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Home / The Rake by L.J. Shen / Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Weeks chased one another like pages in a good book.

The only outward signs I was pregnant were the violent bouts of morning sickness I woke up to each day, paired with weekly visits to Doctor Bjorn, in which we watched Baby Whitehall (or Mr. Bean, as Devon liked to call her) growing nicely in my weirdly-shaped, polycystic womb, giving zero damns about the hostile environment she was in.

Atta girl.

Devon accompanied me to all of my appointments without fail. He always brought along something for me. A freshly baked pastry and a bottled water, vitamin gummy bears or ginger candy. He never missed our weekly calls, in which we made plans about what was going to happen after we have the baby.

“I want her to have a big room,” I told him once.

“Your entire apartment doesn’t qualify as a midsized room,” he said, cerebral as always. “You could move into my building.”

I cringed. Not because I didn’t want to be close to him, but because I could already see myself punching my way through all of my walls whenever I caught him sneaking home with one of his hookups. “Nah, I’ll find somewhere else.”

“Sweven?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me about a weird animal.”

We did that a lot lately. Talked about strange shit. It was tragic that on top of being viciously handsome Devon was also quirky and adorably awkward. He wasn’t at all the stuck-up ass I pegged him to be when we first hooked up.

I had slumped against my pillow, tucking my hand under my head and staring at the ceiling, smiling. “Ever seen a Southern Cassowary?”

“Negatory.” I could hear the smile on his face. It made my chest hurt.

I had closed my eyes, swallowing hard.

“It’s an Australian bird. It looks like a Karen who is asking to talk to the supervisor after discovering her fat-free latte had two pumps of regular vanilla syrup instead of the sugarless.”

He spluttered, delighted. “I’m Googling it right now. Oh God. You aren’t wrong. That face …”

“Your turn.”

He thought about it, then said, “I always thought naked mole rats looked like shriveled-up penises. Of the ill-equipped, might I add.”

I laughed so hard that I peed my underwear a little.

There was silence afterward.

“Should I still not wait for you, Belle?”

My body felt heavy and full of pain, but I didn’t cry. I never cried over a man. “No,” I had said quietly.

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.

I started taking the stairs to the third-floor clinic without even realizing what I was doing, knowing Devon didn’t do elevators and not wanting to part ways.

“Do you only fuck women whose first names start with a T?” I asked cordially.

“Tracy is a partner at the firm.”

“I bet you screwed her too.”

“She is sixty.”

“So are you.” Seriously? I had the mental maturity of a cupcake.

He gave me another pitiful look before we reached the door to the clinic.

This, I reminded myself, was a valuable lesson. A good thing. If anything, the last half hour was proof I was right, as per usual.

That Devon was still a man, still incapable of keeping his junk in his pants, and still a great danger to me.

Sure, he was nice—more civilized than the men I’d encountered over the years—and polished to a fault. But a man nonetheless.

Devon grabbed my arm, spinning me around and pushing me against the door, crowding me. I looked at him, feeling his body everywhere and craving it and hating it and loving it. All at the same time.

“Leave me alone!” I growled.

“Not in a thousand years, darling. Now tell me—have you not been with anyone since we started hooking up again?”

I hadn’t. Before I got pregnant, I wanted to limit my sexual encounters to Devon in order to ensure he’d be the father of my child. And after, I just couldn’t see myself jumping into bed with some rando when I had a child inside me.

I thought about telling him I had sex all the time. It was the obvious Belle thing to do.

But when my mouth opened, I just couldn’t do it.

He had a way of getting the truth out of me, even when the truth sucked.

“No,” I admitted. Then added louder, “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

A grunt left his beautiful lips, and he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was fire behind him. “I could kiss you, Emmabelle Penrose.”

I forced myself to smile, pushing the door open, just as Tiffany called him again.

“Don’t, Devon Whitehall.”

