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

He reached out with his gloved hands, trying to pin me to a nearby wall. I took the chance to kick him in the balls. My knee crashed right between them.

He folded in two. I kicked him in the chest, and he fell to the ground. Leaning down, I pulled the balaclava from his head.

It was the man from the Common.

What the fuck?

“Did Frank send you?” I pushed my stiletto heel against his throat, threatening to crush it if he made a wrong move.

“Who the fuck is Frank?” He looked at me absurdly.

The plot thickened. How many people did I piss off this year? This was getting ridiculous.

“Who are you?”

“You need to leave Boston.”

“Tell me who sent you.” I pressed my heel harder to his neck.

“Your water broke,” he said.

What? How did he even know I was pregnant? I wasn’t showing.

I looked down. He took advantage of it. He twisted around, rolling on the ground, jumping to his feet with ease.

I ran for shelter, opening my passenger door, shutting it behind me and locking all four doors automatically, panting hysterically.

His hands slapped my window with force as he tried to get to me again.

“Bitch!”

“Who are you?” I turned the ignition on with shaking fingers. “What do you want?”

“Leave Boston!” He kicked at my car. “Start driving and don’t look back!”

I floored the accelerator, knocking over one of the trash cans while rounding my way to Main Street. I drove past Madame Mayhem’s entrance, Chinatown, and the hustle and bustle of downtown Boston toward Back Bay, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

I thought about calling Pers, or Sailor, or Aisling but ultimately didn’t want the questions and probing. The only person I really wanted to speak to was Devon, but I forfeited all of that the night I told him to marry Louisa. Maybe if he were home, we could talk.

I could tell him what happened, and we could have a conversation.

Or maybe you could do the right thing and take matters into your own hands.

That was how I found myself stopping in front of a police station. I knew this was what Devon would want. And I finally acknowledged that I had to learn to take care of myself before I gave birth.

I heaved in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, trying to regulate my breaths and give my body a chance to stop sweating buckets. This elevated heart rate couldn’t be healthy for Baby Whitehall.

“It’s okay, we’re okay.” I patted my stomach, hoping she believed me.

Sliding out of the car, I walked into the police station and stood in front of the desk clerk who, I swear to God, wad doodling on the book in front of him, yawning and giving me a view of the gum inside his mouth.

“I’d like to file a complaint.”

Or was it a report? I’d never done this before. I only knew police stations from movies and TV shows.

“What’s it about?” He popped his gum in my face. Nice. Professional.

“Stalkers.”

“Plural?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Unfortunately.”

“Take a seat. Someone’ll be with you in a second.”

But someone wasn’t. In fact, I waited thirty minutes before a policewoman came to file my complaint. She seemed extremely uninterested in my story, about the man at the club, and the Common, and Frank, and what happened tonight.

“Call me if you have any new information.” She passed me her card, also yawning before bidding me farewell.

Okay then. Color me underwhelmed.

“That’s it?” I asked, blinking.

She shrugged. “Did you expect fireworks and bodyguards?”

I expected your ass to be competent. But saying that would only land me in trouble with the law, and already, Devon thought I was incapable of making myself an omelet without burning down his “flat.”

The entire journey back, I had to talk myself into not going back to the station and giving the officer a piece of my mind.

I parked in the underground lot of Devon’s building. He had two parking spots and used none of them. He opted to park outside, in the open air, even when it was freezing cold.

Taking the elevator up, I got out on his floor and stepped into the hallway of his loft, when I heard the sound of utensils clinking coming from behind the door. I checked my watch. It was nearly one AM. Homeboy sure didn’t adhere to the no food after six rule.

My heart immediately somersaulted, this time with hope.

This is good. He’s home.

This time yesterday, he was out. Probably at Badlands or with Louisa—or both.

I punched in the code to the door and pushed it open, butterflies swarming inside my chest.

This time, I was going to take an honest stab at not being a raging asshole. Whatever happened between Devon and Louisa, he was still the father of my child, and we still needed to get along.

I found Devon sitting at the dining table across from Louisa, grinning at her while she pressed a cool glass of wine to her cheek as she laughed like a vixen.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

For the first few seconds, I stood frozen to my spot at the door, watching them.

The pain in my chest was excruciating. They looked close. Intimate. Like a couple. They made sense together. No matter how I spun it, Devon and I looked like an unlikely couple. The Prince and the Prostitute.

“Oh, look, it’s your little friend,” Louisa exclaimed with fake sympathy, like she’d learned to like me in a span of two weeks.