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

“Cute number, huh? You should see the front.” I swung my fist backward, about to punch him square in the face. His eyes snapped up. He let out a groan, and took off. My fist slung across the air, hitting nothing.

I began chasing him. Persy was at my feet.

“Belle!” she exclaimed, frantic and breathless. “Come back. You can’t do this!”

Of course I could do this.

It was my duty to do this.

I vowed long ago to never let men hurt women just because they could. Because they were physically stronger.

I picked up my pace while my sister ran behind me. The man was gaining speed. Meanwhile, Persy had decided to show her athletic side for the first time since she was born and managed to catch up with me, tugging me back to the others by my coat collar.

“Leave me alone, Pers!” I roared. “Asshole had the guts to take pictures of me, now I want to know why.” I shook her off, pushing through my bad knee and running faster. Persy was persistent. Where did all this new strength come from?

“You can’t!” She jumped in front of me, serving as a barrier between me and the man, who was now too far away for me to be able to chase him.

This man could have been the same guy who approached me at Madame Mayhem a little over a month ago. Dammit.

Persy grabbed my shoulders, her eyes wild in their sockets. “Listen to me now. I know you’re brave, and I know you’re a ballbuster, but you have to understand, it’s not just you anymore. There’s someone inside you, and you need to think about them. Understand?”

Flashes of my conversation with Doctor Bjorn came back to me.

High-risk.

Miscarriage danger.

We’ll have to monitor you closely.

I nodded grimly. I knew she was right. What the hell was I thinking, taking off like that?

“Fine,” I said surly. “Fine. But I can’t just let this shit slide.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Persephone stressed. “I’ll talk to Cillian. We’ll see what we can do.”

But I wasn’t going to let a man, not even my brother-in-law, play babysitter to me. I was going to handle my own business.

“No, I’ll take care of it.”

“Not by approaching him on your own,” Persy said.

I nodded in agreement but refrained from using my words. God was in the fine print.

Persy gathered me into a hug. “Now, that’s my favorite sister.”

“You mean your only sister,” I groaned, my cheek squashed against her insanely swollen, milk-filled bosom.

She patted my head. “That too.”





Three days after Emmabelle announced her pregnancy, I got on the phone with Mother for our weekly chat. She sounded breathless and delighted. Not for long, I thought. The mirth train would stop as soon as I told her about my pending fatherhood.

While I was delighted at becoming a parent, I was surly about disappointing my mother. Even worse, now that Sweven was pregnant, I was no longer allowed into her messy, in-need-of-a-good-wash bed.

It was like I was being punished for my good behavior.

“Hello, darling Devvie. If this is about Harry Tindall, then I regret to inform you he is still in Cayman Islands, but I got word he’ll be returning fairly soon.”

“Thank you, Mum. But there’s something else we need to talk about.” I strode the length of my apartment—a loft in the Back Bay—wearing nothing but a towel on my waist after a grueling workout.

“There is?” Mum asked. “What’s on your mind, sweets?”

I stopped in front of the fireplace in my living room and flicked the electronic switch on.

“Are you sitting down?” I gave her the same treatment she gave me when my father died. I could hear her sinking into a leather seat.

“I am now,” she sounded strained. “Has something bad happened?”

“Breathe.”

“Breathing is overrated. Just tell me, please.”

“I’m about to become a father.”

“I … uh … what now?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“A dad,” I cemented. “I’m going to have a baby with someone.”

I heard a sharp thud—she probably dropped her phone—followed by her scrambling to pick up the receiver. The next time she spoke into my ear, her breathing was rough and labored. “You mean to tell me you’re about to father a bastard?”

“Or a bastardess,” I said easily. “Probably a bastardess. The mother of the child told me she thinks it’ll be a girl, and she’s not usually wrong.”

“But … but … how? Where? When?”

Was the where really necessary? I had no idea if it happened when I drove into Belle while she was sprawled on her office desk, or when I plowed into her in her shower.

I made my way into the kitchen of my four thousand square foot apartment. I’d never seen something so big and lavish in a building, especially in Back Bay. It was designed with the same meticulous care and old-fashioned nature as my office. Loads of carved oak, expensive fabrics, bronze plinths, and a crimson painted frieze.

Most importantly—it was a vast, open space with very few walls. Exactly as I wished, suffering from raging claustrophobia.

“Her name is Emmabelle. Our liaison was of a casual nature. We were never officially together. She is going to keep the child.”