One day, while I was cradling my flat, three-month-pregnant belly, eyeballing rows of diaper bags and infant car seats at buybuy Baby while slurping on a deplorable green juice, I noticed a distressed-looking, heavily pregnant woman breaking down at the register.

She folded in two, hands flat on the conveyor belt, a mountain of essential baby supplies in front of her. A diaper bag, burp cloths, and bibs. Things any new mother needed to survive the crazy journey called motherhood. At first I thought she was going into labor. Oh shit. I’m going to stop leaving the house as soon as I hit week thirty-eight, I thought. With my luck, my water was going to break in an elevator full of people. And then we’d somehow get stuck there.

The woman’s stomach had reached a tipping point, where her bellybutton was almost facing down and poking through the fabric of her shirt. Tears ran down her face, weighed down by clumps of mascara.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She used the back of her sleeve to wipe snot off her face. “I’ll take some of it back. Just give me a second.”

“Take your time, honey.” The cashier looked like she was ready to bury herself under the tiles, she was so uncomfortable.

“Well … I guess I could really do without burp cloths. Old shirts will do just as well, right?”

I put the nipple ointment I was checking out back on the shelf and rushed over to the cashier, yanking my credit card out of my wallet and slapping it on the counter. “No. Don’t put anything back. I’ll pay.”

The pregnant lady eyed me miserably. She rubbed her belly, as if comforting her unborn baby. Now that I took a closer look at her, she couldn’t be older than nineteen. Fresh faced and rosy cheeked. I wanted to cry right along with her. What a situation to be in.

“I don’t even know why I came here,” she said, her chin wobbling.

“You came here to get things for your baby.” My fingertips touched the back of her arm gently. “As you should. Don’t worry about it. You’re getting out of here with all of the supplies you need.”

“Are you … are you sure?” She winced.

“Positive, dude.”

A sheepish smile spread across her lips. She wore holed leggings and a shirt that clung to her belly like plastic wrap. I wished I could give her some of the maternity dresses I’d purchased with the outrageous budget Devon had poured into my account each month. I didn’t need mine yet. My stomach was flat but hard.

“Thanks.” She sniffed. “My boyfriend got laid off a few months ago, and he still hasn’t found a job. Really screwed us over.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” I plucked a gift card from the rack by the cashier and pointed at it. “What kind of employer does that to someone? Please put two thousand dollars on this.”

I needed to know this girl had a constant stream of diapers and baby clothes until her beau found a new job. Otherwise, I wasn’t going to sleep at night.

She cried even harder as a reaction, this time with relief. Then she spoke, her speech littered with hiccups and sniffles. “Yeah. It’s been a shit show. We were counting on this gig. It really changed him … getting fired. Lately, he’s been losing his temper. He’s nervous about the hospital bill, but what am I supposed to do? Have the baby in the bathroom?” Her brows knitted together in anger. “He’s the one who said we were being careful enough. Which, of course, was bullshit. If we were careful, we wouldn’t be pregnant.”

“It takes two to tango.” And three to create a soap opera, I thought bitterly, remembering Tiffany.

“Right?” Her eyes widened. “At least I found a job at the local thrift shop. He barely gets out of the house these days. Just drinks and watches TV and … shit, I’m sorry.” Her cheeks turned crimson. She ducked her head, shaking it. “It’s not your problem, obviously. You’re too kind.”

“Dude, I spill my guts to anyone who’s willing to listen, so don’t even think twice about it. My insurance broker knows my blood test results, and the lady at the grocery store across from my apartment is my reluctant therapist.” I handed her the bags full of the things she needed, along with my business card. “Call if you need anything—if it’s something for the baby or just a shoulder to cry on.”

She took everything gratefully, her eyes clinging to me.

“This must be a sign that things are getting better. You know, half an hour ago, my boyfriend asked me out of the blue if I wanted to come here. He never takes me anywhere. This is so fate.”

“Fate is like a stalker. It has its ways of finding you.” I winked at her.

