almost human.

Everybody laughed.

This was the essence of family.




Two weeks later, I landed in England.

This time with Belle.

She was in her second trimester, the perfect time for travel—according to Doctor Bjorn, anyway.

“I don’t know what’s worse, my constipation or my heartburn,” the love of my life waxed poetic as she slid into the Range Rover waiting for us at Heathrow. This time, I opted to drive myself around London. I preferred conducting my business without running the risk of being spotted by the tabloids.

“I’ll have Joanne book an appointment with Doctor Bjorn as soon as we get back home.” I kissed the side of her head, starting the car.

“Thanks.”

“Are you experiencing any cravings yet? Anything you’d like?” I swerved the Range Rover into a mile-long queue to get out of the airport limits.

“Do true crime podcasts and coal count as cravings?”

“Sweven.”

“Chillax,” she yawned, gathering her ice-blond locks into a high bun. “No weird cravings. Other than sex.”

I was delighted to oblige in that department.

Belle had moved back to my flat as soon as we got discharged from the hospital, and this time there were no games between us. No crazy stalkers either, a lovely development. Unfortunately, the woman still didn’t make things easy for me. Two weeks had passed since I’d almost proposed to her at the hospital, and she still hadn’t popped the question. I was trying to respect her feminist values, and was also perhaps a tad nervous she’d rip my bollocks off if I asked again.

“Oh! Could you please ask Joanne to ask Doctor Bjorn if it’s normal for me to have ankles the size of water bottles?”

I could tell Belle was in the mood to list all the ways Baby Whitehall had turned her body into her own Motel 6, when London caught her eye. She sucked in a breath, her pupils dilating, swallowing those azure irises. “Holy shit, Dev. This place looks like a Harry Potter set.”

I looked around to see piles upon piles of stingy, never-ending council flats.

“I’ll ask Joanne to book you an appointment with the optometrist while she’s at it.”

“Shuddup. It’s purty.”

“I’ll show you purty once we leave my solicitor’s office in Knightsbridge.”

“Actually…” she turned to look at me, grinning, “…I’m going solo for a shopping spree. Gotta hit them stores fast and hard to get all my shopping done.”

“I’ll only take a couple hours.” I frowned.

Though Frank and Rick were out of the picture, I was still worried Emmabelle was targeted. Louisa was somewhere out there in the wild, bitter about her unaccomplished mission.

“As much as I’d love to listen to two old farts dividing millions of pounds between charities…” she batted her lashes theatrically as if this was a dream come true, “…I think I’m good.”

I was going to meet Harry Tindall to sign over my inheritance to the charities of my choice. If the Whitehall wealth was going down the drain, I wanted to flush it to organizations that mattered to me.

“There’s no one to watch over you,” I argued.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Hi. Nice to meet you. Belle. Been living with myself for thirty years. Still alive.”

“Just barely,” I scoffed.

“I’m going shopping,” she cemented.

“I’m not going to crawl into any more air ducts for you,” I warned but knew I was about to concede.

“What? Not even dumbwaiters?” Then, before I could answer, she patted her belly. “Don’t worry, Baby Whitehall. Once this old man is out of our way, we’ll be binging on fossil fuel and murder mysteries.”

I let her go.

This time knowing she was going to come back.




The meeting with Harry Tindall stretched over three and a half hours.

I periodically checked my phone to ensure Belle was fine. And by ‘periodically,’ I mean, of course, every fifteen seconds.