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

And that was that.




As time passed, so did my fear that I was going to be brutally murdered by my stalker/s. I hadn’t heard from them (him?) in weeks, even though I checked my letters, looked around me, and took my gun everywhere. Plus, Simon, whom I referred to as Si just to rile him up, had taken it upon himself to shadow me everywhere I went, specifically whenever I was in Madame Mayhem. I read between the lines that his job wasn’t to help with the club, but to help keep me alive. Surprisingly, I wasn’t overtly upset about it. I was an independent woman, yes, but I was also not a complete moron. I appreciated any help I could get keeping myself safe until I found out more about who was after me.

Devon was supportive in more ways than one. He went along with all of my whims and requests.

When I told him I didn’t want to know the gender of our baby, he didn’t protest even once, although I knew he was the kind of man who liked to know everything about everything.

Until one day, when he came to pick me up for our weekly OB-GYN meeting and ran three minutes late. This was new. He was usually the one I kept waiting for a minute or two while I got my shit together upstairs.

I got into the cab and smiled at him. He smiled back, looking a little … off. Like a layer of ice had blanketed his face.

“I thought about another weird animal yesterday, after we talked,” I said, buckling up.

“Do share.” He sat back, quirking an interested eyebrow.

“Marabou stork. They look like they have a soggy ball sack under their beaks.”

He chuckled, and that was when I noticed them.

The faint pink scratches on his neck.

My insides flipped. Weakness made my knees buck. I had to breathe through my nose and lean against the door.

“I see you’ve been busy.” I narrowed my eyes at his neck.

“I’m always busy, darling. It’s called being a grown-up. You should try it sometime.” But he had the nerve—the audacity, actually—to turn a little pink.

“Good thing one of us is getting some, even if it isn’t me.”

I needed to shut up. I had absolutely no right to do this to him, after preaching to him about how much we were not a couple.

He rearranged his collar, looking uncomfortable, which made things worse. He wasn’t even an asshole about it, so I couldn’t throw a proper fit.

“Tell me all about it,” I demanded.

“No,” he drawled, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Do it now, Devon. I want to hear.” I crossed my arms over my chest, unsure why I was doing this to him. To myself. But the answer was clear—I wanted it to hurt. Wanted to punish myself for giving a shit in the first place. His mouth flattened into a grim line before he spoke.

“I had an unexpected two-hour window yesterday. An old friend was in Boston for a medical conference. We went to dinner in her hotel—”

“Let me guess, and you ended up staying for dessert?” I smiled viciously.

His face was blank. Unresponsive. I was going to burst in tears. Or maybe just burst period. Maybe my skin would rip apart. Maybe green, jealous goo would pour out. Maybe I would finally remember what I seemed to forget recently—that men are horrible creatures designed to hurt you.

“You slept with her.” I said it as a statement, hoping he would deny it or he’d say that he kissed her and it didn’t feel right so he left. Or promise it would never happen again, because he didn’t even enjoy it—that it was me he had thought about the whole time.

But he simply said, “Yes.”

The cab driver shifted in his seat uncomfortably, uncomfortable with the prospect of his car becoming a crime scene when I murdered Devon. Poor thing. I was going to tip him double.

“Did she suck you off?” I asked in a businesslike tone.

The cab driver choked on his saliva.

Devon picked at invisible lint on his sharp suit, looking bored and closed-off. “Sweven—”

“Don’t call me that, you asshole. Don’t you even dare use my nickname right now.”

“I’ve a suspicion you will come back from the jealous haze you’re wrapped in right now in a few moments and regret this. Let’s change the subject,” Devon said confidently. He wasn’t wrong. Which drove me even more crazy.

“Not until you answer me. Did. She. Suck. You. Off?”

His pale eyes met mine soberly. “Yes.”

“And did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

I laughed throatily. The world spun out of balance around me. I was going to be sick.

“You said not to wait for you. Twice, in fact. Logic dictates you have no authority nor claim on my affections.”

His affections. My ass just had to go and mess with the only dipshit in Boston who talked like a Jane Austen novel dropout.

“Fuck your logic,” I said.

“Gladly. But it’s not going to be the only thing I’ll be fucking.”

“Your phone’s ringing,” I said dryly.

He pulled his phone out, frowning at the screen.

Tiffany.

He sent the call to voicemail.

Tiffany called again. He pressed his lips into a thin line, sending her to voicemail—again.

The cab pulled up at my OB-GYN’s clinic. I tipped the guy fifty bucks and dashed out, Devon at my heel. His phone flashed in his hand again. This time the screen said it was Tracey calling.