Twenty minutes and five dubious purchases later (did I really need a baby body mop and a booty fan?), I made my way from buybuy Baby to my car, swinging the bags in my hands, contemplating how many scoops of ice cream I was going to treat myself and Baby Whitehall to.

Three, I decided. One for me, one for her, and then another one for me, because Momma hadn’t had sex in a long-ass time and needed a mood boost.

When I popped open the trunk—featuring my novelty license plate BURSQGRL—to discard the bags, I realized that my car looked … different. I looked down and let out a little gasp, stumbling back.

All four of my tires had been slashed.

I slammed the trunk closed, looking around manically, trying to see who else was in the parking lot. It was possible the asshole who did this was still around to ravish in my misery.

A car honked in the distance of the parking lot. Heart pounding, I swiveled my head in its direction. A beat-up 1996 red Camaro rolled past, the windows down, the driver’s arm propped out. I recognized the woman in the passenger seat immediately—it was the distressed girl I helped thirty minutes ago at the cashier. She stared at her lap, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

But the man in the driver’s seat was the one who took my breath away …

Frank.

As in the man I’d fired months ago.

The bitter, violent, sexual harassing asshole I came to blows with.

A piece of the puzzle clicked together.

Frank.

He was the son of a gun who went after me.

He also had a pregnant girlfriend I didn’t know about when I fired him.

It went without saying that when I caught him with his hand between the burlesque dancer’s legs, the first thing that popped into my head wasn’t, I bet this guy is a great family man who is on the cusp of becoming a father.

Now? Now he was broke and in big trouble.

But so was I.

Because he wanted me dead.

Frank shot me a sneer, flipping me the bird as he sped out of the parking lot.

I thought about chasing him, but I didn’t want to put myself or his girlfriend in danger. I was going to deal with this, though. Now that I knew who he was.

I pried my phone out of my bag and called Devon. My hands felt cold and shaky, and it took me several attempts to find his name in my contacts.

It was the first time I’d called him for something that wasn’t our scheduled weekly meeting. A breach of contract, if you would.

It was also the first time I called him voluntarily since I found out he was bumping uglies with Tiffany. And yes, italics were necessary.

He answered on the first ring.

“Is the baby okay?”

I gulped air, my oxygen supply dwindling as the implication of what I’d just discovered slammed into me. Shit, shit, shit. Frank had been the one to send me a string of clues and threats, and this one was the latest. Did I even know where he lived? No, I didn’t. After I sent him the last check, it was returned to Madame Mayhem. He must’ve moved after I sent the reporters to hound him.

“The baby’s fine.” I think.

“What’s going on?” Devon sounded sincerely alarmed.

“I … someone slashed my tires. I need a ride.”

And a drink.

And a shoulder to cry on.

A graceful, elegant, infuriatingly gorgeous almost-prince to make it all better.

Not necessarily in that order.

“Why would anyone do that?” he demanded.

I wasn’t telling him what was going on with me. Screw that. He would lock me in a tower and never let me see the light of day.

“I don’t know, punks?”

“Where are you?”

“buybuy Baby.”

“The place is known for high crime activity around it,” he drawled impatiently, yet again exceling at making me feel like a kid. “Send me the address. I’m on my way.”

“Uh, hmm …” I was showing off my magnificent eloquence.

“What?” he asked, sensing there was more.

I looked around me again. No one promised me Frank wasn’t going to return after dropping his girlfriend off to put a bullet in my head.

“Can we … uh, talk on the phone until you get here?”

“Sweven,” he sighed, his icy demeanor melting a little, “of course.”

I was so happy to hear my nickname, I could cry.

He stayed on the phone with me. Asking me about my purchases (he wasn’t impressed with the mop bodysuit) and what burlesque show was featured in Madame Mayhem these days (Suicide Girls Blackheart), trying to get my mind off what’d happened to me.

To Devon’s credit, he dropped everything and showed up fifteen minutes later, double-parking his Bentley and slamming it shut as he pounced on me.

