The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

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.