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

Crying, crying, crying.

I was pregnant.

The bastard got me pregnant.

Of course he did.

But … why did I lose the baby?

I calculate back and realize the pregnancy was five weeks long. I’d fallen during the last week of summer break. But still. How? Why? How come?

This is the moment I realize I am not myself anymore.

That maybe I’ll never truly be myself, because I didn’t have time to figure out who I was.

This is when I think my faith in humanity will never be restored.

That things cannot possibly get any worse.

And then they do.





I was going to fucking kill someone, and it wasn’t going to be Emmabelle Penrose, even though she was the woman who most deserved my wrath.

Crumpling the handwritten letter, I slam-dunked it into the bin, scooped my keys from the kitchen island, and charged toward the door.

I took the stairs two at a time, almost toppling over on my way to the Bentley.

My first stop was Sweven’s still-paid-for rented flat. The matchbox-sized hellhole from which I rescued her like a flea-ridden puppy.

I banged on the door until my fists were red and sore. No one answered.

“Open the door, Emmabelle. I know you’re there!”

One of her neighbors shuffled outside their apartment, clad in a Big Lebowski robe, a joint dangling from the side of his mouth.

“You’re wasting your time, man. She hasn’t lived here in a few months. Moved in with her rich boyfriend.” The neighbor puffed on his spliff, cocking his head to the side. “Come to think of it, he looked a lot like you.”

She hadn’t come back home.

My next destination was Persephone and Cillian’s place.

I tried calling Belle the entire journey. She did not pick up.

Not one to be deterred by her lack of availability, I left her voicemails left and right while trudging along the painfully slow traffic of Boston during rush hour.

“Hello, darling, it’s your boyfriend. The one you just left with a fucking note. Yes, the same one whose baby you’re carrying. If you think we aren’t going to talk about it, you’re gravely mistaken. Oh, and by the way, whatever happened to the fact that people are trying to KILL YOU? Ring me back. Kisses. Dev.”

And then:

“Sweven. Hope your evening is going better than mine. Where are you? Also, if this is you telling me in a roundabout way Louisa’s presence is bothering you, may I suggest hiring a life or speech coach to help you with your communication skills? Call me back.”

And finally:

“Emmabelle fucking Penrose. Pick up the bloody phone!”

Things escalated from there.

I arrived at Persy and Cillian’s place, using the lion’s head brass knocker so hard it dislocated and dropped onto the floor. My girlfriend’s (yes, she was still that) sister informed me, rather regretfully, that her sister was not there.

“Are you saying this because you’re hiding the bloody wench, or because she’s really not here?” I stood on her threshold, panting like a dog.

“My wife said her sister’s not here.” Cillian appeared behind Persephone at the door, draping a protective arm over her shoulder. “Are you calling her a liar?”

“No, but I’m calling you an insufferable wanker.” I’d lost all form of etiquette and manners, resorting to hostility. “So I have a good reason to think someone might be hiding something. They’re close. They’d cover for each other.”

“Actually…” Persy squared her shoulders, looking rather haughty, “…I would like to know where she is too. I worry about her. She might not take the threats against her seriously, but I do.”

“Ask Sailor and Aisling,” I instructed her, but I was already pacing back to my car, making my way to Sailor. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Will do,” she called from her spot at the door.

Sweven wasn’t at Sailor Fitzpatrick’s house either. She wasn’t at Aisling Brennan’s place. She wasn’t at Madame Mayhem. She wasn’t anywhere.

It was as if a sinkhole swallowed her.

I called Brennan. After all, I paid him to have her followed, the boyfriend of the year that I was. When he didn’t pick up, I decided to pay him a visit. For what I was paying him, Emmabelle should not only be safe but also warm, cozy, and getting regular pedicures and three meals a day.

Bursting into the gambling room at Badlands, I flipped over a poker table. Sam was arranging a game with two senators and a business mogul. The chips fell on the floor with a clank.

He looked up.

“What the fuck?”

“The fuck is you fucked me over. I’m paying you a retainer to keep tabs on my girlfriend. Newsflash: it’s been a second since I hired you, and I have no bloody clue where she is.”

Sam ushered me to his back office. We rushed through a busy, narrow corridor, passing men who wanted desperately to stop and chat with us. I swatted them away like they were flies.

“Would you shut your trap? I have a goddamn reputation to uphold.”

“Where’s Emmabelle?” I bit out. We got to his office and I slammed the door behind us then proceeded to trash the place. I tossed his couch over, tore at a Roman curtain, and punched a hole in a portrait of Troy Brennan—an offense which was likely punishable with death by stoning.