“Are you all right?” He scooped me into his arms and buried my head in his shoulder, engulfing me in a bone-crushing hug. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I immediately began bawling into his Tom Ford suit, smearing my foundation and colorful eyeshadow onto it. I hadn’t cried in so long. This was unlike me.

Devon massaged my neck in circles, dropping feathery kisses on the crown of my head.

“Why would anyone do something like this, Belle?”

“I … I … I don’t know,” I hiccupped.

But I did know.

Even worse, I wasn’t going to call the police on Frank. Even if he was responsible for the letter and for the man who stalked me all those months ago, which I had evidence was the case. The two other men looked different, and neither of them appeared to be connected to Frank.

Truth of the matter was, Frank had been radio silent for months. Now I knew he was behind all those things. Surely, he wasn’t stupid enough to continue. Maybe it was his last hurrah before he let it go. Plus, he had enough problems on his hands. He needed to find another job and provide for his growing family. Hopefully one where he stayed far away from women.

“I thought something was wrong with you. Physically.” I heard Devon’s voice through the cloud of self-pity and adrenaline surrounding me. He guided me gently into his passenger seat and closed the door.

I buckled up and stared out the window, locking my jaw so my chin wouldn’t tremble.

“I’m glad you called,” Devon added.

About that …

Why did I call him and not Persy, or Sailor, or Aisling, or Ross? Even my parents would have made the journey into the city to pick me up. Among the list of people who could come and help me, Devon was the busiest and the person I was least close to.

Yet I chose him to save me.

“Where should I take you?” Devon asked.

“My apartment.”

“Not Persy’s?”

“No.”

I was too wounded, too raw to watch Pers parading her perfect family with a perfect husband who adored her and her perfect kids who stared at her with wonder and awe.

Devon hit the gas, sensing that I wasn’t super talkative.

“I’m sure it was some dumb kid,” I told him, realizing how it must’ve looked from his point of view.

“Like the dumb kid who followed you in Boston Common?” Devon choked up on the steering wheel to the point of white knuckles.

“Who told you?” I whipped my head around to look at him.

“Someone who cares about your safety.”

“A snitch,” I contradicted.

“You can call them whatever you like. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“My answer is that it’s the 21st century, and women can fend for themselves. We can take care of our own well-being, even—try not to be scandalized—vote!”

“If you choose to ignore a stalker, maybe you, specifically, shouldn’t have the right to vote.”

Technically three different men. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up.

“I carry a gun with me everywhere.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Devon asked slowly, sarcastically, to highlight how dumb I sounded. “This isn’t the Wild West, Emmabelle. You can’t shoot people willy-nilly on the street if you think they’re stalking you. You need to go to the police.”

It was the first time I’d seen him even remotely angry, and it was so fascinating. For a second there, I forgot about my problems.

I slanted my head, watching him intently. “I have a secret,” I stage-whispered. “I don’t work at making you happy, Devon.”

He gave me a look that made my soul shrivel into itself. The look that told me he was growing seriously tired of me, and I couldn’t blame him. I was horrible to him. I was so tragically afraid of him that I constantly pushed him away.

“All I’m saying is that I’ve got this,” I mumbled, examining my colorful, pointy fingernails.

“Is that why you called me?” he bit out. “Because you’ve got this?”

Our first fight. Awesome. How could I explain to him that I didn’t like people butting into my business? Into my life? That I couldn’t rely on others?

“My bad. Next time, I’ll call someone else.”

“No, you won’t. I’m the only person capable of dealing with your brand of bullshit for longer than an evening.”

He parked in front of my apartment building, got out, rounded the car, and opened the door for me, doing it all with a face that hinted he was going to chop me into shrimp-sized pieces and feed me to the sharks.

“Thanks for the ride. You’ve been a lovely companion.” I slipped out of the car and proceeded to my entrance, feeling very much like a misbehaving child tossed into their room for a timeout.

