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

Cillian was the first one to recover.

“It’s true. A pregnant woman can be all of those things.” He shrugged. “And she is also the person who is carrying the most important human in the world to you. The truth is, you fall in love with a woman twice. Once, so that you want her to give you a child. And a second time, when she does and you realize you cannot live without her.”




Later that night, I stumbled my way out of Badlands and found myself walking toward Madame Mayhem. The two establishments weren’t too far apart, and I could use the fresh winter air.

I gave it some thought during the card game and realized I wanted to take an active role in Emmabelle’s pregnancy. Didn’t Sweven say hers was a high-risk pregnancy? It was important I stayed in the loop in case she needed anything.

Plus, I wanted all the things my mates had.

Flipping babies.

Unborn children giving them the finger during ultrasounds.

Tall glasses of cold water (granted, I forgot the context in which this had been mentioned).

When I got to Madame Mayhem, I remembered how aptly named it was. Chaos teemed between the blood-red walls. There were three people behind the bar. One of them was Emmabelle, her hair sticking to her temples as she ran from one point to the other. The place was overflowing with people. There was no bloody way they adhered to the maximum capacity it could host. Customers were piling on top of each other trying to get to the bar. The supply and demand ratio was askew. Things were getting out of hand. The daft cow had more than enough to take an early leave and monitor her pregnancy, but she wasn’t a fan of yielding control. Well, that made two of us.

Onstage, the burlesque dancers were getting all their moves wrong, too distracted by the commotion. The band played out of tune.

I hopped behind the bar without thinking much of it, took off my tweed jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and began serving people.

“Where’s the beer fridge?” I hollered over the music, using my arse to push the mother of my unborn baby aside. “And the clean glasses.”

“What are you doing here?” Sweven yelled back, dripping sweat. It was worth noting she didn’t look half pleased to be rescued by me.

“Saving you from collapsing.” I took a few orders at once and began popping beer bottles open and doing my best following cocktail recipes from what I remembered in my head.

“I don’t need—” she started with her usual I’m-an-independent-woman-hear-me-roar spiel. I turned toward her abruptly, placing a finger over her lips.

“Help. I know. I don’t doubt that for one second, or I wouldn’t have put a baby inside you. I find neediness quite off-putting, to be honest. But you are also the mother of my future child, and I’m not going to see you work yourself to death. Understood?”

She glared.

“Am. I. Understood?”

“Yes,” she glowered, taken aback.

For the next hour and a half, I served fruity cocktails, refilled wasabi peas bowls, overcharged people for cans of organic soda, and even got tipped an amount akin to what I make the first fifteen seconds of a consultation meeting.

Afterward, when things calmed down, I grabbed Belle by the arm and dragged her into her office. When she was safely inside, I closed the door, walked over to a mini fridge, took out two bottles of water, and unscrewed one, handing it to her.

I hated her office. It was small and confined enough to make my head swim, bringing back bad memories.

“I’m not thirsty,” she sassed.

“Drink this water,” I said through gritted teeth, “or I will tell your sister how little you’re doing to protect this pregnancy.”

“You’ll rat me out?” Her eyes narrowed.

“In a heartbeat, darling.”

Hesitantly, she began sipping the water.

“Why’re you here, Devon?” She leaned against her desk, which, incredibly, was even messier than I remembered.

Did she need an intervention? Was this a treatable condition?

“I had an interesting conversation with the lads tonight. After which I came to the decision that I want to be present during your pregnancy, not just after the delivery. The first trimester is the most crucial one, yes? I can’t have you running around doing five people’s jobs. I want to help take care of you, and the first thing I intend to do is hire two or three more bartenders. You’re awfully short on staff.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she asked, chugging down the rest of her water and wiping her brow.

I was surprised she didn’t fight me on that point. Then again, she looked particularly greenish and not at all her usual nymph self.

“The problem is, I have insane standards and no one Ross and I have interviewed so far seems good enough. I have to make sure I hire people who would be good with my dancers and with the other bartenders.”

“You can’t work yourself to the bone.”

“Can’t I?” Her head lolled from side to side, like it wasn’t entirely connected to her neck. I was becoming increasingly worried this woman was going to kill herself just to prove a point. “I’ve done a good job so far, haven’t I?”

“At what price?” I stepped in her direction, using every ounce of my self-control not to touch her. It seemed unnatural not to put my hands on her when we were together, but it was something I had to get used to. I needed to respect our agreement. “And why would you want to anyway? Hasn’t this experience taught you anything? There’s more to life than work.”