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

“None of your business!” She spat in my face. I didn’t even bother wiping the saliva off. She tried escaping again. I blocked her—again.

“Not so fast. Tell me what I need to do to get through to you.”

I was completely out of my depth.

We were both fighting for control over a situation neither of us had power in.

She tilted her chin up, a sly grin gracing her Aphrodite features.

“There’s nothing you can do or say to make me see you as more than what you are. A spoiled little rich boy who ran away from home, but never really escaped the golden cage. You finally found the one thing you cannot have—me—and if it kills you… Well, then die.”

I slammed my palms against the wall, boxing her between them.

I was so frustrated I was on the verge of destroying the room. Ripping it apart.

And where the fuck did my champagne glass go, anyway?

“You’re impossible!” I roared.

“You’re an asshole.” She yawned right into my face.

“I regret the day I offered you this arrangement. At least, before this, I had a bit of respect and sympathy toward you.”

“I don’t need either from you.” Emmabelle pushed me away, her tone businesslike. “You think you’re so much better than your family, don’t you? Just because you work for a living doesn’t make you a martyr. Don’t wait up for me at home. I’ll be sleeping at Pers’ tonight.”

“Why on bloody earth would you do that?”

“So you can have a little room to finally nail your precious new girlfriend!” she boomed. Emmabelle gave me the finger as she dashed outside, the hem of her dress flipping about her delicate ankles.

I chased her. Of course I chased her. At this point, I was unable of making one rational decision when it came to this woman.

But I was no longer enamored by her ability to throw me off balance. Now, all I felt was disgust and disappointment toward both of us.

I was too old for this shite.

Emmabelle stopped momentarily. Turned around. Opened her mouth again.

“You’ve been enjoying your precious Louisa like you don’t share a roof with the future mother of your child. Well, if you’re happy to screw around, I’m going to find myself some entertainment too, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Come close to me again tonight, and I’ll break your nose.”

With another whoosh of her skirts, she was off.

I stopped.

For the first, bloody time, I came to the conclusion that chasing Emmabelle Penrose may not be the right, or constructive, or fun thing for me to do.

It was just me and the vast, dark room. I regulated my breaths and looked around.

Life was a lonely business, even if you were never completely alone.

This was why people fell into love.

Love, it seemed, was a brilliant distraction from the fact that everything was temporary and nothing quite mattered like we thought it did.

It was only after I stood there for an entire minute when I realized something puzzling.

I was inside a small, closed, confined room all by myself, and I didn’t have a panic attack.

Love has some strange ways indeed, I thought, sauntering out of the room leisurely, plucking another glass of champagne from a tray.

Better to not find out what they are.





Sweven successfully avoided me the rest of the evening.

She fluttered between clusters of people like a butterfly, all husky laughter and white, pointy teeth.

I did my own rounds among clients and associates, pretending I wasn’t half-dead on the inside. Time seemed to melt like a Salvador Dali painting, and each tick of the watch on my wrist brought me an inch closer to turning around and walking away.

From my commitments.

Responsibilities.

From everything I had built and used as a wall against what was waiting for me in England.

At some point during the evening, Persephone slipped her arm through mine and tugged me from a particularly mind-numbing discussion about suspenders.

“Hey there, bud.” Her lavender gown hovered along the marble floor.

She was delicate as an eggshell, pale as the midnight moon. Sweet and placid, a far cry from her fire engine older sister; I could see why she suited Cillian, who was cold and callous everywhere. She brought his temperature up, while he cooled down her warmth. Yin and Yang.

But Belle and I weren’t complementary to one another. She was fire, and I was concrete. We did not mix well. I was sturdy, and even, and stable, while she thrived in chaos.

“How are the kids?” I asked Persephone blandly, already bored with the conversation.

What I’d do to talk to Sweven about peculiar animals just about now.

“They’re very well, but I doubt that’s what you want to talk about.” She gave me a lopsided grin and dragged me to the center of a human circle, consisting of Aisling, Sailor, and herself.

I complied, mainly because between getting my head bitten off by a pack of women and talking about suspenders, I’d die at the hands of the women any day of the bloody week.

I looked between all three of them.

“Looks like I’m the victim of some sort of intervention,” I drawled, cocking an eyebrow.

“Sharp as always, Mr. Whitehall,” Sailor said, swinging back whiskey like it was water. Definitely her father’s daughter.

She was the only woman at the ball to wear a suit. She pulled it off fantastically. “We want to talk to you about something.”