He followed me wordlessly. I knew better than to send him away. First of all, I didn’t want to be alone right now. And second, I was the one who called him.

When we got to my apartment (stairs again, whoopy-woo), Devon disappeared into my bedroom to talk to Joanne on the phone. He asked her to arrange for my car to be towed. He also asked her to put Simon on the phone for him. Ah, good ole Si, the bodyguard who pretended to do shit no one needed done in the club, like filing or sorting boxes into the different recycling bin.

The fact he once jumped on top of me to defend me when Ross accidentally dropped a beer crate was a dead giveaway.

“…is not why I bloody pay you. Step up, or I will ensure your next job is a McJob.”

There was a brief silence.

“Then do better!” Devon roared.

When he returned to the living room, his eyes landed on me. He looked like an eagle zeroing in on his prey. “You’re shaking and sweating.”

“No, I’m not.” The fact that my teeth chattered as I said it didn’t help my case. Goddammit. It was only Frank. I could take him down if I needed to, right?

Wrong. You need to stop being a pussy and go to the police. So what if his girlfriend is pregnant? You aren’t the one who knocked her up.

“Come. I’ll draw you a bath.” He walked over and offered me his hand. The easy laughter and polite manner that usually oozed from him was gone, though. Now that I thought about it, it had been gone the entire day, from the moment he answered the phone and then when he picked me up.

Horrifyingly, I realized Devon had stopped flirting with me.

He had given up on me. On us.

Well, good. That was exactly what I wanted. I was happy he was done making shit awkward.

When I remained planted on the couch, he scooped me up and carried me to my bathroom.

“I hate it when you’re being perfect,” I moaned.

“Ditto, darling. Especially when it’s wasted on you.”

He sat me on the closed toilet seat and drew me a hot bath, rolling his sleeves up to his elbow and exposing his Michelangelo’s Moses forearms.

Oof. I missed sex.

My insides twisted hotly, tension building inside me.

What was life without sex? Just work and taxes and a good dose of dish-washing.

It was so unfair that I didn’t want to have sex with anyone who wasn’t the father of my child for the duration of my pregnancy.

I couldn’t even rationalize this decision. Maybe I did have some leftover traditionalism in my body, residue from sharing a roof with Persy for most of my life.

My eyes followed every movement of his corded arms as he dropped a bath bomb into the tub.

“So, have you been sleeping with anyone interesting lately?” I shifted on the toilet seat, eyeing his strong, long fingers.

Was I … getting turned on right now? The friction from the surface beneath me made my nipples pucker. I removed my clothes, item by item, while Devon twisted his face like something smelled horrible in the room.

“I thought you were done torturing yourself.”

“Come on,” I laughed, boomeranging my blouse to the floor. Though I wasn’t showing yet, my breasts were already heavy and veiny. Much bigger than he remembered. “I know you’re still having sex with other people. Let me live vicariously through you. I forgot what it feels like.”

Dryly, he said, “You have enough experience for the entire East Coast, darling. Grab some gingko and use the power of your imagination.”

“Remind me, what do you do once the two of you are in bed? I forgot,” I purred, ignoring his annoyance.

He looked at me like I was crazy. And in that moment I was.

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” he asked worriedly.

I laughed. “No. I’m just … tender around the edges.”

“Sounds like code for unhinged.”

“Come on…” I smiled, “…I’m trying to be cordial.”

“I noticed. We’ve been in the same room for close to eight minutes and you still haven’t tried to stab me.”

He turned off the faucet and stood up, stepping aside. “Let me help you in.”

“You can join me too, if you feel so inclined.” I tried my hand at a half-hearted seduction, too horny to afford my pride.

He completely ignored me, ushering me by the small of my back to the bathtub.

I rolled my eyes. “Is that a no?”

“You told me specifically—and repeatedly—to stop trying with you,” he reminded me dryly.

“Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind!”

Jesus, couldn’t a girl make a definitive statement then change her mind due to horniness? And they said America was the freest country in the world.

“Why don’t you get in and we’ll discuss it after you’ve calmed down?” Devon suggested.

“I am calmed down!” I protested with a screech, slapping my own thighs like a toddler.

“Evidently,” he deadpanned.

Finally, I stepped into the bath and lowered my body into it. Closing my eyes, I felt the warmth of the water and the tingling of the soap clinging to my body.

The scent of strawberry and citrus was heightened by the humidity in the room. Behind me, Devon took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and began massaging my shoulders.

“You’re aroused,” he stated. His fingers tickled the flyaways escaping from my high bun. They slid lower, toward my breasts, avoiding the sensitive territory but skating closer.

“Aroused,” I repeated with a chuckle. “You’re so old.”

“You’re so pregnant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have cravings. Needs,” Devon explained.

“Yeah,” I admitted with a sigh, momentarily disarmed by the massage and the bubble bath and the knowledge I was safe with him.

“What stops you from sleeping around?” he asked, lethally blasé.

“Uh, the fact that I’m knocked up?”

“It’s not going to hurt the baby. Doctor Bjorn told us that himself.”

Yeah, Doctor Bjorn, who was shipping Bellon (Belle + Devon), constantly reminded us we could and indeed should pork.

“I don’t want to share my body with anyone else.”

“Not anyone?” he asked with mock innocence, his confident fingers rolling lower toward my heavy, sensitive breasts.

“You’ve already made your mark on me for the next few months.” I flicked pearls of soap at his face teasingly. “It wouldn’t feel as outrageous if we got in bed together.”

Devon’s fingers slid to the back of my neck, digging in delicious, slow circles. “Let’s make a deal—you’ll answer a few questions, and if I’m satisfied with your answers, I’ll bring you to release.”

“Nice grandiose ego you’ve got yourself there. I still own vibrators, you know,” I groaned.

But he was right. My whole body was aflame. I wanted to grab his collar and pull him down with me.

“It’s okay to need someone sometimes,” Devon whispered, the warm air from his mouth skating over the shell of my ear. He was so close that I could feel the heat of his body against mine. Every hair on my body stood on end. My nipples ached, and my thighs rubbed together underwater.

I was minutes away from slipping a hand between them and doing the job myself.

I turned to face him, our eyes meeting. Blue on blue. His, crystal clear as the morning sky. Mine, a much darker shade, dotted with purple around the irises.

“It’s never okay to need anyone,” I croaked.

“That’s a terrible way to exist, Sweven. I’ll always be there for you. Rain or shine.”

“How many questions?” I sniffed.

“That wholly depends on your answers.”

I nodded my approval.

“Question number one. Why didn’t you tell me a man stalked you in Boston Common all those months ago?” Devon cupped my breasts, his thumbs rolling around my nipples, making my whole body quake.

My breath hitched. “I didn’t want you to interfere with my life more than you already had.”

“Second question—have there been any more signs since that someone is after you?”

I didn’t want to admit that there were. Didn’t want him to put more Simons on me. Anyway, I truly did believe Frank was probably done. The parking lot thing was a one-off. Why else would he make himself known?

When Devon noticed my hesitation, one of his hands slipped from my breasts, sliding down my stomach, his pinky flicking my groin with just the faintest touch. I gasped and writhed shamelessly. How was I supposed to conduct a conversation like this?

“This is blackmail,” I said hotly.

“I never pretended to be fair. Now answer the question.” He bit the shell of my ear softly.

“Yes. A letter arrived shortly after Boston Common. Threatening to kill me. That’s when I started carrying my gun everywhere.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police at that point?”

“I didn’t want the bad press to stick to Madame Mayhem or have you and my family on my case. I get hate mail on a daily basis. And look, months have passed with no more signs.”

“Do you know who it might be?”

His hand cupped my pussy, but there was no penetration. Just the delicious pressure of him holding me there while I helplessly tried to arch myself into his touch.

“Y-yes,” I stuttered, closer to the edge than I should be when he’d barely even touched me.

“Who?” Devon pressed.

“A man named Frank. A former bartender of mine. I fired him a few months ago for grabbing a burlesque girl. I saw him in the parking lot today.”

“Why aren’t you sitting at a police station right now?”

“He is just a kid, and his girlfriend is pregnant. They have no money. He just wanted to let off some steam. Probably sent a friend of his to scare me in the Common.” Although that still couldn’t explain the man at Madame Mayhem the day Devon had taken me home. “I don’t think I’ll hear from him again.”

“You’re crazy, and you’re carrying my baby,” he said matter-of-factly, more to himself than to me.

He didn’t move his hand from my mound, but he didn’t give me the release I craved either. Why did he withhold my orgasm like that? Wasn’t this a crime against humanity?

“I’ll be fine,” I bit out. “I’ve taken care of myself for a long-ass time now. Never had any problems.”

“A few little rules, and then you can go back to entertaining me in my bed,” Devon clarified, letting me know I was not off the hook yet.

I didn’t answer, because I wanted to get it over with and for him to just touch me there. It was pathetic, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I needed to take my mind off things. This was a coping mechanism, okay?

“Rule number one—you never leave Simon’s side when you’re at work.”

“Bodyguard Si?” I laughed throatily. “Whatever.”

“No. Not whatever. You’re not a teenager, Emmabelle. Give me a yes or no answer.”

Sheesh.

“Fine! Yes.”

“Rule number two …” I felt his pinky grazing my opening. My whole body awakened with excitement. I eagerly opened my legs for him. Finally, I was getting some action that didn’t require any batteries.

“Don’t go out alone. Always have someone accompany you. It could be your mates, your parents, Simon, or even me.”

A bold-ass request, but again, I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. He was hardly here twenty-four-seven to watch me.

“Sure.” Then, when he didn’t move his hand again, I groaned. “Oh, right. Yes or no. Yes.”

“Last condition …” Devon’s fingers probed my opening, closer than ever. It only took one push for him to fill me completely. His other hand kept working on my breasts. “Move in with me. Just for the time being. I could protect you. We can look for an apartment for you in my building while you’re there. It has top-notch security, so I never have to worry about you.”

My eyes popped open and alarm bells began blaring in my head.

“Move in with you?” I repeated slowly.

I felt his nose nuzzling the crook of my neck.

“Come now, Sweven. You’re brave enough to shoot someone in the face if they come after you. Surely, you can tolerate a few months rooming with the father of your child.”

It was a dare. His index finger slipped into me, and I gasped, arching my back, my nipples resurfacing from the waterline. Devon bent down and captured one of them in his mouth, sucking fervently.

“So sweet. So, bloody sweet.” His straight, white teeth grazed the sensitive peaks. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he murmured, swirling his tongue around the tip of my nipple before nibbling on it. At the same time, he mercilessly fucked me with his finger under the water.

I pushed my groin toward his hand, chasing my release, knowing it was close.

“You’ll never be able to tame me,” I warned.

“I have no desire to.” He licked his way up my neck, sealing my mouth with a red-hot kiss. With all the tongue and droplets of water and so much desire, I thought I was going to combust. “I like you just the way you are. Unlikely, I know, considering your mule of a personality, but true.”

“I’m a mess,” I panted.

“Be my mess.”

It was more tempting than I could admit. Alluring like a beacon of light in a sea of darkness.

I came undone, climaxing on his fingers. I clenched around them so hard he laughed into our kiss, the spasms making my muscles tighten.

After a few seconds, he pulled away, quirking an eyebrow.

“Just for a few months,” I lamented—more to myself than to him.

It wasn’t like I had anywhere to put a baby in my current apartment anyway.

“Just for a few months,” he repeated, biting my lower lip playfully.

The glint in his eyes said it all.

I’d agreed to be his, even for a little while.

Giving up the thing I held most dear.

Complete freedom.

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